I don’t answer. It’s like a football game, I tell myself. The other team tries to provoke you into a penalty. They taunt you and so you reply with a little shove, a slap to the helmet. Just one stupid mistake, one little penalty, is all it takes to lose the entire game.

So I press my lips together, keep my eyes down, and keep playing.

“I don’t know what Lander’s up to,” Travis says thoughtfully. “But I’d like his phone records. I’ll need you to get those for me.”

“I don’t know where he keeps his phone records.”

“You’re a resourceful girl. Find out.”

I straighten my posture as I consider this. My mind runs back to our last conversation about what I would and wouldn’t do for Travis.

“You told me that you would not be my whore,” he says, as if reading my mind. He leans forward and puts his hand over mine before continuing. “But you see, I saw the tape. I have the tape. You had sex in what amounts to a public place. There isn’t a privacy law in this entire country that will protect you, and the internet has a strong appetite for this kind of thing. If you don’t want the world to see you as a whore, you’ll do as you’re told.”

I meet his eyes. I see the way he’s looking at me. He’s looking at me like the guards looked at my mother. He’s looking at me as if he has complete control.

What an idiot.

Does this guy actually think that I would allow myself to be blackmailed with a sex tape? Yes, it would be humiliating, but we don’t live in Saudi Arabia. We don’t stone women who appear in sex tapes in America. We give them reality TV shows.

And it’s not like I have any parents to shame.

But I play my part and give him the shaky smile he expects. “I’ll try to get the phone records,” I say softly. “Please, just don’t show anyone that video.”

“Trust, Bell,” he says again, his smile broadening. “I trust that you’ll do what you need to do and you can trust that I’ll reward you with my discretion.”

I take another sip of my scotch. “Shouldn’t the man we’re meeting be here by—”

“Travis Gable.” The name is spoken with a heavy Mexican accent and I turn around to see a tall man with a military-style haircut, thick dark eyebrows, and a closely clipped goatee. His eyes only brush over me as they return to Travis.

“Javier, this is my translator,” Travis explains as he shakes the man’s hand. “She goes by Bell.”