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  “But porn? Why not grab a job as an extra? Work in a studio?”

  Spyder laughed and tilted his head back again. “You really are stuck in the ‘90s, aren’t you? This is the twenty-first century, Josiah, and the twenty-first century is sex-positive. Your little girl likes to get off, and she looks good doing it. Why not get paid for it?”

  I clenched my jaw and glanced at the edges of the room, where more vampires waited for me to make one wrong move. “You’re a big man, aren’t you, Spyder? I wonder if you’d antagonize me like this if we were alone in an alley, you and I?”

  “You know I wouldn’t. I can’t take you in a fight, and I have no illusions about that. But I can haunt your nightmares and keep you up at night. It’s a small relief after everything to know it’s my voice you’ll hear when you put your head down.” He sat forward and resumed smoking.

  “It’ll never be your voice, Spyder,” I said, standing. “As far as my demons go, you barely register.” I slid to the aisle and made for the door.

  “Josiah!” Spyder called.

  I stopped and turned around.

  He stood at his seat, his back to the film. “Amy Gruterman and Ronald Sloch. They’re producers. Used to be a team, but they split a few years ago. Amy’s dangerous, but don’t underestimate Ron, either. She’ll just rough you up. You piss off Ron, you’ll be warming the bottom of a tar pit for all eternity.”

  I nodded my thanks, pushed aside the vampire blocking my exit, and wandered back into the Los Angeles night.

  Chapter Seven

  Josiah

  I broke into the SNK Productions office. The first name Spyder had given me, Amy Gruterman, led me there. She was the CEO and founder of the studio, which had its offices in a tiny building downtown. Three cubicles, a bathroom, a meeting room, and a filing room made up the offices. Not much to look at. The meeting room had a whiteboard with a list of shooting times and locations for the week, which gave me everything I needed to track down Amy herself.

  I tracked her to a converted warehouse on Willow Street. The exterior could’ve used some sprucing up, but the interior three floors had been done up to house several pre-made shooting sets. SNK was using an apartment set on the second floor, but I couldn’t just walk in. This was a closed set, complete with door security. Without a badge, I wasn’t getting into the warehouse, let alone up to the second floor.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but the cast and crew were already there. I’d spent the last hour watching them come and go, pushing wardrobe racks and carrying lights or fixtures. The crew was too small for me to infiltrate. Tiny studio like SNK would know everyone on their payroll by name, which meant I couldn’t just show up and pretend to be on the crew. No, food would be my ticket inside. They’d have to contract out for that, and security wouldn’t look twice at a guy with doughnuts and coffee for the stars.

  I stashed my bag near a dumpster in the alley and took a short trip to the nearest coffee shop to get my own set of props. The cashier told me my total, and I pulled out my wallet. “Forty dollars for a coupla coffees and some greasy bread. That’s the real racket in this city.” I counted out the bills and paused, spotting an apron and cap for sale with the coffee company’s logo on it. After making sure I had the cash to cover it, I piled them up next to the register too.

  Dressed for my part, I showed up at the studio carrying a cardboard tray of black coffees and a box of sweet pastries. Security stopped me at the door and asked for my ID. I shifted the doughnuts, making a show of having difficulty holding onto them. “I know I’ve got it here somewhere,” I said in my best American accent.

  “Whatever.” The security guard pushed open the door and held it for me. “I’m not going to hold up the Starbucks guy. I know how Amy gets without her coffee. Go on, man.”

  “Thanks, dude.”

  A dingy hallway and a creaky set of stairs took me to the second floor, where I followed some temporary signs to the set. Just outside the door, a light attached to the wall announced filming was in progress. To keep from drawing too much attention to myself, I waited a few minutes for it to go out, then pushed my way through the door.

