by Johnny Miles
Toying with Michael had just been wrong, and the only reason Jackson had agreed to meet Michael at the food court was to tell him it was over. Jackson had a plan: he’d let Michael down easy, tell him the last six or seven months had been fun but a mistake. He’d find someone else. He was still young and a great person.
Then Michael had gone and broken up with him.
Michael’s words still haunted Jackson: “This isn’t working for me. I think we should break up.”
No one had ever done that before. Not even Griffin, who hadn’t exactly broken up with Jackson as much as Griffin had simply dropped off the face of the earth and stopped calling. And even if Jackson had been dumped by Griffin, at least the burly, handsome fucker was a Magical, despite his inability to accept what he was.
Still, this thing with Michael, human plaything or not, had been fun, hadn’t it? Sleazy, what with all the sex in the back of Michael’s crappy little car, behind the Dumpster at the back of the mall, as well as the seedy motel rooms. Sleazy but fun.
You were a real asshole to Michael, though, Jackson’s inner voice admonished. Who were you truly mad at? Jackson didn’t have to dig deep for that. He already knew the answer.
A not-so-distant memory that popped into his mind…a fistfight, beside Griffin, his first day of spring break at the Elbo Room in Fort Lauderdale.
“Where are you, Griffin? Where did you go? What did I do?”
Only the wind replied.
Already Michael seemed but a distant mistake. Jackson hoped the police wouldn’t treat him badly. With any luck, Michael’s ex would be the one to pick him up. Jackson vowed to find Michael and do what he could to get them back together.
He looked down at the T-shirt he wore over the gray long-sleeved thermal. The tee had been more for Michael, who had said Jackson reminded him of the actor who played Michael’s favorite comic-book hero.
Jackson peeled off the tee emblazoned with a stylized spider. He tossed it into the wind, then pursed his lips and blew into the cold night air. He created a gust of wind to aid the article of clothing along until it landed where it might be needed most. Eventually it fluttered atop a charity drop-off box, and Jackson smiled. Someone would give the tee a good home, someone who actually liked Spider-Man.
Jackson gasped suddenly, his thoughts abruptly interrupted.
“Jackson.” The message came through strong and clear.
“Griffin?” He listened but no reply came.
Jackson formed a mental image of Griffin. Within seconds a darkness overwhelmed him. Tears sprang to Jackson’s eyes, and he staggered as an unwelcome coldness clutched at his heart.
Griffin was in trouble. But where was he?
Jackson sniffed at the air. The trace was faint, but it was there. Griffin was near. The hair at the back of Jackson’s neck stood on end as the image of a razor blade flashed suddenly across Jackson’s mind.
He closed his eyes and called out. “Father?”
“Yes, my son?” Jackson’s father replied after a moment.
“I need your help. I can’t explain now, but…please…make it snow. Nothing big, though. Okay? These humans have a hard enough time driving when there’s no snow.”
Jackson opened his eyes and looked up. Snowflakes appeared. They drifted aimlessly through the beams of light from the poles in the mall parking lot. Jackson laughed as the precipitation intensified to a steady downfall of flurries.
“Perfect. That’ll help until I can find Griffin. Thank you, Father!”
“Stay where you are, Jackson. I’ll come find you. We need to talk. Then we can hunt this Griffin down together.”
“There’s something I must do first.”
Jackson cut off mental communication with his father and focused on Michael. Almost as soon as he did, he saw his former sex partner in the backseat of an Ashewoode police car. Without hesitation, Jackson followed, using the wind and snow to speed his travel.
Chapter Four
As quickly as the good mood had come, it dissipated the second Griffin walked into the club. His nerves were immediately on edge. An invisible force crackled in the air. He couldn’t put his finger on what he felt, but Griffin instinctively knew there would be trouble before long. Of course, it didn’t help that no one stood guard at the entrance.
Rankin, you little weasel. Where the hell are you?
Griffin scanned the Precocious Puss while Shania Twain’s voice filled the air.
“Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel
Man! I feel like a woman!”
