Before he could react, an orange-haired boy in a purple toga had managed to push through the nonplussed guards and attach himself, with impressive determination, to Abhijat’s side. Confused and slightly scandalized, Abhijat stiffened as the young man pressed sensuously up against his side, hanging off his shoulders as if he were drunk.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going? You promised you’d take me inside, remember?” The boy pouted, batting his lashes in such an extravagant manner it almost made Abhijat laugh.
“He told me he’d take me inside,” he confided in the guards, leaning in to whisper the words directly into the ear of the man who’d been about to hit Abhijat moments ago. “To the Royal Suite, no less. Tell ’im we don’t break promises around here, do we sir?”
“The Royal Suite?” the guard swallowed and stole another look at Abhijat, this time giving him a covert once-over, as if to assess whether or not he looked like someone who could afford the aforementioned suite.
Abhijat was sure he didn’t, but he didn’t give the guard a chance to reach that conclusion. Awkwardly, he wrapped an arm around the boy clinging to his side and cleared his throat. “Ah I-I’m sorry. I just got a little...caught up, as you can see.” He glared at the guards.
“Right, of course, we’re so sorry to have interrupted you, sir,” said the shortest of the three guards, backing slowly away from the scene, a tight smile straining his lips. “Please, enjoy your evening.”
“We will,” the boy giggled. Then, as the guards turned away, he pulled Abhijat closer, leaned into his space, and pressed his lips to his ear. For the fraction of a second, Abhijat froze.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the boy hissed into his ear, his voice soft but sharp.
Abhijat jerked. Taking a hold of the boy’s shoulders, he pushed him off but didn’t let him go, holding him firmly at arm’s length.
On closer inspection, he realized that his companion was older than he looked. Long orange hair fell into his glittery eyes, which comprised at least three different shades of eyeshadow. Like the girl Abhijat had been talking to earlier, his face shimmered with some combination of cosmetics he was not familiar with, although he could tell the boy had a lot more layers of makeup on his face than the champagne girl did.
He raised a perfectly shaped brow at Abhijat. “You’re staring, Shian. Which, while flattering, is also a waste of time.”
Abhijat’s eyes widened, his hands clenching of their own accord, which caused his nails to dig into the toga-covered shoulders. “Fasih?”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“At your service,” he bowed slightly, the toga making him look like some character out of a fairy tale. “Now, take me by the hand and lead me down to the nearest washroom. We need to talk.”
“Wh-what? I’ll do no such thing. What is wrong with you?”
Both of Fasih’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “You’re assuming that was a request,” he hissed, holding out his hand. “It wasn’t.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Abhijat blew out a frustrated breath, grabbed him by the wrist, and marched him down the hallway. A few of the patrons turned to stare at them, smirking knowingly behind their masks.
Kicking the washroom door shut behind him, Abhijat rounded on Jehan. He was fuming. “Fasih, for the last time, what are you doing in this damned club?”
“I believe I just asked you that very question.”
“And why,” Abhijat looked him over one more time, bewilderment and outrage battling for dominion on his face. “Are you dressed like…like–”
“A hooker? ’Cause it was the easiest way to get in without revealing my identity. I could hardly have entered this place as a client without causing the scandal of the century.” He smirked. “It’s called blending in, Shian. Something you’re clearly incapable of doing.”
“You are the prime minister of this country! For God’s sake, you can’t be seen dressed like that.”
“And I won’t be. At least, not by anyone who’d recognize me in this get-up. Not if you can keep your mouth shut and follow directions. Now, tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I was tracking a suspect who might’ve been involved in the fire at your office. And just for the record, you’re certifiably insane.”
“True, but irrelevant. We need to get into the sanctum. And you’re going to help me get there.”
“The what?”
Jehan rolled his eyes. “This hall is the outermost layer of the La Fantome. This is the part of the club that hosts the…casual visitors. Then there’s the inner sanctum for the more…ah…adventurous clients.”
“So that’s the place with the suite you were talking about?”
“Yep. Exactly. See? You can be smart when you want to be.”
“Why do you want to get into this sanctum?” Abhijat growled, his eyes narrowing into slits. “And why couldn’t you get there without me?”
A moment passed in silence, faint music drifting in from the hall outside. Fasih sighed. “Okay, fine. I’m here to look into the disappearance of a social worker who’d been investigating this club. She’s…a friend of a friend. And she works with trafficked kids. Which is why there’s reason to believe that the owners of the La Fantome might’ve been involved in her disappearance.”
Abhijat frowned. “So why didn’t you just order an investigation? The NIA could’ve sent a team down here and–”
“There wasn’t enough time. There were rumours that…” Jehan closed his eyes and bit his lip, as if forcing himself to get the words out. “That this club was making illegal use of a prototype of the Amven drug. I wanted to see for myself if that was true.
“Amven is…it can be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. Particularly because not many people understand how exactly it works. Of course, this is just a prototype. But I wanted to know how advanced a version they’d managed to get their hands on.”
He ran a hand through his bright orange hair and groaned. “Damnit. You’ve no idea of the trouble this could lead to. You think this club is bad? It’s just the tip of the fucking ice-berg. I need to know where they’re storing the drugs, how much of it they’ve got.”