  The set mirrored an apartment—if the typical Los Angeles apartment were full of cameras, boom microphones, mirrors, and spotlights. People with headpieces on moved around the main area, some of them carrying makeup bags or dresses in bags draped over one arm. No one paid any mind to the lad with coffee and pastries. I was only a peripheral part of their world, so far beneath them that I barely registered.

  I stopped next to the kitchen counter and dropped off my props, intending to move on and track down whoever was in charge.

  She came out of the back like a hurricane stalking the shore, fury and power in her every step. Delicate pointed heels clicked against the linoleum floor, the tops of her boots clinging to her bare thighs. Dark eyes appraised the room, registering everyone in it and placing them in their order, prey and predator. She paused in the doorway to strip off the black gloves she wore, tossed them over her shoulder, and strode up to me.

  “Thank Christ. I was beginning to think I’d never get my latte.” She picked up one of the cups and took a sip before making a gagging sound. “Black coffee? Seriously?” Her eyes rolled over me slowly. “You’re not the normal Starbucks guy. He’s prettier than you.”

  I smiled. “What can I say? Some of us are made for the spotlight, and some of us are meant to be stunt doubles.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve fucked a few stunt doubles. Not that exciting. I’ve been doing this a long time, you know, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when God takes something away, he gives something else in return. Some of the best fucks I’ve had have been from ugly assholes. But you’re not ugly. You’ve got a sort of rugged attractiveness, honey. Something that screams grizzled action hero. Dark and broody like worn leather.” She leaned in. “And I happen to think leather is hot as hell.”

  “Makeup is ready for you, Ms. Gruterman,” announced a young man with a headset.

  “You’re Amy Gruterman?” I gave her another once-over.

  “Are you a fan? Don’t ask me to sign your dick. I don’t do that anymore.” She waved off the assistant and leaned against the counter, sipping the coffee she claimed to hate.

  “No, I just didn’t expect the CEO to also be the star. Figured you had people for that.”

  She lowered the coffee and narrowed her eyes at me. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Josiah Quinn. I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you. I’d hate to hit a lady.”

  “Josiah Quinn.” She smirked. “I’ve heard of you. Your name is whispered in certain circles like a curse. Others think you’re some sort of savior. Which is it, I wonder? Are you here to save me or curse me, Mister Quinn?”

  I shifted so I was between her and any chance of escape. “That depends.”

  “On what?” she asked, putting her hands on my chest.

  “Maggie O’Dale.”

  The color drained from Amy’s face, and she gave me a push. “Get out.”

  “Not without the answers I came for.”

  “I said, get out!” She screamed it so loud that all the bustling in the apartment came to an abrupt stop, everyone turning to stare at me.

  I made a fist, blue angel-fire sprouting in my palm. “Are you sure you want to take that route?”

  She considered me for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to the closest production assistant. “Didn’t you hear me? Get everyone the fuck out. Take a break. I’ll call you when I want you to come back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He whistled and made a circular motion in the air with his fingers. “Everybody out!”

  People practically stampeded for the exit.

  The apartment set empty, Amy popped the lid on her coffee, opened the fridge, and topped it off with a little milk. “How did you get my name?”

  “Spyder.”

  “Goddamn that skinny prick.”

  “I also found a guest ID card
with your company’s name on it in Maggie’s apartment,” I added. “I would’ve found you sooner or later without his help.”

  She sighed and stirred her coffee with one of the plastic stir sticks resting in the center of the cup holder, then turned to face me. “Whatever you think you know about Maggie, you can forget it. She wasn’t like everyone else in this industry. She was good. Wholesome. Probably too good for it.”

  “I know she was an addict.” Saying it aloud made me feel numb. Damn Spyder for telling me. “I know she had money problems.”

  “Don’t we all?” Amy set her coffee aside, opened a drawer, and brought out a pack of Luckys. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not if you share.”

  Amy provided the cigarettes, and I gave us both a light. She leaned back against the counter after the first inhale, tipping her head back. The delicate muscles of her throat worked as she blew out the smoke in accented bursts of gray cloud. “To understand Maggie, you have to understand Ronald.”