To Griffin’s left, an area had been cordoned off with heavy black drapes. The space itself was broken up into mini-cubicles painted black with mirrors strategically placed so the owner or bouncer on duty could keep an eye on the clientele if a private lap dance went awry.
Griffin pushed the drapes aside and stepped into the empty first cubicle. He then checked each adjoining miniroom.
In the last one, Griffin eyed a suspicious character in bib overalls. He tensed as the man reached out to touch the club’s latest acquisition, a busty mulatto girl freshly hired from New Orleans. She slapped the man’s hand firmly but coyly. Then with the sort of smile and look that said the man was being naughty, the dancer ticked a finger back and forth and shook her head.
The patron in bib overalls pouted but obliged, awkward with his arms at his sides as the woman gyrated just inches above his waist, her back to him.
Griffin caught the dancer’s attention. Without missing a beat she winked, letting him know she didn’t need his help. She could handle the situation. Griffin moved on.
He made his way across the club, weaving through crowded tables, darting his gaze here and there. He didn’t make eye contact with the patrons themselves, but he was fully aware of everything going on.
The clover-shaped stage to his left was empty but wouldn’t be for long. To his right, behind the bar that ran almost the full width of the club, a tired-looking female bartender dressed in skimpy bikinis tended to drink orders. Years of experience with leering men had clearly given her a sixth sense, for she glanced up with a don’t-fuck-with-me look. When she saw it was Griffin, she acknowledged him with a smile. Griffin returned her greeting with a nod.
Nope. Nothing wrong here either.
But where was Rankin? The lack of his presence disturbed and annoyed Griffin. He made his way to the opposite end of the club, where the lockers, dressing room, time clock, and Rankin’s office were located, giving the crowd a slow, final once-over.
And then he froze.
At an eight-person booth tucked in a far corner, hidden from view behind one of the stage clovers so as to give it its own privacy, sat a group of men in business suits.
“’Sa matter, darlin’? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Startled, Griffin spun around to see Kandee Kane, her real name. She stood tall and leggy even without heels, with monster breasts that announced her presence long before she ever walked into a room. At fifty-plus, she was hands-down the oldest dancer at the Puss, but she’d had work done and looked more like a woman in her early 40s. True, she now served drinks and tended bar more than danced, but she was still a knockout in a playfully trashy sort of way and gave private lap dances on request.
Except for a Santa hat, matching bowtie, and glossy-red six-inch pumps, Kandee was mostly naked. Pasties barely concealed nipples and aureoles, and a tiny triangular patch of red, sequined material covered her waxed privates. Griffin was always amazed that despite her tacky ensemble and outward appearance, Kandee carried herself like a queen.
He’d taken an instant liking to the older woman when they first met. Once they’d gotten past their initial embarrassment, where Kandee had thrown herself at Griffin during a rarely seen drunken moment of weakness, the two became instant work friends.
“You see that group of men?” Griffin leaned toward Kandee. She smelled of peppermint.
“Honey, you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific.”<
br />
“The eight-top in the far corner,” Griffin nodded in that general direction.
“The suits.” Kandee rolled her eyes. “That’s my table.”
“One of them is Roscoe D. Piedmont. He’s the man who got me fired from my last job,” Griffin explained with distaste. Kandee peered around Griffin’s broad shoulders.
“Is he the older man, the one with the tanned, smooth skin and sickening smile?”
Griffin nodded. Kandee harrumphed.
“Gave me the creeps the minute he sat down. Like a gator in sheep’s clothing. Those suits don’t fool me. But don’t you worry, sugar balls. I ain’t never met a man I couldn’t handle. And remember what I said when we first met. We—all of us at the Puss—are better than those rat bastards. Just because we work at a strip club don’t mean we’re any less than anybody.”
“Sugar balls?” Griffin laughed, despite the shock of seeing Piedmont again. He couldn’t resist the grin that spread across his face. “Got tired of calling me sugar lips?”
“Just gettin’ into the Christmas spirit.” Kandee shrugged and smiled coyly. She then stepped past Griffin and sashayed up to the bar, where she picked up her round serving tray already filled with orders for beer and cocktails. She held it high over her head, balanced on a perfectly manicured hand.
