Vertical: Gilded Love, #3

By Kilby Blades

From USA Today bestselling author Kilby Blades, the next installment in the Gilded Love series...

Jasmine isn't supposed to be in Pahrump. She's not supposed to be posing as an exotic dancer. And she's sure as hell not supposed to be solo on an undercover job. She'd have paid any price to avoid the emergency call to her ex-fiancé, Avi. But she's in so far over her head, it's come to that.

The last place Avi saw Jasmine was at the altar six months ago, right before she walked out of his life. Well…almost. They still work on opposite ends of the same vigilante crime-fighting organization. She's the last person he expects to hear from while half a world away on a pleasure trip to Sydney. Can he get to Nevada in time to save her from a human trafficking bust gone wrong? 

"Thrilling combination of suspense, intrigue, and romance. Nice backstory on Avi and Jasmine."
-Barbara B, Amazon Reviewer

"This book is in your face right from the first page…When she sends him a code, he will move heaven and earth to get to her."
-Merry Jelks- Emmanuel, Amazon Reviewer

"Very strong female lead who wants to right the wrongs done to her by saving other women and girls at all cost. Loved it could not put it down."
-JLynn, Amazon Reviewer

"Blades manages to ease feminism and equality into her novels, which is always a delight to see in a genre written and read by women."
- IndieReader Starred Review of The Art of Worship

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kilby Blades
• Release date: Feb 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733867450

Book preview

Part One

The Sting

Chapter One

The Way Station

Jasmine

T his can't be the place.

Cara leans so far over to look out my window that her hoop earrings graze the skin above my low-cut top. I can’t blame the woman for needing to lean in to get a closer look. It’s a far cry from the grand estate that Cara is expecting. This house is so small, you practically have to squint to see it come into view at the end of the private drive.

Definitely not as advertised… I murmur in agreement. I’m careful not to lie outright, though I do know with certainty that this isn’t the compound where the auction will be held. Or—as far as Cara’s concerned—the site of the posh VIP party we’ll both be working. Not actually lying is the cardinal rule of pulling off deception. One need not know how to lie, but how to spin a yarn.

I’ve danced in pool houses bigger than this. Cara punctuates her final, petulant complaint by pitching back into her own seat with an exasperated huff. She does it hard enough to garner the attention of our driver. We’ve been in the town car for a solid two hours, most of it owing to traffic coming out of LA.

I don't care if it is a pool house, I return. Not for money like this. After this weekend, I can afford to take the rest of the year off.

I, too, scrutinize the approaching house, which is surely a Kensington way station—a secluded safe house the organization uses to hide its girls. It’s early light, but I strain my eyes to survey the grounds for clues.

And I’ll bet it’ll let you afford another month of training, I quip. Cara doesn’t look it, but she, too, is in her late twenties. She has a ten-year-old daughter at home, a competitive athlete who is already being talked about as Olympics material.

Skating isn’t getting any cheaper, Cara grouses. I pay more for ice time each month than I do on my actual mortgage. What I need are more jobs like this. Cara looks out the window again and her look of trepidation returns. You know…jobs in creepy houses in the middle of nowhere that pay $25,000 for three days of work.

I turn back to my not-quite friend. Getting to know people is utterly one-sided in this business. I like Cara, and Cara likes the image I project of myself. But actual friends know who you really are. If she were my actual friend, she would know that my real name is Jasmine, that I bake to de-stress, that I’m obsessed with old movies, and that I love to sail. Shareena—the character I’m playing for my sting—prefers savory to sweet and resents any activity that messes up her hair.

Cara and I have worked together a few times, pole dancing at private parties in LA. I’d needed a legitimate business as a cover. Taking down human trafficking rings is risky business. An extension of that cover is building a bench of allies for the inevitable moment when I’ll need one or all. I hope not to have to get her involved.

When Cara swings her gaze back to me, mild worry crosses her face. Rafi wouldn’t send us someplace unsafe, would he? He checks these places out. We don’t have anything to worry about, right?

Wrong, I think. These are despicable, murderous criminals. Rafi doesn’t know, but he’s not investigating as hard as he should.

He’s worked with these guys before, I say instead. That simple fact is why I had half-hacked, half-earned my way onto Rafi’s world-class team. Vertical Entertainment is a respectable outfit—LA’s premiere provider of no-touch adult entertainment, which is just a fancy way of saying sexy entertainers who don’t have sex with clients.

