by Hope Conrad
“You know I’m always here to lend you a hand.” I elbow her playfully and stuff the lighter back in my pocket. Walt says we should always have a lighter on hand in case a client should require one, never mind the fact that smoking indoors is illegal statewide. “You doing all right?”
“Always,” she says through a forced smile and takes a puff. “Why?”
“Because,” I shift my eyes to her left hand, the one not cradling a cigarette. “You’re shaking like you’re running away from something.”
“Yeah.” She nods her head, still with the same forced smile. “It’s those damn lights.”
“They are hot,” I point out. “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
“You’re always so observant.” She eyes me back. She’s beautiful, with mocha skin and cocoa brown hair. But she’s also too thin, has dark shadows under her eyes, and looks strung out half-the-time, not from drugs, but nerves. “How did you get so observant?”
That’s not the important question though, so I bypass her inquiry and skip back to mine. “It’s not the lights that are bothering you. Tell me what’s up.”
She purses her lips and cocks her head back to the club behind us. “It’s nothing really.”
“Fine,” I huff. “You don’t want to talk about it. But if you ever need to, you know I’m here for you. Always.”
“You’re so sweet.” She nods and takes one last hit of her cigarette before she tosses it to the ground and scrubs it with the back of her six-inch heels. “You’re not like the rest of us.”
“Maybe not.” I inhale smoke as it passes, and almost choke on the second-hand cloud of cancer. I wave away the remainder of the smoke and clear my throat. “But I’m here, same as you, and I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Like I said,” she says as she places her palm on my shoulder. “You’re sweet.”
Before I can respond, she’s ripping the door open, and I’m hit with an obnoxious blast of hip-hop as she barrels down the long and narrow hall. I watch her disappear into the fog of red neon lights until the door comes to a close. I take one last glance at the city noir around me before I head back inside.
* * *
Since starting work at the club, my sleep schedule has been utterly destroyed. I used to be an early morning girl, back before life went haywire. Now, if I’m awake by noon, it’s a miracle and the days I sleep until two or three are not uncommon.
It’s affected my friendships and any chance of a real relationship. It’s hard to connect to others when my world revolves on a different time schedule. My days are their nights. My nights are their days.
I miss sunrises, because I thrive in the sun.
Now it’s late afternoon and I’m staring at the kitchen counter, thinking of tackling the pile of dishes when what I really want to do is throw them away. Unfortunately, I’m not in a financial state to be able to afford such a lavish fit of laziness.
My phone rings on the other side of the counter, and I reach over the laminate space to grab it. I swipe the ringing phone in my hand. It’s Dad.
“Hey, baby girl,” he says and my heart melts.
He’s been calling me that since I was a toddler. I don’t even remember when it began because I was so young, but he says it started sometime around the time my mother left the both of us.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m doing great.” I prop myself up onto the counter, my feet kicking against the cabinets below. “How are those mean old nurses treating you?”
“You know me,” he says, and I can almost see the grin plastered across his face. “Women love me.”
It’s an inside joke between the two of us. He says there have only been two women in his life who’ve ever loved him. His mother and myself. Obviously, my own mother doesn’t fall into that equation because she doesn’t know how to love. She couldn’t. Not after what she did to us.
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “I know.”
“How is work?”
His question sends my heart plummeting into my stomach. He doesn’t know I work at the strip club, and he’ll never know. Every time I’m forced to lie to him, which is every time he calls, a piece of my soul is chipped away.
“Work’s great. I’ve been getting a lot of small jobs, but they’re adding up.”
“I always knew you were going to be a star,” he gloats through the phone. “From the time you were young, I knew you were going to become something special. Not just to me, but I knew the world would one day love you as much as I do.”
“Dad,” I caution him. “It’s not like that.”
“When do I get to see one of those movies?”
“You know how this business works.” I sigh. “It could be years, if ever.”
“Did you know your mom wanted to be an actress?”
“Did she?” I ask, and I couldn’t deliver the inquiry with less care. I have to remind myself I want to act in spite of my mom, not because of her. “You know how I feel about that.”
“I do.” He coughs.
He hacks.
He’s sick and I wish I could be there for him, but I have work in a few short hours. Maybe Walt will give me a night off soon. Not likely, but there’s no harm in asking.
“When are you coming to see me?” he asks.
“Soon, Daddy.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Gotta go,” he says as low as a whisper, but with some excitement in his tone. “Beth is here.”
“Who the hell is Beth?”
“No time to chat,” he says before hanging up, and I’m left staring through the empty space of my apartment, and out into the bustling city outside.
