by Jillian Dodd
Vincent shakes his head. “No, I was thinking of her for a minor role. Something like Bikini Girl #4.” Vincent sits back down. “Look, I left the club early that night, not long after leaving my card. Went home. My doorman can vouch for me. I’m going to be very frank with you. My company is spending a lot of money on this movie and for my stockholders’ sakes, I can not have my name associated with a murder investigation in any shape or form.” He holds out his hands, gesturing to his posh office. “I have an alibi and am happy to take a lie detector test if that would remove my name from this.”
The cop gets up and says, “I’ve already checked with your doorman, and he’s already verified your story, but why don’t you come downtown with me. We’ll do the lie detector test and, if you pass, we won’t mention your name.”
Once downtown, Vincent recalls his grandmother’s poignant words. Fake it ‘til you make it. Words he learned to live by when he was trying to fit in at his new high school. For awhile, he wasn’t sure he believed he could do it. But lying came as naturally to him as breathing.
During the test, his thoughts were on both Lacy and his grandmother. The two women in his life—one of whom was with him during the test. He could feel her calming presence. And recalling what he once told Lacy didn’t hurt either.
A smile breaks out across her face. The smile that will light up the screen. “I suck at poker,” she says. “I always smile when I get a good hand. I can usually do a joke straight-faced, but I’ll be honest. I’m not that good of a liar.”
“The key to lying is to convince yourself it’s the truth.”
She tilts her head and thinks about that. “So you have to lie to yourself first. That’s interesting.”
Yes, it is, Lacy. It’s also the key to passing a lie detector test.
Cooper texts Keatyn.
Cooper: The police questioned Vincent today. He admitted to giving her a business card. When they asked if he knew she was dead, he acted surprised. He asked if they thought he had anything to do with it. They said they were just trying to piece together a timeline of her last hours alive. He said that he only saw her in the club and had hoped to hear from her this week. He even offered to take a lie detector test because, he said, for business reasons, he didn’t want his name to be associated with a murder investigation. He had an alibi and passed the lie detector test.
Me: He once told me that the key to lying is to convince yourself it’s the truth.
Cooper: That’s also the key to passing a lie detector test.
Vincent is back in his office going through his company’s financial reports.
He’s been down the last two quarters, and he knows the board will give him shit about it. They seem to forget how rich he’s made them. Well, richer. They were all rich to begin with. Which is the problem. All they care about is what he’s done for them lately. He knows things will turn around once he gets this movie made and out there. Then they will be begging him to do more remakes after he lines their pockets once again.
He pushes the papers aside, rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself. He knows what’s riding on this movie. He knows he’s risking it all.
But he knows the reward will be worth it.
“Mr. Sharpe,” his assistant says over his intercom. “There’s a delivery man here. Says you need to sign for it.”
“Send him in,” he says as visions of Lacy blowing him a kiss fade away.
When the delivery guy leaves, he studies the envelope he was handed. It’s plain white, nondescript, much like the letters he sends to the whore. There is no return address, just a label with what he assumes is a company name—albeit, an odd one. Back At Ya.
He opens the letter and starts reading.
The purpose of the Letter of Intent is to set forth certain non-binding understandings and certain binding commitments . . .
His heart starts racing. He can barely speak. Barely think. This can’t be happening.
Keatyn log’s into the airplane’s Wi-Fi and get a message from her grandpa.
Grandpa: Been digging into the history of this company. Here’s an interesting fact. Vincent inherited a decent chunk of money when his mother and stepfather were killed, which he then immediately used to buy out a small production company. Guess which one it was?
Me: I have no idea.
Grandpa: The one that made A Day at the Lake. Remember, when it was first made it was pretty low budget. So in buying it, he automatically had the ability to do a remake. But based on what I’ve been told by the investors we’ve bought out, his decision to do the remake came this spring. I’m assuming that coincides with when he met you.
Me: Wow. How many investors do you have deals with?
Grandpa: Four out of the six. Those four were pretty eager to sell. They believe this movie has become an obsession. They were also worried because he’s not investing in as many movie futures as he used to. He’s well-known in the industry for being golden in selecting them.
Me: When will he find out that his investors have sold?
Grandpa: He found out today when we delivered a letter of intent to take control of his company. I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall for that.
Me: Me too. Thanks, Grandpa. I love you.
Me: And Grandma. Please tell her I love her. Like, in case something should ever happen to me. You know?
Grandpa: If something happens to you, I’m killing the bastard myself. You have my promise. He won’t get the luxury of jail time. But I’m definitely glad you’re hidden away at school while this is all taking place. He’s going to be madder than a wet hen.
Me: A wet hen?
