Shooting Dirty (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

Janelle went to work in a foul mood.

She’d tossed and turned most of the night, replaying every moment she’d spent with Ace. Every touch, every look he’d given her, every harsh comment he’d made. She wished she could hate him. Then she could feel glad he was gone, instead of devastated.

Vixen was slow on Mondays. Janelle spent more time waitressing than dancing. The lunchtime stragglers disappeared and the afternoon dragged on. She was working a double shift, by her own request, and she hoped the evening would bring more customers. It wasn’t worth coming in for minimum wage plus drink tips. She made her living on stage—and, unfortunately, in the VIP room.

Several more dancers arrived at dusk, getting ready for the late crowd. Tiffany was among them. Janelle went backstage to freshen up and say hello. She watched Tiffany brush powder over her flawless face, feeling melancholy.

“What’s wrong?” Tiffany asked.

Janelle didn’t want to talk about Ace in front of the other girls. She glanced at Desiree, who’d just walked in. “I’ll tell you later.”

Tiffany followed her gaze. “Jesus, D. You look like hell.”

“Fuck you,” Desiree said, without heat. She continued past them, to her station. She was usually a spitfire, ready to spar with Tiffany at the drop of a hat. Tonight her face had an unhealthy pallor. She sat down gingerly, wincing.

Tiffany lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did Kevin put it in her ass, or what? Someone should tell him it’s too late to use that form of birth control.”

Janelle smothered a laugh at Tiffany’s joke. It was mean to make fun of her condition, but the other dancer was sleeping with their boss, and she’d often treated Janelle with disdain. Last year, Desiree had called Janelle an old lady in front of a group of rich, young customers in an attempt to steal her lap dance sales.

That was against stripper code, big time.

Desiree hurried to get ready, tossing on makeup and teasing her hair. She stood for her call time too quickly. Her face went pale and she swayed on her feet. She gripped the chair to steady herself.

“Are you okay?” Tiffany asked.

“What do you care?” Desiree snarled.

“You shouldn’t be dancing like this. You’re already showing.”

Desiree straightened and smoothed her outfit, lifting her chin. “Kevin took me to the clinic on Saturday,” she said in a grim voice. “I’m good to go, so you two bitches can forget about doing the finale.”

Janelle exchanged a glance with Tiffany. She couldn’t believe Desiree would show up to work at Vixen two days after having an abortion. There was no way she felt well enough for strenuous physical activity.

“You’re going to faint on stage,” Janelle said. “You need to rest.”

Tiffany nodded her agreement. “Sit down before you fall down, Double D. I’ll get you a soda from the break room.”

Desiree’s mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s my turn on stage.”

“I’ll cover,” Janelle said.

After a short pause, she sank to her chair. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, as if her lips didn’t want to form the words.

“No problem.”

Janelle filled in for Desiree twice over the course of the evening. Then Desiree rallied and took the stage, giving a weak performance that the audience nevertheless enjoyed. Desiree’s strength had never been dancing. Kevin told Janelle to hustle for some VIPs to make up for the slow night. She wanted to go home and have a good cry. Instead she squared her shoulders and went out on the main floor.

A dark-haired man flagged her down less than a minute later. He was alone, dressed in casual business clothes. She’d seen him before. He had the jaded look of a workaholic, maybe one with a recent divorce under his belt. He was tall and handsome, in his early forties at the most. He could easily find a date or pick up a woman at a bar.

Instead, he was here.

“How about a private dance?” she said, leaning close to be heard over the loud music.

His eyes drifted down her body. “What does that include?”

Haggler. Janelle couldn’t stand hagglers. This one had a nice watch on his wrist. His shirt was medium quality. He didn’t smell drunk, but something about him made her nervous. If he wasn’t a return customer, she might have suspected he was a cop. “It includes a full song and sensual striptease in the VIP room.”

“Nothing else?”

Maybe he’d paid one of the other girls for a handjob or a knee grind before. Vixen was a clean club and its dancers usually played by the rules—but not always. Janelle understood the temptations her coworkers faced. It was hard to say no when a good-looking man pressed a hundred-dollar bill into your palm.