I wonder who I am, and who I’m going to be. I want to be hopeful. I want to hang on to my dreams. I want to forget the fact I’m one step away from taking the stage with my tits hanging out for the world to see.
But I can’t.
Chapter Three
Axel
Nailed Garage looks so much different during the day. Clouds roll by in the distance, but for now, the garage is painted in the hard glow of afternoon light.
I park my bike next to a row of four other bikes, all gleaming under the beating sun. I love everything about bikes: the way they purr when I rev them, the way I can swerve around traffic during morning and evening rush hour, but most importantly, I love the wind blowing through my short hair. When I’m on my bike, I have no past. No future. I’m just me in that moment. Free.
When I step onto the ground, however, whether it’s dirt, gravel, grass, or asphalt, I’m grounded to this world, with no escape. That’s how I feel right now as I walk toward the main office door. Of course, it’s not that I want to escape—I’m about to see my friends face-to-face for the first time in three years. I know we’re good. That they have my back. But I can never quite rid myself of the fear that when I least expect it, this new family I’ve found will somehow be taken away from me just like my old one.
I take a deep breath as I walk through the door and head back to the boardroom. In perfect sync, the four of them, the men that comprise my own personal brotherhood, turn to me with matching grins.
There’s Jericho, the unspoken leader of our merry little band. He’s just five feet ten, but he commands respect and attention. Of the five of us, he’s the most stereotypical-looking biker, with shoulder length, wavy brown hair, and an MC vest worn over a faded white T-shirt.
To his left is Slate, the smooth talker, capable of charming the panties off any unsuspecting woman. He’s always been a ladies’ man, and with his looks, it’s no wonder. He’s tall, with dark slicked back hair reminiscent of a fifties greaser with a modern touch of suaveness.
Street stands beside him, his dark hair slightly longer than I’ve ever seen it, his piercing blue eyes still sharp despite the three years he spent in the slammer. He’s an intellectual, but he’d kick anyone’s ass for pointing that out. In many ways, he’s the baby of the group and he’s always been a
sensitive soul, so it came as no surprise to me that he tied himself down to a beautiful lady with a young child and never looked back.
In the back, there’s Davis, with short cropped blonde hair and lineman’s shoulders. No one would ever guess from looking at him now that he was always the runt at the orphanage, and often sickly at that. He spends his days working behind a computer, but I’ve long suspected there’s a dark side to Davis we’ve never seen. This was pretty much confirmed when one of his exes came around the garage years ago, flaying his ass for breaking up with her and warning him another woman wouldn’t submit to him the way he likes. It was golden material, something we could have teased him about for years, but we never spoke of it. That kind of shit is private, and maybe because we grew up sharing a dormitory-style room in Thornbridge, we respect each other’s privacy.
These men are my brothers, my comrades, the only family I’ve ever really had since my parents died and I lost my sister. Around us, I see our past on display. Pictures of us in front of Thornbridge. In front of the garage on the day it opened. In front of the garage again, only this time after we paid off our loan to King and assumed ownership of it free and clear.
Not much in the boardroom has changed. It looks the same. It feels the same.
But it doesn’t smell the same as when I left. The stink of King once more runs rancid through the place; the way it did before we paid him back every dime he’d loaned us to open the garage in the first place. His reentry into our lives is a foul odor brought to life with equal parts rust and contempt, and I hate it. All I want for myself and my friends is to breathe easy again, and hopefully that will happen sooner than later.
“Well, look at all you handsome boys dressed up in your nicest clothes,” I say, breaking the awkward silence created not by my absence for three years, but by the fact they’re all wondering why the hell I got kicked out of the Marines. I haven’t told them yet. Don’t see any point in it. They’ve all got their burdens to bear, and they don’t need to carry any of mine.
Slate grins and cleans imaginary dirt from his perfectly-ironed suit. “We’re celebrating your return, aren’t we? Might as well go all out.”
“You caught me before my shift at the bookstore,” Street says, explaining his button down shirt and slacks.
Davis, silent as a fox, doesn’t bother justifying his jacket and tie. Instead, he’s only a few steps behind Jericho in shaking my hand, then pulling me in for a hug. Slate and Street join in, and for a moment, it’s like some candy-ass group hug, but I don’t give a shit. I hug them back before stepping away.
“Good to see you all. Especially you, Street,” I say.
He nods. “I’m okay. I’m more okay than I’ve ever been.”
I snort. “Yeah. I heard about your girls. Sounds like you had to do some fancy footwork to win your Katie back, but I had faith in you.”
