To his left is Slate, the smooth talker, capable of charming the panties off any unsuspecting woman. He’s always been a ladies’ man, and with his looks, it’s no wonder. He’s tall, with dark slicked back hair reminiscent of a fifties greaser with a modern touch of suaveness.
Street stands beside him, his dark hair slightly longer than I’ve ever seen it, his piercing blue eyes still sharp despite the three years he spent in the slammer. He’s an intellectual, but he’d kick anyone’s ass for pointing that out. In many ways, he’s the baby of the group and he’s always been a sensitive soul, so it came as no surprise to me that he tied himself down to a beautiful lady with a young child and never looked back.
In the back, there’s Davis, with short cropped blonde hair and lineman’s shoulders. No one would ever guess from looking at him now that he was always the runt at the orphanage, and often sickly at that. He spends his days working behind a computer, but I’ve long suspected there’s a dark side to Davis we’ve never seen. This was pretty much confirmed when one of his exes came around the garage years ago, flaying his ass for breaking up with her and warning him another woman wouldn’t submit to him the way he likes. It was golden material, something we could have teased him about for years, but we never spoke of it. That kind of shit is private, and maybe because we grew up sharing a dormitory-style room in Thornbridge, we respect each other’s privacy.
These men are my brothers, my comrades, the only family I’ve ever really had since my parents died and I lost my sister. Around us, I see our past on display. Pictures of us in front of Thornbridge. In front of the garage on the day it opened. In front of the garage again, only this time after we paid off our loan to King and assumed ownership of it free and clear.
Not much in the boardroom has changed. It looks the same. It feels the same.
But it doesn’t smell the same as when I left. The stink of King once more runs rancid through the place; the way it did before we paid him back every dime he’d loaned us to open the garage in the first place. His reentry into our lives is a foul odor brought to life with equal parts rust and contempt, and I hate it. All I want for myself and my friends is to breathe easy again, and hopefully that will happen sooner than later.
“Well, look at all you handsome boys dressed up in your nicest clothes,” I say, breaking the awkward silence created not by my absence for three years, but by the fact they’re all wondering why the hell I got kicked out of the Marines. I haven’t told them yet. Don’t see any point in it. They’ve all got their burdens to bear, and they don’t need to carry any of mine.
Slate grins and cleans imaginary dirt from his perfectly-ironed suit. “We’re celebrating your return, aren’t we? Might as well go all out.”
“You caught me before my shift at the bookstore,” Street says, explaining his button down shirt and slacks.
Davis, silent as a fox, doesn’t bother justifying his jacket and tie. Instead, he’s only a few steps behind Jericho in shaking my hand, then pulling me in for a hug. Slate and Street join in, and for a moment, it’s like some candy-ass group hug, but I don’t give a shit. I hug them back before stepping away.
“Good to see you all. Especially you, Street,” I say.
He nods. “I’m okay. I’m more okay than I’ve ever been.”
I snort. “Yeah. I heard about your girls. Sounds like you had to do some fancy footwork to win your Katie back, but I had faith in you.”
He laughs, and for a moment I think it was totally worth it. Totally worth having to deal with King again to get Street out of prison, breathing free, and back in the fold. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to be at his mercy forever.
“King paid me a little visit,” I say.
Slate frowns. “What for? You weren’t part of our deal.”
“Told him that. He actually came to ask a favor. He’s having trouble at one of his clubs. Sugar Bare. Someone’s getting handsy with the girls, and I’m supposed to stop by and deliver a message.”
“For once, King’s asking a legitimate favor. But it won’t be the last. You do it, and he’ll just keep coming back to you,” Davis says, leaning back against a wall, resting one heel on the fore of his other foot.
“He’ll keep coming around anyway,” I agree. “And that goes for all of us. You still working for him?”
Davis nods.
Slate shrugs. “I represent an occasional colleague of his, but I’m taking some time to focus on one case in particular.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me. Another woman is involved.”
“Not just any woman,” Slate says quietly, but he doesn’t expand, and I don’t push. He’ll tell me more when he’s ready.
I look at Jericho. “You got an old lady stashed somewhere I don’t know about?”
“Can’t tell you all my secrets on your first day back to work. But I guess it’s not your first day. You gonna head over to Sugar Bare?”
“Soon as I leave here. But I wanted to see all of you. And I need a report on how our plan to get King off our backs is coming along.”
As a unit, we all turn to face Davis, who stares at the floor. When he lifts his head, his expression is serious, but then a small smile teases his lips.
“I’ve been on it, boys. And I’ve almost gathered enough shit on King to make our move. How about we all grab a beer, pull up a chair, and talk about it?”
* * *
Hours later, I’m filled with a sense of contentment from seeing my friends and from Davis’s reassurances that we’ll soon have some leverage over King. When I pull up in front of Sugar Bare, I’m impressed by how well-kept the building is. It’s been a while since I last found myself at a strip club. In fact, the last time I visited one was four years ago. I’d gone there for the same reason I’m here now—to send a message that putting one’s hands on or otherwise abusing a woman would not be allowed—only back then I hadn’t done it for King.
I stare at the club from the safety of my bike, idling beneath me as I sit perched on the side of the curb. The building is highlighted in a neon red glow. I take a long, shallow breath before kicking the bike into gear, crunching against gravel as I rip into the parking lot and come to a sudden stop beside a pair of women, obviously strippers on their break given how they’re dressed. They look at me with equal parts amusement and interest. Both of them whiff away on cancer sticks. God, how I fucking hate those things. I’ve seen too much, and lost too many people in combat to not treat life as precious as it is.
It’s also fragile. To this truth, I’m no stranger.
I cut the engine, spin one leg over the bike, then walk past them.