“Griffin!” Rankin, the small, round, balding manager came up from behind. “You clocked in yet?”
“I was about to.”
“Well, hurry up. Then get behind the bar.”
“I thought you wanted me to bounce?” Griffin plucked his timecard from the rack on the wall, punched in, then slipped it back into its slot.
“Fuck the bouncing. I’ve got two dancers out sick. And to make matters worse, Sheba called a few minutes ago and quit on me. Over the phone! Can you believe that? Now I have no bartender for the private room.”
“But, Rankin. I can’t tend bar. I smell trouble.”
“I don’t care what you smell, Kloss. We have a VIP here at the eight-top. Very influential in the financial market. If he likes his experience here with us, we’ll be sitting pretty. We’ll have businessmen filling up the Puss, spending money like crazy. I highly doubt there’ll be trouble brewing here tonight.”
“Who’s gonna guard the front door? You know the crowd—”
“Forget about the goddamn crowd already and get behind the bar!” Rankin seemed more frantic than usual. “I’ll pay you an extra hundred at the end of the night. You can keep whatever tips you get.”
“Fine. But you really need to start working on your personal skills.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just shut your trap and go.” With a flick of the wrist, Rankin dismissed Griffin, simultaneously stepping out.
Griffin allowed himself to be pushed from the safety of the tiny alcove, toward the open area of the club.
A piercing shriek cut through the music.
Griffin shoved Rankin aside and raced toward Kandee’s table without hesitation. He fought his way through the crowd already forming.
Arm still held high, tray now mostly empty, Kandee tried to ward off one of the men while the others laughed. The old, sick, and twisted bastard who’d ruined Griffin’s professional life was among them. She stepped back as the man moved forward. Kandee hit the side of the stage and lost control of the tray. The last of the drinks spilled. Kandee stepped on an ice cube, twisted her ankle, and went down.
“Aw c’mon, sugar.” The drunkard staggered toward her. “No need to drop to your knees for me. S’not like I wantchoo to suck my dick or anything like. Just wanna see if those things are real. Mebbe give you a good motorboating.”
Griffin was aware of peals of laughter from the men at the table, even as the crowd grew larger, excited over the tumult. He reached the drunk man as Kandee got to her feet. She clutched at the tray, and Griffin somehow knew she was ready to swing. He grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck. The man escaped his grasp and spun around, fists flying. Griffin blocked the jab with his forearm and was vaguely aware of Kandee as she raised her arms up, still holding on to that damn tray, and slammed it down, aiming for the man’s head.
Except he’d already stepped closer to Griffin, and Kandee’s swing missed. Kandee screamed and fell forward from the momentum just as Griffin managed to secure the man with a tight grip: one hand behind his neck, the man’s arms pinned between them.
“Let me go! Get off me!” the man screamed.
“Griffin! What are you doing? Don’t hurt him! He’s VIP!” Rankin cried above the crowd.
“VIP, my ass!” hollered Kandee indignantly.
“Kick the sumbitch out!” one dancer cried as another dancer stormed her way through the crowd and positioned herself before them, ready to strike. Griffin knew what came next. He yanked the man aside and about-faced with little effort. Then he winced. Griffin had managed to save the man from getting kicked in the balls but wound up getting kicked in the ass himself.
Maybe I should have let the girls take care of the asshole.
Half pulling, half pushing the protesting drunk, Griffin worked his way toward the front of the club. The crowd followed as Rankin circled, all the while squeezing his head frantically and hollering about the VIP.
A cold blast of air hit Griffin in the face as they spilled out into the parking lot. Only then did he release the man with a slight shove. The man stumbled, found his balance, and spun around, a look of fury and confusion on his face.
“What’s wrong with you? It’s against the law to touch my girls, asshole!” Griffin tensed. Bending at the knees and raising his fists, he realized he wanted to hit something.