Grandpa: If you’d ever seen one, you wouldn’t have to ask.
Me: Believe it or not, that makes me feel better. At least I won’t worry about him getting out of jail someday and hurting my sisters.
Grandpa: Exactly. And I love you too, Hotshot.
Grandpa: Wait. Sam just messaged me and said he met you in California today.
Me: Yeah.
Grandpa: Says it was confidential.
Me: Yeah.
Grandpa: Damian called me yesterday.
Me: That’s nice of him.
Grandpa: Are you going back to the club tonight? After that girl was killed?
Me: Yes.
Grandpa: There’s a reason you wear camouflage when you’re hunting, Keatyn.
Me: I’ll be wearing it tonight. And I’ll be in a duck blind.
Sorta.
Grandpa: I don’t want to end up owning some stupid movie company because you went out and got yourself killed. You understand me?
Me: Yes, sir.
Grandpa: I admire your courage, Hotshot. Text me when it’s over and you’re safe. I’ll stay up.
Me: Grandpa, thanks for understanding that I have to do this.
Grandpa: We’re cut from the same cloth. And don’t worry, I WILL NOT be mentioning this to your grandmother.
Me: Thank goodness.
Cooper meets me at my plane and introduces me to two of his friends. Both are cops who will be joining us tonight. They’ll be following Vincent when they’re off duty to make sure nothing like what happened to the girl from the club happens again.
Before we go into the club, I tell Cooper, “If something goes wrong—like if he takes me—promise me you’ll come and get me.”
“I’m going to do more than promise.” He points out my locket to his friends. “Tracking device number one.” Then he clamps a surprisingly stylish thick bangle bracelet around my wrist and says, “Tracking device number two. It operates in a different way, but if he scans you, he will find that and your locket easily.”
“Do you think he would?”
“Hard to say, but we want to be prepared. And this little beauty,” he says, holding up what looks like a little blister pad, “is the best one. Top dollar, espionage kind of stuff. Bend at the waist and flip your hair over.”
I follow his instructions and feel him stick it right by my
hairline.
“Okay, flip back over. Guys, did you bring the scanner?”
One of the guys nods and hands him a small scanner. He runs it across me and quickly finds both my necklace and bracelet, but when he runs it across my shoulders it doesn’t go off. The guys all nod.
We get to the club and meet up with the staff. They all know that we’re planning to have a memorial for Leighton tonight.
“We just want to give a big Fuck you to whoever did this to her,” Marla, the woman in charge of the dancers, says. “Also, ladies, do not go out with anyone you meet here. Even if they are a VIP. Not until her killer is caught.”
The girls all nod. Some are crying.
Marla speaks to the doormen. “Every person who walks through the door tonight will get stamped with the chaos symbol. For those of you who don’t know, Leighton was wearing a temporary tattoo on her hip and it was one of the few places she wasn’t stabbed. I think you all know my pet name for this place is Utter Chaos, even though I can’t get the boss man to give it an official name. So, we’re going to celebrate that. Now, let’s have a silent moment for Leighton.”
Everyone lowers their heads for a few moments.
Then Marla claps her hands and says, “All right, everyone to work.”
Once I’m dressed and ready, I talk to Troy, who won’t go in the DJ booth tonight until the program starts.
“This is going to be like New Year’s Eve on steroids.”
“I hope so.”
“You look very hot.”
I'm wearing a neon pink push-up bra, which is peeking out from my teeny black dance top. And, with it, an ass-skimmingly short flirty black skirt. “All the girls are dressed this way.”
“I sure hope he shows up.”
“Me too. Although, if he does, he's going to be pissed. He was notified today that four of his six investors have been bought out and that he’s probably going to lose control of his company.”
“That your doing, too?”
I smile. “Shhh.”
“Keats, do you ever do anything small?”
“Not anymore. Wait until you see the ending.”
“Ending?”
“Well, the big finale, so to speak. Provided all goes as planned.”
“That’s the part I’m worried about. What if it doesn’t go as planned?”
I pat him on the back. “Do me a favor and think positive. Also, I have a big favor to ask you.”
“Another one?” Troy laughs.
“Yeah. Do you know someone who either works for a delivery service or would be willing to pretend to?”
“One of the valets does.”
I get a package out of my bag. It’s addressed to Vincent Sharpe at his office. “Do you think he could deliver this tomorrow? At, say, four?”
“Sure. What’s in it?”
“Just a photo.”
Vincent is on his way to the club. He spent the entire rest of the day on the phone with his investors. The good news is, he has a chance of fighting off the hostile takeover attempt. The bad news is he can’t figure out who in the world is behind it. His gut tells him it’s the whore, but he has no proof—not to mention the fact that it doesn’t make any sense. He knows what she earns. Even with good investments, she couldn’t have pulled this together. It’s something else.
