G-Men: The Series

by ANDREA SMITH

  “Jack, I saw an electronic cash deposit made through an ATM in Virginia come through. I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to post that on the Excel file, since typically the deposits are payroll or transfer. Was this a one-time thing?”

  “Oh, that,” he replied, turning to head back out to the family room. “One of the company cars was involved in a collision. I meant to deposit the check from the other driver’s insurance company into the business account for that branch office while I was down there. I cashed it by mistake. It had been made out to me. I’m glad you reminded me. I need to issue a check from our personal account to Banion Pharmaceutical Eastern District Office. I’ll do that now.”

  By Friday afternoon, my nerves were frayed as I headed out to meet Becky for lunch. It wasn’t as if Jack had done or said anything. It was simply the fact that I missed the life I’d carved out for myself in his absence. I was back to being lackluster Samantha. I was bored and I missed dancing, but mostly, I missed Slate.

  Becky noticed right away as the waitress left with our order.

  “Okay,” she said, “what’s Jack done now?”

  “He hasn’t done anything. He’s just home.”

  “And that’s not a good thing, why?”

  “Because I finally realized something, Becky - something I should’ve realized a long time ago. I don’t want to be married to Jack anymore. I probably never really did.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at me in disbelief.

  “I don’t know why you’re acting all shocked, Bec. You’ve never been a fan of his. I believe you refer to him as a mannequin most of the time.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but what brought you to this realization? I mean, you always seemed satisfied with the…mannequin.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve gotten a taste of being on my own, making my own money, and not having to answer to him - to anyone. I like it.”

  “Would you like to clue me in on what the hell you’re talking about, Sam? I know we don’t see each other as often as we used to, but we talk at least once a week. You’ve never mentioned a thing about making your own money. Did you get a job?”

  There it was. I needed to confide in my best friend. She would either think that I’d gone off the deep end and was in dire need of medication and psychotherapy, or she’d be happy that I’d finally started to live. Either way, she would be honest with me, no holds barred. I told her everything.

  Once I’d spilled everything to her, I sat back and waited for her reaction. It took her a couple of minutes to digest everything. I saw her mind coming to terms with what I’d told her about the club, Slate, and even Jack’s abuse.

  She finally broke the silence.

  “Sam, when I encouraged you to get a hobby or take classes, or get a job, it was more along the lines of making pottery, taking a cooking class, or working part-time at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I’d no clue you’d go and create some wild-child alter-ego and live on the edge.”

  “So, you don’t approve?”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to approve or disapprove. You’re my best friend and I don’t judge you like that. I can be concerned though. I guess that’s what I am: concerned.”

  “Concerned that I’ve lost my mind?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that. Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m concerned about where you’re working and the clientele that you seem to be drawn to, at least one of them. What do you know about Slate?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “All I know is that he totally fascinates me, despite the age difference.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d guess mid-to-late twenties, maybe.”

  “Seriously, that’s the least of your worries, Sam. He’s a biker in a gang, a notorious one at that.”

  “They aren’t called gangs, Bec. They’re a club.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “The point is that you’re literally flirting with danger. It’s unsafe. Are you telling me the truth about this being the first time ever that Jack physically abused you?”

  “Of course. Why would I lie?”

  “Okay. So now that you’ve told me all of this, do I get to have an opinion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Am I allowed to verbalize it?”

  I nodded at her, rolling my eyes.

  “I think you need to take Slate’s advice and quit that job for your own safety. I fully support whatever you decide. I seriously hope you leave that bastard you married, and find a life somewhere in-between.”

  “In between what?”

  “In between that “Stepford Wife” existence you’ve lived for the past nineteen years and the “Easy Rider” life you’ve got going on now.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” I said, rolling my eyes at her once again.

  “I do understand, Samantha. I understand that your marriage is a farce and that you realize that now. But this isn’t the answer, you know?”

  I remained silent…getting my sulk on.

