“No.” Sean shook his head. “I’ve made that mistake for the last time.”
They hit the door, and Sean shoved the key into the lock, then pushed it open. As soon as he did, Thorpe squeezed past him and flipped on the light. He wished he hadn’t. The carpet looked some indiscriminate color that might have been beige once. The walls were covered in faded oak paneling. The ceiling showed signs of water damage. A dilapidated swamp cooler controlled the room’s temperature—sort of. The drapes were a faded blue floral that would make even a great-grandmother cringe. The bedspread was a cheap polyester imitation of polka-dotted and zigzagged stripes. The light fixture in the bathroom was minus its decorative cover. A roach crawled across the wall above the mussed, unmade bed.
“What a f**king dump.” Sean stared around the room in stupefied horror.
“This is the way she lived before she came to me,” Thorpe said with a hollow voice.
“I knew that on paper, but holy shit.”
“How could she go back to this after everything . . .” Thorpe pressed his lips together, refusing to lose control of his anger—or feel too hurt. “When I get my hands on her, she won’t sit for a week. And that’s the beginning of what I’ve got planned for her.”
“Better make that two weeks. I have some ideas of my own.”
Thorpe shoved aside the fact that Sean hadn’t objected to him spanking Callie. Yes, she’d taken off her collar, but she hadn’t discussed it with Sean, who probably didn’t see their relationship as over. Thorpe knew that the girl would never belong to him, but he refused to let this behavior slide without putting in his two cents—and then some.
Quickly, they searched the room. He found her backpack in the closet and grabbed it. There was no sign of the red duffel she’d mysteriously acquired in the airport bathroom. She had nothing else personal anywhere in the room. Even her toothbrush had been stowed back in the appropriate plastic holder in a zippered pouch. The used bar of soap told him that she’d taken a shower. Over the odor of mildew and stale cigarettes pervading the motel, he smelled a light trace of her.
As Callie’s scent registered in his brain, boiling blood filled his cock. A caveman urge to grab her, bind her, and f**k her until she understood all the reasons she could never run away from him again seized Thorpe.
“She was here,” Sean confirmed, sniffing the sheets.
“I’ve got her stuff.” He indicated to the pack slung over his shoulder.
Sean gave him a thumbs-up, then headed for the door. Thorpe followed, hot on his heels. Back in the lobby, he tossed the key to Doreen with a stern warning glance. The woman looked somewhere between breathless and ready to shit her pants when he left. She wouldn’t talk without substantial incentive. Not a perfect solution for keeping Callie safe, but the best he could do now.
Back in the Jeep, Sean had started the engine and turned on the lights. Thorpe tossed Callie’s backpack in and shut the passenger door as the other man threw the vehicle into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot.
The journey to Glitter Girls seemed like the longest two blocks of his life. When they reached the seedy dive bar, his worst fears were confirmed. The windows were covered up and painted the same color as the exterior walls. A big neon sign over the building advertised TOPLESS GIRLS! Thorpe swore.
It was a f**king strip joint. Callie better hope for her sake that she was merely waitressing.
The lowlife clientele slinking in seemed like a mixture of locals and tourists. They all looked as if they’d served time. None of them appeared to take bathing too seriously.
As they reached the front door, a big bouncer stood grunting out a “request” for the cover charge over the raucous music. Ten bucks with a two-drink minimum. The guys in front of them pulled out a big wad of cash he’d bet they had obtained in less-than-legal ways.
As he and Sean each pulled out a bill and ran in the door, the smoke, stale beer, sweat, and glitter assailed him. Goddamn it, this place was the worst sort of dive.
On the sagging stage, someone named Whipped Cream, who wore two little pasties designed to look like her namesake, was taking her final bows. Her mother definitely hadn’t given her that name—or that shade of ruby-red hair. She didn’t look like she had all her teeth.
The deejay sounded bored as he told the audience to give it up for the woman. The smattering of applause broke into chatter. A few bills littered the stage as Thorpe studied the girls serving drinks, hoping . . . But he didn’t see any waitress who had Callie’s face, build, or innate grace.
Fucking son of a bitch.
Sean looked around, too, obviously worried. “Where the hell did she get off to now?”
Thorpe didn’t think Doreen would have been dumb enough to call her cousin and tell him to warn Callie. “I’m hoping she’s in the restroom. Or getting someone a drink.”
“If she’s already become a customer favorite, I doubt she’s serving drinks,” Sean managed to growl out with his teeth grinding. “If that’s the case, she’ll probably go on when the night’s in full swing, toward the end of her shift.”
In twenty minutes or less.
Damn it to hell, he was right. “We don’t know her stage name, so we have no idea who to ask for.”
“Unless I barge into the back with my badge and drag her out of here.”
The idea had merit. Thorpe looked around, trying to gauge what the management’s reaction to having an FBI agent in their midst would be when a waitress came by for their drink orders. Truth told, he didn’t want anything, but ordered a bourbon and water, knowing he wouldn’t drink it. Sean asked for a vodka tonic, then motioned her down to him in a moment between the music.
“I’m wondering, pretty lass, if you’d mind to give me a wee bit of information.” Sean slipped into his Scottish accent and smiled at the acne-prone waitress, who looked barely legal and totally dazzled. The fed flashing a bit of cash sealed the deal.