by K. A. Ware
“You don’t have a spare?”
I groaned, not wanting to admit that I was too cheap to buy a replacement spare the last time this happened. “No, I blew a tire a few months ago and haven’t had a chance to replace it yet.”
Technically true.
Thankfully, Baz didn’t comment on my lack of responsibility. “I’m in the middle of something right now, but I’ll send one of the prospects to pick you up and bring your car to the shop.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll just call a tow truck,” I said, watching the rain splash against the windshield.
“It’s seven o’clock on a Friday night. I don’t want you sitting on the side of the fucking freeway in the dark.”
“I can take care of my—” I started to argue, but he cut me off.
“Are you always such a pain in the ass when someone’s trying to help you?”
That shut me right the hell up. He was doing something nice for me, the least I could do was try to be grateful. “Sorry. That would be great, thanks.”
“No problem, ping me your location, and I’ll get someone out there. I gotta go,” he clipped out.
“Okay. Hey Baz?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I said softly, hoping to ease the sting of my bitchiness from before.
“You’re welcome, Rabbit. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
The call disconnected without another word from him. I allowed myself a moment to wonder what Baz would expect in return for this little favor before pulling up his contact information and clicking the link to share my current location.
Thank God for modern technology.
A half hour later, just as the sun was finally setting somewhere behind the clouds, yellow flashing lights illuminated the interior of my car as a tow truck pulled to the side of the road in front of me. Tucking my hair into the hood of my sweatshirt, I stepped out into the rain just as a lanky guy in his mid-twenties hopped out of the truck and jogged toward me.
I was surprised he wasn’t wearing a cut, at least not that I could see. Instead, he wore an oversized jacket with a ‘Knight’s Customs’ logo patch on the left lapel and one on the right that simply read ‘Butter’.
Raising an eyebrow, I asked the inevitable. “Butter?”
His grin was crooked as he tugged on his beanie. “Yes, ma’am. Baz sent me.”
“Please don’t ever call me ma’am again. My name’s Finley,” I said holding my hand out to shake.
Butter hesitated for a split second before taking my hand and shaking it once, releasing it almost immediately as if it’d burned him.
Jesus, what had Baz said to this poor guy?
“You have anything in here that you’re gonna need?” he asked motioning to my car.
“Just my work bag and purse,” I said, turning to walk around to the passenger side to retrieve them.
“I got it ma’—Finley,” he said, correcting himself when I sent a glare his way. “Let’s get you out of the rain, and I’ll bring them to you before I hook up the car.”
I wanted to protest, but Butter seemed nervous, so I kept my mouth shut and let him lead me to the cab of the tow truck. He shielded my body with his own, head on a constant swivel for oncoming traffic as he opened the door and helped me up. Usually, I’d think the chivalry was sweet, but something told me his gentlemanly behavior was motivated by fear rather than manners. Baz had probably threatened his manhood if anything happened to me.
Fucking bikers.
I’d tried my best to friend zone Baz over the past couple weeks, but he still seemed to think he had some claim over me. Like hell. I’d take advantage of his generosity this time, but I was not going to let it become a habit. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, especially not now that Butcher was back in the picture.
I hadn’t seen or heard from the Satan’s Sinners VP, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Baz had said his club would take care of them the night of the shooting, but he hadn’t said anything to me since, and I was too scared of the questions it would bring if I asked.
The driver’s side door opened, interrupting my thoughts, and Butter climbed up into the cab. “Okay, gotcha all hooked up. Baz said you were on your way to work. I can drop you off before I take your car to the shop if you’d like.”
I bit back a groan. It was already almost eight, and I was supposed to be breaking in a new girl tonight. Even though I’d painstakingly avoided telling Baz where I worked, I didn’t have the time to let Butter take me all the way to the garage and catch a cab to the club. Biting the bullet, I told Butter the address knowing full well the information would find its way back to Baz.
Thankfully, Butter didn’t talk much on the ride to The Doll House, letting me stew in my thoughts.
I met Baz at a club called Molly’s three years ago during a shift I picked up for extra cash, and I hadn’t been back since. Despite Baz’s prodding since we’d reconnected, I managed to avoid the topic of my current workplace. I didn’t think he would hurt me, but he’d shown some pretty strong stalker tendencies by showing up at my house two weeks ago and I didn’t need the trouble of him popping into the club while I was dancing, too.
I’d seen it far too often. One of the girls would start seeing a new guy, and he’d come into the club thinking he could handle watching his girl shove her tits in a customer’s face. They never could.
“Go ahead and pull around the back,” I directed as we approached the club. The Doll House, a Portland staple, was packed if the parking lot was any indication. I’d already sent a text to Sienna and asked her to keep an eye on the new girl until I got there, but I needed to hustle and get dressed if I wanted to keep my stage time.
“Thanks!” I said, shoving open the door as soon as Butter pulled to a stop.
“Are you gonna need a ride home?”
Hopping down, I turned, flashing him a thankful smile. “Nah, I’ll take an Uber, thanks for the ride!” I didn’t wait for his response before slamming the door, shouldering my bag, and making a run for the employee entrance at the back of the building.