“No nudity and no touching,” she said, all business. “Sorry, sir.”

His dark gaze glinted, as if he liked being called sir. “Let’s go,” he said, standing.

She escorted him to the VIP room and began her routine. It was her first private dance of the evening. He was in the “possibly single, definitely hot” category that always made her feel a little more self-conscious.

His hand slid along her hip, copping a squeeze before she removed it. He was no strip club virgin. He knew the rules, and just how far he could push them. She continued her dance, tossing aside articles of clothing with practiced ease.

She pasted on a sultry look and dropped to her knees to simulate oral sex. She felt awkward, as if it was her first lap dance. Or her first
sober
lap dance, which had been a difficult transition. When she was brand new to stripping, she’d always downed a few shots at the beginning of each shift. After she’d stumbled and almost fallen off the stage one night, she’d decided to abstain from alcohol.

She finished the performance by tugging down her bra, revealing her breasts all the way to the nipple. Then something terrible happened.

He took a badge out of his pocket.

Oh
,
shit.

“I’m Senior Investigator Damon Vargas from the Riverside District Attorney’s Office,” he said smoothly.

“No,” she breathed, scrambling to adjust her bra.

“You’re in violation of county regulations.”

“This isn’t fair. You—you’ve been in here before.”

“I need to speak with the manager or owner,” he said.

She rose to her feet and put on her outfit with shaking hands. Kevin was standing right outside the VIP room. When Vargas flashed his badge and introduced himself, Kevin swore under his breath. He retreated to his office and took a seat behind his desk. Vargas and Janelle sat down across from him.

“What’s the problem, officer?” Kevin asked.

“According to county ordinance, no nudity is permitted by dancers in close quarters at clubs that serve alcohol. This woman exposed her nipples.”

Janelle didn’t bother to defend herself. She flashed her breasts in the VIP room often. Customers always tipped better if she gave them a bit of a peepshow. By strip club standards, showing a nipple was child’s play.

Kevin wore a deceptively blank look. He was well aware of the rules and ordinances, and the way the girls broke them. Janelle was hardly the worst offender. “I assure you that it won’t happen again.”

“Arresting her for indecent exposure and sticking you with a hefty fine might give me better assurance,” Vargas said.

Kevin narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t an idiot. If Vargas wanted to arrest her, he’d have done it already. He hadn’t come here to make sure the dancers were following regulations. Vargas was shaking him down.

“I’m willing to let you off with a warning,” Vargas said. “But I need to ask your employee a few questions in private.”

Janelle’s blood turned cold. This was about Ace. It had to be.

“Take all the time you need,” Kevin said, getting up from his desk. He walked out without a backward glance.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Vargas. Her body was trembling from anxiety, her palms sweaty. She should have listened to her instincts about his profession. She should have been more careful.

“You were interviewed by the Riverside County Police Department about Shane Jackson’s death,” he said. “What were you doing at the scene of the crime?”

“I already answered this question.”

“Answer it again.”

She moistened her lips, nervous. She’d lied in the other interview, so she’d have to be very careful to tell the same lies. “A man came to my trailer. He said Shane was in trouble, and he told me to come with him.”

“Did you know this man?”

“No. He was a stranger.”

“Why did you go with him?”

“I was afraid to say no,” she said simply.

Vargas studied her with interest. It was odd to sit next to a man she’d stripped for and defer to his authority. Men like him—and her stepfather—were the reason she didn’t trust police officers. They behaved with impunity.

“What happened after you arrived at the Salton Sea?”

She’d never told anyone that Ace had tied her up and held her captive. Or that she’d wrecked his truck and kissed him. “We found Shane and his brother at the shore. Shane raised a gun to shoot Owen, but the stranger shot first.”

“He killed Shane?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Then he grabbed a bag and took off running.”

“Describe him.”

“Dark hair, about your height, tattoos.”

“Tattoos where?”

“On his arms.”

“And his hands?”

She hadn’t mentioned Ace’s hands to the police officers who’d interviewed her. Owen might have, but she doubted it. “I don’t remember.”

