Wicked Love

a water please.”
“Here you go,” I say handing them over and putting the binoculars back up to my face. A dark compact car is pulling into the lot. I watch as two girls and two guys get out and go to the back entrance. They press the buzzer and in a few moments, the door is opened by a huge, burly man with a bald head and lots of ink. “He looks familiar,” I say.
Krew is straining to look past me out the passenger window of his SUV and as the girls enter, he notices the same thing I do. We both say it at the same time: “Those are teenagers!” Boys and girls looking like they’re fifteen or sixteen max.
His dash clock has the time at 7:55 p.m.
“I bet their shift starts at eight,” I comment as if I would somehow know this.
My mind is in turmoil, trying to make sense of the young girls going in the back door to the club. I close my eyes and try to remember my visit or visits to this place. I only remember the time I was with Shelby. I can’t recall seeing anyone underage. As I reflect back, it was mostly middle aged couples, and an assortment of males in their fifties and sixties.
My head throbs with confettied pieces of a skewed memory puzzle. My conscious is at war with my subconscious and in that moment, I can’t take sides. My fingers press against my temples, making circles as my eyes shut tightly, seeing the flashes of memories start taking form.
“Carson?” Krew’s voice cuts through. “Carson, look at me!” My eyes flicker open and I see his face studying me with concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I nod slowly. “I remember a little bit. There’s a studio in there. One where they wear masquerade. I remember they put on plays–sex plays. Shelby and I were there. Young girls in bondage. The masks couldn’t hide their youth,” I sputter. This club-they have staff. Underage staff. Now I remember that part of it!”
Krew pulls me against his hard chest, running a hand through my hair. “You’re shaking,” he says, “Can you remember anything else?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. Just the one time is all.”
“Do you want me to take you back to your dorm?” he asks gently.
“Can we please stay until midnight when it closes up? I may see others from . . . before.”
“Of course,” he replies, wrapping an arm around me and I feel the comfort he’s providing. And I won’t lie. I feel safe and protected in Krew Beckett’s arms.
It’s after ten when I notice a few people exiting the Sanctuary from the front lobby. I grab the binoculars and peer through them.
“That’s her!” I say excitedly. “That’s Shelby Parker! She’s with two guys.” I continue to watch as a cab pulls up at the curb in front of them. One of the guys opens the back seat door for her and she climbs in. He closes the door, the cab takes off, and both men go back inside the club.
“Follow that cab,” I blurt. “I’ve got to see where she’s staying.”
“I don’t think you should confront her tonight, Carson,” Krew says firmly. “You need to find out more.”
I glance over at him. “You mean; remember more, don’t you?”
“Whatever works,” he responds, following the cab as it turns from Amsterdam Avenue onto Harlem River Drive, “I mean you don’t know if she was behind your . . . accident.”
I like that he also refers to it that way. “I know. And I hadn’t planned on confronting her. But knowing where she lives is something at least.”
Krew does a fantastic job of staying far enough behind the cab so as not to draw attention, but close enough to not lose sight of it.
After a few miles, the cab turns onto E. 116th Street and pulls over to the curb a half a block down. Krew pulls over to the curb after the turn, and we wait for Shelby to get out and the cab to leave before pulling back out.
The building she enters is an old brick 4-plex in East Harlem. I jot the address down in my notebook. “All I need now is to figure out my approach,” I remark.
“You’ll clue me in on that? Right, Princess?”
I arch a brow at Krew. “I really appreciate you doing this for me tonight, Krew, but hey, you’re not obligated to be my chauffeur or partner in crime fighting,” I finish with a soft laugh.
He remains serious. “What if I want to be obligated? What if I saw firsthand the damage done to you, and feel the need to help you figure it all out? You gonna kick me to the curb now?” He sounds almost hurt, but I’m not sure if he’s doing that for effect or not.
“Well, no,” I reply meekly. “But I know what I have to do next.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Hypnotherapy. Got any recommendations?”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his, giving it a warm squeeze. “I just might have, Princess. Let me see what I can do.”

12


Removing the Band-Aid
Krew wasted no time in setting me up with some holistic hypnotherapy. As it turns out, when I show up at his office at one o’clock the following Sunday afternoon, he unlocks the door to the lobby, letting me inside and then locks it again.
I look around and see there’s nobody else here except for the two of us. I immediately feel a stab of apprehension.
“Umm . . . is the therapist here?” I ask tentatively.
“Right here,” he replies with a smile.
“What is this, Krew?” I blurt, my eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You invite me here on a day you’re closed, tell me to eat something before I leave my dorm, and allow no caffeine to pass my lips, which is the hardest part, and I get here and what?”
“I’m trained in holistic hypnotherapy,” he announces. “It’s just me and you for the next