Billy, one of my favorite bouncers, gave me a pointed look as I rushed down the back hallway.
“Oh, piss off. Like you’ve never been late for a shift,” I hissed as I flew past him.
His booming laugh followed me as I pushed into the dressing room.
“Nice of you to join us,” Sienna called from her perch in front of one of the three vanity stations as she adjusted her black plastic rimmed glasses.
Ignoring the jab, I picked my way through the dressing room that also doubled as overflow storage, to my locker.
“Jesus Christ,” I grumbled, narrowly avoiding breaking my neck when I tripped over a pair of patent leather black boots that had been discarded on the floor. People complained about stepping on LEGOs, but the little toy blocks didn’t have shit on a pair of nine-inch platforms.
“I switched shit around with Damien, you’re on in twenty,” Sienna called out, referring to our DJ. Glancing up as I kicked off my shoes, I caught her brushing another layer of her signature red lipstick onto her artificially enhanced lips. With her jet-black Bettie Page hair, ample curves and plethora of tattoos, Sienna was a Portland hipster’s wet dream, and she fucking knew it.
“Thanks, babe, I owe you.”
“For more than just the schedule switch,” she said, nodding her head toward a young brunette in the corner.
The newbie.
I hadn’t noticed her, but now that Sienna had pointed her out, I was surprised I didn’t. The girl was gorgeous. No wonder Kenny had put her on for a Friday night shift. Typically, new girls had to put in the time working weekday shifts before they earned a spot on the weekend rotation. Kenny might be a creep, but he knew potential when he saw it. This girl with the chocolate brown hair, porcelain skin, plump pink lips, and tits for days, was a fucking jackpot. If she could work a pole as well as Kenny claimed, she’d be picking her own shifts in no time, and p
issing off a lot of the other dancers.
“Hey, I’m Ness,” I called to her as I quickly stripped down, replacing my comfortable leggings and hoodie with a black shelf bra and a matching lace bodysuit.
My stage name, Hennessey was a mouthful, so the girls and most of the regulars had taken to calling me, Ness. Not all the dancers were as protective with their real names around the girls and other staff, but I liked to err on the side of caution.
“Amanda.” She smiled and opened her mouth to say something else, but quickly shut it when her eyes drifted over to where Sienna was still primping.
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “Don’t mind her. She’s all bark and no bite. I’m the one you need to worry about.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Sienna mumbled as she stood from the vanity and headed toward the door.
“I fucking heard that, bitch!” I called out.
“I meant you to, bitch.” Without turning around, she lifted a hand and flipped me off before slipping out into the hallway.
We’d worked together for a few years, and she’d seen me lose my cool more times than I cared to admit. Sienna was good people. She kept her nose clean, and while she could be a bitch and a half and liked to haze the new girls, she wasn’t a drama queen.
Strapping my feet into a pair of killer platforms, I turned my attention to the newbie. “No one goes by their real name. You got a stage name yet?”
“Uh, Roxy,” she said, hugging herself.
I shook my head, half out of frustration and the other out of pity. “We’ve already got a Roxy, pick another.”
“Um, well, I don’t know. It took me forever to settle on that one.”
The poor girl was so far out of her element. If the Walmart bra and panty set she was wearing didn’t say it, the fact that her hands were slightly trembling certainly did.
I sighed, trying my hardest to repress my impatience, it wasn’t her fault I was flustered. “Just think of something you can’t afford.”
“What?” Her button nose scrunched up in confusion.
“Diamond, Sapphire, Lexus, Mercedes. Pick something that’s expensive, and voila, you have a stage name.”
“Oh, okay. Uh, Emerald?”
“There you go.”
“Thanks,” she said, looking down at her hands that were resting in her lap. The girl was obviously nervous, and I wasn’t helping matters.
Checking the clock above the mirrors, I saw I had ten minutes before I needed to be ready to go on. Opting to forgo my usual last minute make-up check, I pulled one of the vanity chairs over and sat down in front of her.
“This your first time dancing?”
She met my eyes and shook her head. “I’ve pole danced before.”
“That’s not what I meant. Have you stripped before?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her hands again. “No.”
“How’d you learn to pole dance, then?”
The corners of her lips curved up in a tentative smile. “Got a fake ID and took a couple classes before I turned eighteen.”
Smart. I knew there were a couple women’s only gyms in the area that taught pole dancing, but they didn’t allow minors. She’d planned ahead.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, hoping to hell she’d have a good answer. I saw too many girls come through these doors because their ‘boyfriends,’ more like pimps, coerced them into it. It was just another unpleasant reality of this line of work. Legal or not, stripping was still part of the sex trade.
“My mom hurt her back. She can’t work.” She shrugged. “I can’t exactly pay rent on minimum wage.”
Well, fuck.
I knew desperation when I saw it, and it was practically seeping out of this girl’s pores. It was my call to make, Kenny had left the responsibility of the finer points of dancer management to me. If I thought she was too inexperienced or nervous to perform, I could pull her. With the way she was wringing her hands in her lap, I probably should. But I saw myself in her. I’d been just as nervous and even more unprepared on my first night. Lexi, my long since retired mentor, had taken a chance on me, and I’d been able to create a pretty good life for myself and my sister, this girl deserved that same chance.