“Hondo,” he says, greeting the mafia boss he just called. “I could use your help again.”
“Tell me what you need.”
And he does. He needs to know without a doubt who is behind this takeover.
Then he’ll make sure there’s nothing left of them.
While Hondo is using his connections, Vincent is planning on getting drunk.
Troy is getting ready to ask more questions when Cooper comes backstage and tells us it’s time.
Which means Vincent is here.
“Oh, good. I was afraid he wasn’t going to show up.”
“All right, girls. Take your spots. Cage girls, get loaded up,” Marla instructs.
I get in the cage as it is hoisted into the air and swung out over the dance floor. The eight cage dancers sprinkle a few black rose petals over the dance floor.
I watch as a few people dancing look up to see where they're coming from.
Vincent takes his place in his favorite VIP section. As he relaxes on the leather banquette, his waitress pours him a generous double shot of whiskey then finishes setting up his favorite mixers. She asks if he wants his usual bottle of champagne as well, but he waves her off. His VIP security guy has already given three beautiful women access to his section. Vincent is considering taking the trio home with him when the music stops, and the lights go out.
The DJ speaks. “A few days ago, one of our dancers was brutally murdered. She left work and never made it home. Everyone, please be vigilant when you leave any club and never go home with a stranger. Tonight, we're going to honor her life, starting with a moment of silence for our friend, Leighton Wall.”
Vincent realizes the DJ is talking about the girl he killed. He hadn’t learned her name that night. Hadn’t learned it until he heard it on the news.
The place goes completely silent.
After a few moments, the DJ yells, “Leighton, girl, R.I.P. This utter chaos is for you!”
Vincent blinks and takes another drink, wondering what the club has planned to honor this girl. As the cages hit the platforms, and the bases light up, pink beams of light shine down spotlighting each cage. Vincent chuckles and looks around. Does anyone else not see the comedy in this moment? They are honoring her with a dance in a cage? Don’t they realize if she hadn’t danced in the cage, she’d still be alive?
The alcohol is finally starting to blur the edges of his day. What a clusterfuck today was. Although, he guesses it could have been worse. If he had failed the lie detector test, he’d be sitting behind bars.
The trio of girls is sipping his expensive whiskey, not one of them appreciating its rich taste. Maybe he’ll kill them after he plays with them—these girls would deserve it. Then he notices that they are pointing at one of the dancers. The one who is in the same cage Leighton had danced in. She’s covered in pink neon body paint and there are glow-in-the-dark tattoos all over her body.
He moves closer to the cage.
The dancer looks like . .
The song is upbeat and sassy, about a trouble-making girl.
Partway through the beginning of song, I notice Vincent near my cage trying to get a closer look at me.
When he gets close enough, I bend down, grab a handful of black rose petals, and throw them out of the cage directly at him.
Then I grab more and let them fly out of my fingers as I spin around.
Vincent plucks one out of the air and studies it.
Yeah, asshole, those are for you. A black rose petal warning, because you and your company are going down.
When the song gets to the part about flipping off the world, I raise both my middle fingers into the air and salute Vincent, which gets the crowd cheering.
I dance more.
I love this song.
Suddenly, nets in the ceiling open up and thousands of black rose petals fall like confetti over the dance floor.
Once all eyes in the vicinity are back on me—particularly Vincent’s—I blow the crowd a kiss, then bend over, flip up my skirt, and reveal the big block letters running across my naughty Santa underwear.
When the crowd reads the slutty FUCK ME message on my shaking ass, the guys jump up and down, scream, whistle, and cheer.
And make some very naughty comments.
It’s awesome.
And, finally, I see the response I was hoping for: pure rage in Vincent’s eyes.
. . . It’s her. It’s Lacy. He needs to get her out of that cage or he’s going to kill every guy standing around it with his bare hands. They need to get away from her. Stop that incessant hooting.
She blows him a kiss, causing him to smile, but then she bends over, flips up the back of her
skirt, and shows the crowd her underwear, which has a vulgar saying on it.
Why is Lacy dancing like this? She’s acting like a whore!
Like her mother.
Not Lacy. Keatyn.
He rubs his hand down his face, needing to focus. He stops, takes the cigar holder out of his jacket pocket, and palms the syringe.
That's right, be mad at me. Just me. No one else. I’m going to be way more than trouble, Vincent. I’m going to be your worst nightmare.
A hurricane of problems.
When the song finishes, a hush spreads through the crowd, except for a little murmuring as they try to figure out what’s happening next.
The spotlights leave the dancers and a single pink light shines on six men dressed in black, who are now filing into the club.