  “Ronald Sloch?”

  She nodded. “Ron and me go back a long ways. We both got into the business in the ‘90s. Porn was different then. More theatrical. Making a feature film was just as involved as your average Hollywood production. Lights, cameras… It was all about production value back then. Arousal as a fantasy. Now every hot girl next door has a webcam and an Instagram, and that’s all it takes. It’s hard to compete with that, so the industry changed. Went from a focus on quality to quantity. Now I’m doing five shoots a day on a shoestring budget. You have to cater to a niche to make it because that’s the only thing that differentiates the studios from the amateurs.”

  I folded my arms and leaned on the kitchen table. “Ron didn’t understand that?”

  Amy rolled her eyes and paced to the other side of the table. “Ron’s whole philosophy revolves around being cheap. He’s all about reducing his overhead. His studio, Flesh Factory, really lives up to its name, just pumping out cheap shit nobody wants. He slithers through these dive bars, picks up young girls who want to be stars, and convinces them they just need exposure. They take off their clothes and get fucked in every sense of the word. Nobody tells these girls a porn credit is a death knell if you want to be taken seriously. Anyway, that’s not the worst of it. After the first picture, he keeps feeding them bullshit. He’ll come to the actresses and promise them a huge payout, claiming he’s onto the next big thing. The only thing they’ve got to do is buy in for a share of limitless profit.”

  “He’s scamming them,” I said.

  She nodded.

  I flexed my hands into fists and released them. “What happens when the project doesn’t earn out?”

  Amy pulled out a chair and sat, crossing one beautiful leg over the other. “If they’re stupid enough to sign, they get locked into an exclusive contract, doing parts for nothing until they’ve paid back the loss. The contracts are illegal as hell, but who’s going to lawyer up? Who can afford it? And even if they did, part of the contract ensures they sign away their rights to litigation.”

  I pulled out a chair of my own and sat down across from her. “So Maggie signed one of these contracts. What was she doing with a pass from your studio, then?”

  “She came to me looking for a way out. Ron lets the girls out sometimes if someone buys their contract. I gave her an audition. That must’ve been Thursday morning.”

  “And?”

  She studied me for a moment before crushing her cigarette out on the table. “I’m going to assume you’ve never seen any of my productions. Either that or you don’t know Maggie O’Dale very well. She’s hot, but she’s timid as fuck. My entire brand is about powerful women and subservient men. Sometimes I do the lesbian angle, but not enough to make purchasing her contract worth my while. The track marks in her arm just sealed the deal. I couldn’t help her.”

  “You mean, you wouldn’t.”

  Amy smirked. “I run a business, Mister Quinn. Times are tough for all of us. I had her do a bit part, paid her two hundred dollars, and sent her home. That was more than I should’ve done.”

  I stood and removed the cap I’d worn. “What happens if the girls run out on their contracts with Ron?”

  Amy shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can’t imagine it would be good. I was married to Ron for three years. Want to know what he gave me for our third anniversary?” She turned her head and pushed back a patch of hair to reveal a large, knotted scar. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have people killed.”

  “Just one more question, Amy, if you don’t mind.” I turned the cap in my hands, gripping the bill. “If Maggie ran, where would she have run to?”

  “There’s nowhere to run from Ron. He has connections all up and down the West Coast. Bastard’s in bed with the cartels. He can go anywhere. The only way out would be for her to find a wealthy benefactor willing to purchase her contract. I doubt another studio would’ve taken it. She only came to me because she thought she’d appeal to my personal hatred of Ron. She almost did. Too bad she just couldn’t act.”

  “Thanks for the help. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.” I went to the door.

  “If you see Ron, would you do me a favor and kill that motherfucker? You’d be doing all of Los Angeles a favor. This city doesn’t need one more predatory roach preying on vulnerable women.”

