Free Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) by Danielle Slater, Allegra Ryan Page A

That’s the only logical reason our mother’s evening bag would be stuffed on a shelf in this hallway of this club, right?
    I pray I’m wrong.
    I have to be wrong because I can’t let my brain go where the red shoes lead.
    I push on the black VIP door and discover it’s locked. My balled-up fist hammers on the polished surface. I’m shaking all over, and my dress is ripped, and my mascara is probably smeared, but I don’t care. There’s one thing on my mind, and that’s to get my little sister out of here safely. I pound on the door again and shout. When there’s no response, I lean my face against it, willing myself not to cry. Then the door flies open.
    A twenty-something guy in black uniform trousers and shirt stands in the doorway. His nametag reads Davis . He smiles as if he recognizes me. I don’t have time for this.
    “Where’s my sister?”
    He blinks and frowns. “Um, I’m not sure. Could you tell me her name?”
    “Samantha. Samantha Lopez.”
    “All right, let me take a look at the roster.”
    Roster? A cold feeling stabs my gut. How many women waltz into this club wearing red shoes? I don’t even want to know.
    Davis produces a small tablet and swipes his fingers across the surface. I watch his eyes flick left to right while he chews on his bottom lip. “No, I’m not seeing that name.” He looks up at me. “Might she be using a different name? Some of our girls do that.”
    Our girls? The cold feeling in my gut turns to nausea. As far as I know, Samantha’s dated a few times and never had a regular boyfriend. She’s always been too focused on her studies.
    Or maybe I saw what I wanted to see? Heard what I wanted to hear?
    “Yeah, Rachel and I are going to go over some scholarship programs tonight and see which ones we have the best shot at getting.”
    Right.
    Isn’t that what all eighteen-year-olds do on a Friday night? I’d believed her, and why not? She’d never given me any reason not to trust her.
    Using her cell, I punched the button for Contacts and selected Rachel’s number. A teenage voice answers. “Hey,” she says in a hushed voice, “what’s up? Is everything all right? I thought you weren’t going to call. . .”
    “Game over. It’s me, Rachel.”
    “Oh shit, Brooke.”
    “Oh shit is right, but we can talk about that later. Where’s Samantha?”
    “She. . . um. . . well, I don’t exactly know.”
    “The truth, Rachel, or I’m calling your mom.” I’m calling her mom anyway, but she doesn’t have to know that right now.
    “Brooke, seriously, that’s the truth. It’s all I know.”
    “What about the red shoes?”
    “Oh, yeah, well, there’s that, too.”
    It takes everything in my being to remain calm. “Was she wearing the red shoes this evening?”
    “Yes.”
    I punch the button to close out the call. I can’t say another word to Rachel without ripping her a new one, which will do no good for anyone.
    From Davis, who has remained standing in the doorway this whole time, I grab the tablet and scan the list of names. It’s shorter than I thought. Out of all the Crystals and Tiffanys and Ambers, one name jumps out as even more obviously false: Deja Booty.
    I point to it. “That one. That’s my sister.”
    Davis pales. “Are you sure?”
    “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
    “No, ma’am, you don’t.”
    “Where is she?”
    “I. . . uh. . .I can’t really. . .”
    I push through the opening, fueled by pure fury, and back Davis against the wall opposite and poke his chest with my finger. “You are going to take me to my sister and you are going to do it right now. Got it?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I stand with one hand on my hip, the other holding my mother’s clutch. “Well, let’s get going.”
    “Yes, ma’am, it’s just that—”
    “Are you going to do as I ask or do I have to call Nathan?” It’s only a bluff, but it works.
    Davis’ face goes even whiter. Quickly, he turns and leads me to an elevator where he holds a card up to