Dirty Secrets (Get Dirty 4)

It’s only by sheer force of will that I haven’t gone on a rampage of violence, slashing and burning the city so it hurts as much as I do. Even before, I never felt this insane. Never felt this primal desire to destroy things.

Ironically, the more of a bastard I become, the busier Petals has been. In a twisted sense of irony, every night has more patrons, more people wanting a front-row seat for Armageddon, like I’m some daytime soap opera villain they want to see destroyed by his own weakness. But even as the darkness inside me grows, I keep my façade, stoic and impassive, not giving an ounce of show to the vultures.

I still make the required appearances for formality’s sake, shaking hands here and there around the floor because it’s expected and it would show weakness on my part if I didn’t. That’s something I’m unwilling the bear. I’ve been conditioned since birth to never, ever show weakness.

Instead of letting that happen, I take a few moments to have a seat at a table near the stage with a group of influential local businessmen, offering them a round of Jack on the house.

Nothing fancy—they don’t deserve the fine imported stuff—but they’re so enamored to watch Trish’s turn on the pole that it doesn’t matter.

I lift my glass in silent salute and hold it there as each man lifts his in kind. I wait, not saying anything but giving each of them a hard look of expectation. These pampered princes haven’t tipped Trish at all during her performance and they’re taking up one of the prime tables. Unacceptable and downright rude.

Still holding my drink aloft, I watch as they set theirs down, quickly grabbing twenties from their wallets and holding them up. Trish sashays over, giving me a look of appreciation, but I don’t acknowledge her in any way. She plucks the bill from each man and blows them all a kiss as she moves on.

I finally take the Jack in one gulp, not even feeling the burn of the whisky down my throat. A sense of relief washes through the men, and they follow suit, taking their shots at once too.

The ritual completed, I rise, laying a heavy hand on the shoulder of the leader of the little group, wishing them a good rest of their evening before continuing my way upstairs.

I can hear Logan coming up the stairs behind me as I enter my office, the weight of the crown weighing heavily on my head. I know he wouldn’t dare approach without a reason, but I wish he would just leave me to sink into the darkness of my soul alone.

No such luck. He’s a professional. I could order him to leave me alone for the rest of the night unless it’s an emergency, but I’ve been doing that too often over the past two weeks.

Besides, he’s my only source of intel, and even if it’s a bitter, vile pill that I have to take each day as he shares his news with me, I swallow it eagerly. I know Logan’s hoping that it’ll soothe the beast I’ve become before my state of mind starts threatening everyone’s well-being.

“Sir?” Logan says, asking for permission to come into my office and begin.

I wave him inside, holding up a hand as I sit down in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to prepare myself. He must sense permission because he begins his report.

“Allie had routine classes today for Thursdays, two children’s classes and her Diva class. Her Diva Dance class was full this week, three new attendees, all married females, nothing amiss. She had her first Pole Fitness class last night, also full, seemed to be majority of dance moms from Encore.”

As hurt as I’ve been, I’m glad for her. She deserves every success in her dance dreams, and I hum, signaling for Logan to keep going. I need to get this over with, but I also want every morsel of insight to savor.

“After work, TJ met her. They went for dinner at a Mexican restaurant, then back to her apartment. He stayed until just before midnight. Allie stayed in the rest of the evening. Wilson is on duty tonight.”

“Wilson?” I bark, suddenly angry. That’s a change in schedule, something I can question and reasonably expect an answer on, something I can be angry at without seeming like a heartbroken, lovelorn puppy. I make a plan, and it should be followed to the letter.

To his credit, Logan doesn’t so much as flinch at my outburst. At least, for me, it’s an outburst.

“Yes sir. There was an incident before TJ arrived.”

“What happened?” I growl, reining in my anger. “Is Allie okay?”

Logan holds up a hand, unruffled. “She is, though she almost took my head off.” He says it with an amused tone, like whatever happened was funny to him.