  Chapter Eight

  Stefan

  Ron Sloch’s online footprint was impressive. The bastard practically lived on the internet, posting sleazy photos of himself and topless models in expensive cars all over the place. It didn’t take much to figure out Ron was the founder of the Flesh Factory, the very same group of assholes parked outside Maggie’s apartment.

  Digging deeper into Flesh Factory was impossible, though. Company details were scarce, other than the address of the office. All his videos were behind a paywall, too, so there was no way to verify that Maggie was working for the asshole to pay down her debt. That seemed likely to me. In the organization, they used to do the same. If you got in too deep with Georgie, you had a choice: broken kneecaps or your family could take your debt, work it off. His organization specialized in prostitution, though, not porn. Either way, it was cash or flesh that paid the debt.

  The only way I was going to find out more was if I went down to the office directly and asked to see Ron, but a guy like him wouldn’t see a nosy person for no reason. I had to give him a reason.

  I made up the bed, adjusted the lights, and stripped down to let my camera phone do all the hard work for me. Walking into a studio to look for work wasn’t how it was done, but I hoped by breaking the mold, maybe I’d get his attention and earn myself an immediate audience. Once I got into the back with him, however, the first thing he’d want would be photos—headshots, nudes, the whole deal. I put together everything I thought would help me get into a room alone with him into a slideshow and set out for the studio.

  It was early, just after eight when I left, but it’d be after nine by the time I arrived, thanks to LA traffic. The whole ride across town, I replayed the events from the night before in my head, watching as I smashed Tag to pieces with the hammer. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten my hands dirty like that, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time I’d done it for Josiah. I should’ve felt guilty, should’ve had some desire to be washed clean after what I’d done, yet all I felt reliving the moment was justification. I’d taken a bad person out of the world.

  But Tag wasn’t just a bad guy. He was still a person. Someone’s son, friend, maybe even a father. I had removed him not just from the world, but from other people’s lives. The evil he’d inflicted on the world wouldn’t make the ripple of pain caused by his passing any smaller. A whole community would spend the day grieving, while I felt no remorse.

  The cab stopped in front of a two-story house with a bay window and an enclosed porch. I double-checked the address for the office, but it was right. Ron was apparently running his business out of his home. I got out of the cab and went up the w
alk to ring the bell, my laptop under my arm.

  Shadows moved behind the curtains, and footsteps clunked loudly on the floor before a middle-aged man in a cheap suit jerked the door open. He had a receding hairline but made up for it with ample body hair and a mustache. “Can I help you?”

  I cleared my throat. “Mister Sloch?”

  “Look, kid, if you’re here to sell me Jesus, I’m not into it.” He started to close the door.

  “I’m here looking for work,” I blurted. It was enough to get him to pause. “My friend passed me your card. Said you might be able to help me get the exposure I need so I can get into one of the bigger studios.”

  “I don’t have any openings. Try somewhere else.”

  “Ronnie? Who’s at the door?” A petite blonde appeared and gave me a sultry smile. “He’s cute.”

  Ron sighed. “You got any good shots, kid?”

  Five minutes later, I was sitting in a wooden chair across from Ron. He hunched over his desk, swiping through the photos on my laptop, glancing at me every so often. “These are pretty good for amateur shots. You do any webcam work?”

  “I was considering it when my friend gave me your card. She seemed to think I’d make more money with you.”

  He closed the laptop and slid it back to me. “She probably didn’t explain how this works, so allow me. If I sign you on—and that’s a big if—then we do a test shoot. You get a share of the profits once it passes a certain number of views. Could be a lot of money, but you’re an unknown, so it might not be. Getting your first film credit alone has some value, though, and if you don’t make anything with me, you can take that and move on. Worst case scenario, you get to fuck some hot girls. You get your choice of models. I’ll show you the headshots after you sign. We pick a date, you show up, we film you fucking, and distribute that online for the happy customers. Any questions?”