Getting to my feet, I walked to my locker, rummaging around until I found what I was looking for and pulled out a bottle of Patron. Snatching a plastic cup with a few make-up brushes sticking out of it from the vanity, I dumped the contents on the counter and blew out the dust that had settled at the bottom. It wasn’t glamorous, but it would have to do. Pouring a small amount of tequila in the cup, I handed it to her.
“Here, drink this,” I said before bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a shot for myself.
She downed it in one gulp with barely a grimace.
Maybe not so innocent after all.
I didn’t make it a habit of contributing to the delinquency of minors, but she needed a little liquid courage if she was going to survive the night.
“So here’s the deal. Since you’re eighteen, state law says you can dance on stage, but you can’t hang out in the bar area. Once you’re done dancing you come straight back here until your next rotation, no dragging ass. This is a trial run, and if you make it tonight you’ll be on probation until I say so, understood?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good. We’ve only got you on rotation twice tonight. Three songs on each of the three stages is one rotation. You look like you’re about sixteen and as creepy as it is, the guys will eat it up. Don’t be afraid to play up the innocent act. I’m going to be honest with you, if you can pull it together long enough to make it through, you’re going to rake it in, and some of the girls are not going to like it. Keep your head down and do your job, don’t get dragged into the drama, if you do, your ass is out. I don’t need the hassle.”
She straightened her spine and sat a little taller. “Got it, I’m not here to cause problems, I just want to make enough money to put food on the table and avoid getting evicted.”
“Glad to hear it. If you keep that attitude, you’ll do fine,” I said, leaning over to check my hair in the vanity mirror. “I’m up next, sit tight, I’ll come check on you before it’s time for you to go on.” Without waiting for her response, I grabbed my wristlet and headed for the door. Just as my hand closed around the doorknob, Amanda called out to me.
“Hey, Ness?”
I pull open the door before looking to her over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Next up on the main stage, Hennessey!” The DJs echoing voice pouring through the sound system was my cue. Offering her a wink and a small, but genuine smile, I slipped into the hallway and made my way to stage one.
Mama needs a new set of tires.
Ten
FINLEY
“You’re my favorite,” I declared as soon as my ass hit the barstool after my second rotation of the night.
Nic snorted, placing a shot of tequila and a bottle of Corona in front of me. “You just like me because I have the booze.”
Throwing back the shot, I slammed the empty glass upside down on the bar. “Untrue, my friend. That only accounts for like, forty-eight percent of the reason I like you. The other fifty-two percent is the accent.”
Nic smirked, offering a wink before she drawled out her response in the thickest Tennessee accent I’d ever heard. “Wow, ya sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Need six bottles of Bud Light,” Quinn, one of the cocktail waitresses, called out to Nic as she sidled up to the bar next to me. “You still trying to get Ness to bat for the other team?”
Nic grinned as she lined up six bottles of beer and popped the caps in quick succession. “I’ll wear her down eventually.”
The running joke that Nic was determined to get in my pants, was just that, a joke. It didn’t stop the staff—and some of the regulars—from egging on the notion, though. Not that I hadn’t entertained the idea of a casual hook up, Nic wa
s a fucking knockout with long chestnut hair, bright blue eyes and a figure that would rival even our best dancers. But hers weren’t the eyes that came to me in my dreams. No, those were green and attached to a man that made me excited and terrified at the same time.
Laughing, I shook my head. “Not likely, women are fucking nuts.”
I watched as Nic’s eyes danced with humor. “Can’t deny that, but the crazier they are, the better the sex.”
“Amen to that,” Dale, a grizzled lumberjack-looking regular called out from two stools down, raising his beer in our direction.
“What do you know old man? You’d have to get your crusty ass off that damn stool to get laid,” Quinn sassed, pulling the bar towel from her pocket and snapping it in his direction.
He wheezed out a laugh and pulled back the collar of his plaid flannel, revealing a long puckered scar just below his clavicle. “Cary Dalton, ’82, craziest bitch I ever met, but the best lay of my life.”
Quinn and I shared an apprehensive look. “A woman stabbed you? During sex?” she asked.
Dale barked out a laugh, a rueful smile tugging on his lips. “’Course not. She stabbed me first, then we had wild makeup sex.” His gray bushy eyebrows bounced with mischief, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Nic offered, making her way back down the bar to a group of over-eager twenty-something guys.
“Your stories scare the shit out of me, Dale.” Quinn shuddered and arranged the order on her tray, turning to leave me with the creepy old man. She didn’t make it far. “Ah shit, baby daddy material eleven o’clock,” she hissed, slapping my shoulder with her free hand.
I rolled my eyes and took a drink of my beer, refusing to turn around. Most of the time she was more focused on catching herself a husband than serving drinks. If you looked up the term thirsty on Urban Dictionary, you’d see a picture of Quinn Collins. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“Shut up, you know you like my crazy. Besides, you’ve already got the corner market on Ice Queen, some of us actually have to flirt to make tips.”