Vargas took a phone out of his pocket and showed her the screen.

It was a mug shot of Ace. Paler, skinnier, more hollow-eyed. He almost looked like a different person.

“Is that him?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“This is Aaron ‘Ace’ Clemmons, a local gang member and longtime criminal. Have you ever seen him?”

“I don’t think so.”

He grunted and brought up a new picture. “Maybe this will jog your memory.”

She glanced at the screen, which displayed a grainy photo of her standing next to Ace underneath the marquis at Vixen. Pulse pounding, she lifted her gaze to Vargas’s face. He must have been in the parking lot that night, watching them. She thought of Ace’s joke about jerkoff watcher-watchers and bit her tongue to stifle a delirious giggle. “I see a lot of men at the club. They come and go.”

“And yet, you recognized me.”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

“You have a twelve-year-old son,” he said. “Shane Jackson’s son. Is that right?”

Her throat tightened. “Yes.”

He touched the image on the screen, using his fingertips to zoom in on her face. She was smiling at Ace, flirtatious. “This doesn’t look like a woman who’s afraid to say no.”

Janelle remained silent. If Vargas was trying to scare her, it was working. He clearly didn’t believe her story. He seemed to be implying that she’d known Ace before he killed Shane.

Maybe he thought she was in on it.

He put his phone away and tossed his card on the surface of Kevin’s desk. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, rising to his feet. Then he removed a few dollars from his wallet and placed them next to his card. “Thanks for the dance. You’re very talented.”

She wanted to tell him where to put his tip, and his compliments, but she restrained herself. She watched him leave, shaking from tension. As soon as Vargas was gone, Kevin returned and sat down again, his brow furrowed in disapproval.

“I can’t have this,” he said. “I don’t need any more heat on me. The county’s already up my ass about zoning laws and lap dance regulations. They want to pass a six-foot distance rule. Can you believe that shit?”

Janelle clenched her hands into fists, wanting to punch him.

“Look, I know why that cop came in here. I’m not stupid. I heard that there’s some beef between motorcycle clubs, and you’ve got boyfriend drama.”

“I don’t have—”

“Shut up,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her. “I stuck my neck out for you the other night when I asked them to leave. You think I want guys like that coming after me?”

“You let them in!”

He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t refuse service to customers based on personal conflicts. That’s why I tell my girls to keep their boyfriends out of the club. It’s not professional.”

What a hypocrite. He’d been getting a blowjob behind his desk earlier this week. “You’re not professional,” she muttered under her breath.

“Excuse me?”

She didn’t repeat herself.

“If those MC guys come back, I won’t deny them entry. As long as they’re not wearing vests or gang colors, they’re allowed to be here.”

Her jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“They busted up the place, and you don’t have the balls to turn them away?”

“The damage could have been avoided,” he said, his mouth thin. “You’re lucky I’m not taking it out of your paycheck.”

She couldn’t believe what he was saying.

Could not. Fucking. Believe it.

“They threatened me with gang rape, Kevin.”

“Then call the cops,” he said in a flat voice. “Maybe the one you just showed your tits to will file a report.”

She jumped to her feet, ready to fly across the table. “You motherfucker,” she said, hopping with fury. “You cheap, low-down, dirty motherfucker! Desiree is about to faint from blood loss and you’re making her work. You exploit women and cheat on your wife and steal from your brother. Everyone knows you skim the profits, you spineless prick.”

“Get the fuck out,” Kevin said, his neck flushed. “You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me because I quit!”

Her shrill words seemed to reverberate through the office walls, rising above the thumping baseline coming from the main floor. She could never take them back. She’d just called her boss a litany of bad names. His face looked like a cherry tomato, ready to pop. She stormed out of the office, trying not to panic. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

What had she done?

Tiffany was on the pole, twirling in a metallic bikini. Janelle went backstage and collected her things. She had so much stuff in her locker. Makeup, outfits, baby wipes, hairspray, double-stick tape, tampons. Bandage strips for the thousands of blisters she’d suffered from wearing six-inch heels. She shoved all of the stripper gear into her bag.