  “Hey, I’m all for you being with a younger guy, if that’s what you want, but get rid of Jack first. Don’t enter a new relationship with the old baggage still attached. I also think you need to find a different type of guy. Do you really see yourself with a member of the Outlaws? I think that’s something that spawned from the fact that you never got to be a teenager. You never got to go through that phase where bad-boys were all that attracted you.”

  “Oh, and like you did?” I asked incredulously. “You’ve been with George, forever.”

  “We met in college, Sam, and not until my junior year. My freshman and sophomore years? Hey, I was all about dating the bad-boys. You were happily ensconced in your imaginary Stepford life of bliss. We didn’t talk much, but I was dating some real losers.”

  “Yeah? So why am I just now hearing about it?”

  “Wasn’t one of my proudest moments, those couple of years,” she replied. I could tell she was thinking back on them now.

  “How bad were they?”

  “Well, let’s see. They were all townies, of course. Most of them were high school drop-outs. The first one I dated was Ritchie. God, we were together for like six months. He’d self-tattooed his body in places that shouldn’t ever have tattoos. He had the names of every person he’d ever fucked tattooed on his body.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep,” she said, shaking her head. “I used to find new ones all the time. The day I found the name “Marvin” tattooed on his left thigh was the day I knew it was over.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “After that came Butch. He worked at a gas station near campus. I loved his sultry, pouty, chip-on-the-shoulder look. He was great in the sack, too. We did it every way and everywhere. Once we did it in the cemetery during a full moon. That was totally erotic. I used to tell my roommate in the dorm all of the lurid details. She thought I was making it all up. One night, I got back early from a night class, and I found Butch doing my roommate in our dorm room.”

  “My God, Becky. I had no clue.”

  “So you see what I’m saying though, right? With some girls, going out with bad boys is like… . . . a rite of passage. You never got yours, Sam. I’m just saying it’s ludicrous to think that I would’ve ever married one of those idiots. It was just a phase.”

  “So, you think my attraction to Slate is my postponed bad-boy rite-of-passage phase?”

  “I think so, Sam, but it’s something that you’ll likely need to do in order to get it out of your system.”

  “Then you wouldn’t like disown me as a BFF if I did?” I couldn’t believe that I was even considering it. I’d never considered cheating on Jack. Ever. I mean I was certain that Jack was cheating now with Susan; and maybe he had in the past as well, but still two wrongs and all that jazz didn’t give me a free pass. Still - there was just something about . . . Slate.

  “Honey, you don’t need my permission to fuck some
young bad-boy. I’m just saying you need to be careful. He comes from a whole different world than my college bad-boys.”

  chapter 14

  I felt like a giddy teenager as I prepared for my Tuesday shift at the club. I took extra care with my waxing for my first night back since Jack had hit the road again.

  I packed another new dance outfit in my garment bag for tonight. It was a silver-sequined cutout, one-piece monokini swimsuit. The cutout was in front and the sparkly material only covered the barest of necessities.

  I’d been getting Brazilian waxes over the past month. That was one reason I was glad Jack hadn’t wanted sex. He definitely would’ve wondered about my baldness down there, not that he ever really looked at what he fucked.

  Jack had never cared for being the provider of oral sex. He enjoyed the recipient role only. He was a taker and always had been. Tonight, I was in the mood for both.

  Margo was happy to see me back. She said that no one knew why I hadn’t been in last week. That was her way of prying it out of me. I simply told her I needed a break to take care of some personal business. She fussed over my hair and make-up; styling my long-tressed wig into an exotic bunch of loose curls that framed my face. She added matching extensions to it, so it went down nearly to my waist.

  I got into my 4-inch spiked heels and added my silver grip gloves that were attached to wrist cuffs.

  “Has Slate been in?”

  “Yep. I saw him in last Friday with that wild bunch. He was sitting with Slash, that fucking dirtball.”

  “Slate?”