Then Roscoe D. Piedmont stepped between them. The drunkard, who’d gotten into a tackle position, froze in place. Piedmont snapped his fingers, and two of his men emerged from the crowd. They took their drunk friend by the arms and scurried away. Piedmont turned, a sickening smile on his face. He eyed Griffin with great distaste.
“Well, as I live and breathe. Isn’t this a fine surprise? I never thought I’d ever see you again in these parts, Mr. Kloss. So…this is where you’re working now?”
Griffin bit his tongue to keep from speaking.
“I don’t suppose you know who that was, do you?” Piedmont took a step toward him.
“No. And I don’t care. He groped one of our dancers. That’s against the law.”
“Against the law or not, that man you just assaulted—”
“Just assaulted one of our dancers.”
“And that man you assaulted,” Piedmont continued nonplussed, “is North Carolina State’s—”
“I don’t care if he’s fucking Santa Claus.”
“Griffin!” Rankin broke through the crowd and came between them. The club owner’s voice was a harsh whisper, as though he were trying not to be overheard. “He’s also the mayor’s brother-in-law.”
Griffin didn’t care. He wasn’t having any of it any longer. He brushed Rankin aside.
“You think you’re so fucking high and mighty, don’t you?” Griffin snarled at Piedmont. “Well, you know what? You’re not. You’re nothing but an asshole. A shit-kicking, bible-thumping, hateful motherfucker who doesn’t like anything or anyone who doesn’t look or think or act like him.”
Piedmont stopped, momentarily stunned.
“And you know what else?” Griffin turned to Rankin. “I no longer work for you. I quit.” He turned back toward Piedmont. “And I sure as hell don’t work for you.”
Griffin pulled back and swung, giving in to his anger and desire to punch the shit-eating grin off Piedmont’s face. Except Kandee threw herself at him, both hands on his biceps, barely able to contain him. She managed to hold on.
“Griffin, don’t. He’s not worth it.”
“He deserves to be beaten to a pulp.”
“Please, Griffin. If not for me, for your mother. You know she wouldn’t want to see you like this.” Kandee’s words were a slap to the face. Stung, Griffin hung his head. He lowered his arms with a sigh,
but the skin at the back of his neck crawled when Piedmont laughed mockingly.
“You’re going to let a woman—that woman in particular—dictate what you should do? Do you know what she used to do? Before I found her in the gutter and got her this job?”
With a scream, Kandee lunged. Griffin grabbed her by the waist and gently set her aside. From the corner of his eyes Griffin noticed Rankin pulling a wailing Kandee farther into the crowd.
“I thought you had bigger balls than that, Kloss.” Piedmont chuckled, less than six feet away. He stood with the stance of a man who either had a very huge cock and enormous balls or one who possessed a lot of money and high-powered friends. Griffin struggled to remain rooted where he was, determined not to let the man get to him again.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed as they drew near, then stopped. Flashing lights filled the night. Car doors opened and closed, and amid the crowd there was movement, a murmuring.
Suddenly, just behind Piedmont, a well-dressed man stepped forth. A man with glittering brown eyes and soft wavy hair. A man with a dark and brooding quality.
“Oh, no.” Griffin groaned at the sight of his ex. Immediately, Griffin found himself reliving that night when, on his way home from work, he had stopped at an ATM to withdraw cash. The machine kept the rectangular plastic, for “security purposes,” but the message on the screen had been clear: Visit a bank teller or call customer service at 1-800-382-5968.
Nonplussed, Griffin had then attempted to get cash using one of his credit cards. When the machine sucked that up as well, Griffin worried. He had sent Thomas a text, but it went undelivered. When Griffin phoned, it wasn’t Thomas who answered but a cold, detached, and unemotional voice announcing that the number he had dialed was no longer in service.
Less than half an hour later, Griffin stood in the middle of an extraordinarily quiet and empty apartment.
On the computer, logged in to his online banking account, Griffin was horrified to find the joint checking he shared with Thomas drained of nearly five thousand dollars. Gone, too, was the ten grand from his personal savings, as well as a couple of CDs that had come to term. All told more than fifty grand. Gone. And with it, Thomas. He hadn’t even been man enough to leave a “Dear John” letter.