Vertical hires out burlesque acts, cage dancers, belly dancers, sexy contortionists, and, yes, pole dancers, but not of the bar and club scene variety. Rafi’s talent are considered to be artists in their fields. Most own studios and teach apprentices how to do what they do. Either that, or they are as I purport myself to be: sick of the hustle and looking to retire from less legitimate work. I myself mastered the pole under the tutelage of an old friend and a true great—Bel is a pole dancing legend.

Identification, please.

The town car comes to a halt. No sooner does our driver open the back door than a suited security guard with an earpiece pokes his head in. His shoulders are so broad, they fit awkwardly inside the doorway of the car. I would bet that, when he isn’t hunched, he stands tall at six feet five or six feet six. The California driver’s license I pass him says that I was born October tenth, am twenty-five-years old and live in Van Nuys.

Shareena Grant? he asks, looking between me and the picture on the license.

Time for the flirty smile thing…my favorite part of the job.

I go by my stage name, Cinnamon. I incline my head toward Cara at the same moment the security guard returns my license. She’s Ginger. I’ll bet you can guess why…

I look over at my light-skinned, freckled companion—at her shock of tightly curled, sienna-colored hair. I nudge Cara playfully as I say the words, but catalogue the guard’s face, noting the brief spark of interest that flashes across his eyes. It’s important to know which of the gatekeepers is susceptible to which kinds of charms. This one definitely likes women and has subtly let his eyes linger a bit on me. His well-concealed interest tells me one more thing about him: he’s a professional, and used to guarding events with girls.

Little does he know what he’ll witness this weekend. Because I’m a professional, too—the kind who infiltrates sex trafficking rings and rescues victims. I almost feel sorry for the guy. After I steal back what never should have been owned in the first place, the security team will get the reaming of a lifetime, and tough guy here will be out of a job.

Come with me, please.

The guard extricates his torso from the car and doesn’t bother to give either of us a hand to exit. When I emerge, he’s busy instructing our driver to set our luggage down. Black Tie Limousine is the usual service Rafi uses to drive us, only, this time, we are far west of LA and the driver won’t wait for us outside the job. While Cara is busy asking why the guard has just taken her purse, I notice basement storm doors that appear to lock from the outside.

Why can’t we keep our purses? I chime in, to play along.

High-end clientele means maximum security. Your luggage will be screened. Contraband will be stored here and given back at the end of the weekend. That includes all electronics.

Wait! I turn on my panicked voice. What if there’s an emergency with our kids?

I don’t have kids, but Shareena Grant does. And tricks like this are always worth a try. If I am going to hack this thing to pieces, having my phone will give me a better shot. Plus, asking about my kids reinforces my cover.

This is the emergency number. The guard pulls a stack of business-size cards out of his pocket and hands one to each of us. Give it to whoever’s taking care of your kids.

But how are we supposed to— Cara protests.

The guard cuts her off. Any final calls you need to make, make them now.

He picks up our bags and begins walking toward the house, which isn’t so much small as it is plain. It’s a 70s-era manufactured model with an attached garage—long and flat with a single level and paint that might have been a creamy yellow before it became so peeled and bleached. The garage has asymmetrical doors—one for a standard-sized car, one for an RV. I can only guess that this is where the screening operation is staged. The house is invisible from the street, and if a lost driver were to find themself up the driveway by happenstance, they would think the old house abandoned.

Cara glares after the guard for a few seconds, and her face remains in a scowl as she unpockets her phone. Holding the emergency contact card at half an arm’s length, she takes a quick photo before sending a text. As I pantomime the same action, memories of Avi cross my mind. It still feels odd not to send him my location, and odder still to admit that our old ritual is something I miss.

A minute later, the guard returns to usher us inside. We’re led to what might have once been a living room, but has been converted into a waiting room of sorts. Folding chairs sit in rows with an aisle in between, as if someone is slated to get married. Ten or so other workers in polo shirts bearing the name of a catering company are already seated. The one indicator that we haven’t entered an episode of The Twilight Zone is that coffee and danishes have been provided in the adjacent room. As Cara returns from refilling her paper coffee cup a second time, she grumbles, It’s too early for this shit.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, comes an authoritative voice from the front of the