  “No, Slash. I hate that mother-fucker for what he is and does. Don’t get me started on that fuckin’ pill pusher.”

  I honored her request. It wasn’t often I saw Margo get that steamed up about someone.

  Opal came in just then. “You’re up, Diamond.”

  “Thanks,” I said, handing Margo her money. “See you in a few.”

  My first dance was dancer’s choice for the music. I’d told Kevin I wanted “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” by John Mayer for my first dance. It was a slow, sensual song. I loved the lyrics. It was my message to Slate. I prayed that my bad boy was out there. I heard the first chords to the song start as I slipped onto the stage.

  There he was, sitting along the side of the stage where my dance was being performed. There were four or five others with him, all in the signature leather jackets and colors of OMC. He did a double-take when Kevin announced me as I walked out. Whoever was sitting next to him let out a low growl as I danced seductively for Slate. His face darkened. He was pissed. Even from where I was, I could see the muscle in his cheek twitch.

  Oh, shit…

  I didn’t take my eyes from Slate. Even when his buddy tossed several bills on the floor in front of me, ordering me to bend down and pick them up, I kept my eyes on him.

  Typically, the money was put in a large glass jar on the side. This biker asshole was trying to make a point. I wasn’t going for it. It wasn’t about the money for me; it’d always been about the dance. I was the only one that knew that.

  I continued my graceful, seductive moves, taking the pole and doing slow, sensual slides, wrapping my leg around it, and twirling to the melodic music of this song meant for Slate and no one else.

  The biker dude that had tossed the money was starting to get a bit louder, more obnoxious. I noticed his denim vest had quite a few emblems on it. Maybe he was the big kahuna. One patch was of a skull and crossed pistons. The top read “Outlaws” and the bottom portion read “Fort Wayne.” There was another patch on the front that was a white diamond-shaped emblem trimmed in red that had “1%” on it.

  I wondered if the Indianapolis chapter was hosting visitors from Fort Wayne this evening. I certainly didn’t appreciate the guy’s big mouth. He was getting pissed that I hadn’t interrupted my dance to bend over and pick up the handful of twenty-dollar bills he’d tossed on the runway.

  “Come on, baby,” he yelled. “Bend over and pick up the cash. We want to see some tits!”

  I tried my best to ignore the comment. I didn’t want it to throw my rhythm off. I could see Slate’s demeanor worsening by the second. What had started out to be my dance for Slate was turning into a free-for-all with the barbs and cat whistles amongst the group.

  “Come on, Bunny! We want to see if those are bolt-on’s you got there!”

  I’d taken all of the lip I was going to from this ass-trap. I didn’t give a shit what type of violent, abhorrent behavior he was capable of unleashing. The freakin’ bouncers weren’t addressing the issue, and they sure as hell needed to! They were probably intimidated. I could see Slate saying something to the loud mouth right now.

  Fantastic. Now Slate’s jabbing his finger into the dude’s chest…

  I strained to hear over the music what was being said. Finally, I heard motor mouth give Slate a half-assed apology.

  “Chill, Slate. I didn’t know the chick was your Betty, man.”

  Who in the hell is Betty?

  I was never so grateful for a song to be over. I hurried off the stage behind the curtain. I saw Garnet in the chair getting ready. She smirked as I walked by to the restroom. I found a stall and sat on the commode. I was shaking. I’d been humiliated out there. I’d been treated like female trash by that loud-mouthed, piece-of-shit biker from Fort Wayne.

  I stayed hidden in the stall, licking my wounds when Margo finally poked her head in and asked if I was okay.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Uhh, well Kevin came back looking for you. Slate bought a private drink for you.”

  “Tell Kevin to return his money. I’m not having a drink with that S.O.B.”

  “Diamond, you know how Janine feels about turning those down. It’s a lot of money for the club.”

  “Hells bells, I’ll pay it out of my tips then, Margo. I’m not going back out there until my next number.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, soothingly. “I’ll pass the word along to Kevin.”