“Evening, ladies,” I say.
“Evening,” they echo back.
“You going to be here long?” the brunette says, and I have to admit, underneath all her make-up, she’s pretty. I’ve also got a thing for brunettes. “Because if you’re looking for more than to watch…”
I’m not surprised by her offer. She’s more than a stripper. Chances are that’s true for many of the women who work here, strippers and waitresses alike. This is a King establishment, after all. He lures women in with the promise of stability and safety, and all he asks in return is that they take off their clothes and dance for lonely men.
Or better yet, take off their clothes and fuck the lonely men.
It’s a fact of life. Women have been selling their bodies since the dawn of time, and men have been capitalizing from it. From what I know, King treats them well. He pays them a fair wage. He makes sure they’re safe. After all, that’s why I’m here.
He just has no compunction about using the women even as he takes care of them, and I am all too familiar with the sick mix of of gratitude and resentment, loyalty and hatred, that creates. To King, he’s providing something valuable in exchange for shedding clothes or, in my case when I was a kid, stealing a car or running drugs. He’s built his entire livelihood around people selling their souls for another chance to survive.
I rip the front door open and I’m greeted with the painful thumping of hip-hop music and neon green lights. I pause to take in the layout of the place. Bar to the left. Women dancing on the stage. Men watching. Nothing unusual going on, so I plan to make my way through the thin crowd gathered near the bar, around the room, and back to the dressing rooms. But I stop dead in my tracks when I see a woman standing at the end of the bar, holding a tray of drinks.
She’s fucking beautiful, standing out like a diamond nestled in a pile of coal. Despite her jet black hair and dark eyes, I’m reminded of an angel. She’s taller than the other waitresses I’ve spotted. Thinner. Certainly more flat chested. Not completely flat, just not big or bouncy.
Who the fuck cares?
As dark as her hair is, her skin is pale and creamy. Her bourbon-colored eyes widen when she sees me staring at her. I automatically take a step closer, thinking two things.
She doesn’t belong here.
And I want to make her mine.
Chapter Four
Alyssa
Another day. Another dollar. That’s a popular saying around these parts, but it’s an idiotic one. Nobody would be content to earn a solitary dollar for a full day’s work. I’m certainly not.
But if it fits, it fits, and because this is the life I’ve chosen, I’m marking the passage of time by the money I earn each day. I turn from the bar, a full plate of glasses in one hand, and my eyes land on a passing stranger.
He’s both classically handsome and rugged, with green eyes that appear emerald and majestic under the neon lights.
He looks at me, stealing my breath, and sending a shiver down my spine. He seems dangerous even in passing, but I want nothing more than to be pulled in. Suddenly, he frowns, shakes his head, then turns away to head toward the back. He pushes his way through the crowd like a man on a mission, and the only thing left simmering in my mind is what kind of mission this handsome stranger is on tonight.
I deliver my drinks then return to the bar and lean against the stained wood counter. My break isn’t for another two hours and my feet are already killing me. I straighten abruptly, however, when I see Marley heading toward the hallway that leads out back. She stumbles into the wall at one point, slaps the surface, then slowly slides to the ground. Either she’s drunk, sick, or having an emotional breakdown.
There’s no rest for the wicked, I suppose.
Spotting Walt on the other side of the room, I push away from the bar and dart toward the hallway, trying to get to her before anyone else can. We’re not supposed to have more than one drink on the job, and even that is frowned upon.
“Hey, lady. What’s going on?” I say as I bend over to grab her hand and help her to her feet. She fumbles as she tries to stand, but I hang on and manage to get her standing. With her in tow, I push through the back door of the club and suck in fresh air. My worried gaze takes her in. She looks freaked. Her eyes glassy.
“Let go of me,” she commands and pushes me away. Her head is bowed, and long dark hair peaks out from beneath a blonde wig.
“Marley, what’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer. She just sobs. Tears and blue mascara run down her cheeks.
“You have to tell me what’s going on, Mar.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she cries and scrunches her face. “It’s all bullshit.”
“Do what anymore? Strip?” She’s never given any indication she hates stripping. She’s always so cheerful. Does her thing and goes home, usually fanning herself with a stack of bills.
“Strip. Fuck. Did you know I do that? That I fuck for money?”
My eyes widen. No, I hadn’t known that. I lick my lips and take another deep breath, trying to figure out what to say. “I didn’t know, Marley,” I say finally. “But if you don’t want to do it, we can figure something out. I want to help you.” Of course, I don’t know if I
can
help her. I don’t have extra cash lying around to give her. If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be working here.
“You can’t help me,” she says. “Nobody can. Nobody cares.”
“I care.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “You care, but
they
don’t care. Not Walt. Not Mr. Prince. Certainly not the guys with money to burn.”
“They don’t have to care. We have each other. We’ll get through this, Marley. Together.” I shift toward her, and she rests her head on my shoulder.
“I can’t go back in there,” she cries against my neck, her tears dripping down upon my skin. “I can’t… do it
tonight. Not with them. They want to double-team me, and I’ve done it before, but…”
I hate seeing her this way. I hate knowing that this beautiful, kind woman is living a life where she feels the need to sell her body to survive, but given my own situation, I’m all too aware how easy it is to go down a road you never thought you’d walk.
“Shhh. You’re going to be okay.” I pat her on the back. “First thing’s first. You need to get out of here. I’ll tell Walt you got sick.”
“It won’t work,” she cries softly.
“It will,” I assure her, though I can’t possibly know that. I pull away to lock my eyes on hers. “You’re going to stay sick for a few days, take some time away from this place, and while you’re away, I’m going to come to you and we’re going to figure out a way for you to leave this place behind.”