  Forty-five minutes later with my pride semi-intact, I went out to wait behind stage for my next number. I heard Kevin announce the next song was a request for Diamond. It was “Bad Girlfriend” by the group Theory of a Deadman.

  Shit. I knew it was Slate. This song was something else, difficult for pole-dancing for the style that I liked because it was loud and fast; there was no pause or smooth transitioning. He’d done this to punish me. I wasn’t sure if it was for not quitting the club, or for refusing his private drink.

  I took the stage and immediately saw his eyes burning into me. He regarded me coldly. It was as if I’d somehow humiliated him and now it was payback time. I swallowed nervously as I took the stage. I tried like hell to keep up with the beat of the song. I was distracted by him and the others.

  As I descended the pole in a fast, upside down twirl, I saw Slate toss a one-dollar bill on the floor next to me. His eyes looked at me in pure anger.

  Tossing a one-dollar bill at a dancer was the worst kind of insult. It was along the lines of leaving a penny as a tip for a server. It sent the message to the recipient that he or she was a piece-of-shit. That was Slate’s message to me.

  I felt the tears well up in my overly made-up eyes. He expected me to pick it up. That was the price for his forgiveness. I somehow understood that without having to be told. I was expected to acknowledge his insult so that he could save face with the rest of his biker cronies.

  What the hell?

  I climbed the pole and arched my back doing a downward spiral. My arms were free, and as I neared the bottom, I picked up the dollar bill. I looked at Slate and saw the smug look of satisfaction cross his face. In that instant, I hated his guts. His comrades seemed pleased with his dismissive treatment of me. The big mouth from Fort Wayne was clapping him on the back as he downed his beer.

  Fuck them all and the bikes they rode in on.

  Blessedly, the song was over. I went back stage
and asked Opal if she would cover my last dance for the night. I gave her fifty bucks to do it.

  I went to the locker room and quickly got out of my costume and into my jeans and sweater. I pulled my new Ugg sweater boots on and got my purse and jacket out. I was outta there.

  Hopefully, there was a bus due shortly. I slipped out of the back door and ran across the parking lot towards the corner where the bus stopped. I was nearly there when I felt strong arms grab me from behind.

  I started to scream before a hand clamped firmly over my mouth, and I was hauled over to the sidewalk near the curb. I recognized Slate’s pick-up truck. I saw the lights flash as the remote was activated, unlocking it. I was in Slate’s arms, I realized now. That didn’t make it any less scary for me.

  chapter 15

  I was in Slate’s truck. I wasn’t sure where we were going, but he seemed determined that we were going somewhere.

  He was still obviously pissed. For whatever reason, the personal humiliation he’d doled out to me with his song choice, then tossing the one-dollar bill for me to pick up hadn’t fully assuaged his need to punish me.

  I finally broke the steely silence.

  “I hope you know that kidnapping is a major felony,” I spat. “Of course, it may be minor compared to what you do on a typical day.”

  “Not a word, Sunny. Not one fucking word until we get where we’re going. Do you understand?” It was a quiet threat.

  “Where are we going?”

  His hands tightened the steering wheel. “You can’t listen to a goddamn thing I say, can you?” His voice was still measured, spoken in an almost careful way. And that was somehow scarier than if he had raised his voice.

  I didn’t answer his question because I knew he’d explode. Several blocks later, he pulled over to the curb. It was in an older neighborhood. There was an alley running along the side of the building that he’d pulled up near.

  “Get out,” he ordered gruffly.

  I scrambled to get the passenger door opened and jumped down from his truck. I was now following him around to the side of the building. It looked to be a neighborhood carry-out store. On the side of the building there was a wooden staircase leading up to an apartment. I actually wondered if I was in for some type of biker gang-bang. My legs were wobbly, but there was no way out of this. I had to trust my instincts about Slate.