He laughs, and for a moment I think it was totally worth it. Totally worth having to deal with King again to get Street out of prison, breathing free, and back in the fold. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to be at his mercy forever.
“King paid me a little visit,” I say.
Slate frowns. “What for? You weren’t part of our deal.”
“Told him that. He actually came to ask a favor. He’s having trouble at one of his clubs. Sugar Bare. Someone’s getting handsy with the girls, and I’m supposed to stop by and deliver a message.”
“For once, King’s asking a legitimate favor. But it won’t be the last. You do it, and he’ll just keep coming back to you,” Davis says, leaning back against a wall, resting one heel on the fore of his other foot.
“He’ll keep coming around anyway,” I agree. “And that goes for all of us. You still working for him?”
Davis nods.
Slate shrugs. “I represent an occasional colleague of his, but I’m taking some time to focus on one case in particular.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me. Another woman is involved.”
“Not just any woman,” Slate says quietly, but he doesn’t expand, and I don’t push. He’ll tell me more when he’s ready.
I look at Jericho. “You got an old lady stashed somewhere I don’t know about?”
“Can’t tell you all my secrets on your first day back to work. But I guess it’s not your first day. You gonna head over to Sugar Bare?”
“Soon as I leave here. But I wanted to see all of you. And I need a report on how our plan to get King off our backs is coming along.”
As a unit, we all turn to face Davis, who stares at the floor. When he lifts his head, his expression is serious, but then a small smile teases his lips.
“I’ve been on it, boys. And I’ve almost gathered enough shit on King to make our move. How about we all grab a beer, pull up a chair, and talk about it?”
* * *
Hours later, I’m filled with a sense of contentment from seeing my friends and from Davis’s reassurances that we’ll soon have some leverage over King. When I pull up in front of Sugar Bare, I’m impressed by how well-kept the building is. It’s been a while since I last found myself at a strip club. In fact, the last time I visited one was four years ago. I’d gone there for the same reason I’m here now—to send a message that putting one’s hands on or otherwise abusing a woman would not be allowed—only back then I hadn’t done it for King.
I stare at the club from the safety of my bike, idling beneath me as I sit perched on the side of the curb. The building is highlighted in a neon red glow. I take a long, shallow breath before kicking the bike into gear, crunching against gravel as I rip into the parking lot and come to a sudden stop beside a pair of women, obviously strippers on their break given how they’re dressed. They look at me with equal parts amusement and interest. Both of them whiff away on cancer sticks. God, how I fucking hate those things. I’ve seen too much, and lost too many people in combat to not treat life as precious as it is.
It’s also fragile. To this truth, I’m no stranger.
I cut the engine, spin one leg over the bike, then walk past them.
“Evening, ladies,” I say.
“Evening,” they echo back.
“You going to be here long?” the brunette says, and I have to admit, underneath all her make-up, she’s pretty. I’ve also got a thing for brunettes. “Because if you’re looking for more than to watch…”
I’m not surprised by her offer. She’s more than a stripper. Chances are that’s true for many of the women who work here, strippers and waitresses alike. This is a King establishment, after all. He lures women in with the promise of stability and safety, and all he asks in return is that they take off their clothes and dance for lonely men.
Or better yet, take off their clothes and fuck the lonely men.
It’s a fact of life. Women have been selling their bodies since the dawn of time, and men have been capitalizing from it. From what I know, King treats them well. He pays them a fair wage. He makes sure they’re safe. After all, that’s why I’m here.
He just has no compunction about using the women even as he takes care of them, and I am all too familiar with the sick mix of of gratitude and resentment, loyalty and hatred, that creates. To King, he’s providing something valuable in exchange for shedding clothes or, in my case when I was a kid, stealing a car or running drugs. He’s built his entire livelihood around people selling their souls for another chance to survive.
I rip the front door open and I’m greeted with the painful thumping of hip-hop music and neon green lights. I pause to take in the layout of the place. Bar to the left. Women dancing on the stage. Men watching. Nothing unusual going on, so I plan to make my way through the thin crowd gathered near the bar, around the room, and back to the dressing rooms. But I stop dead in my tracks when I see a woman standing at the end of the bar, holding a tray of drinks.
She’s fucking beautiful, standing out like a diamond nestled in a pile of coal. Despite her jet black hair and dark eyes, I’m reminded of an angel. She’s taller
than the other waitresses I’ve spotted. Thinner. Certainly more flat chested. Not completely flat, just not big or bouncy.
Who the fuck cares?
As dark as her hair is, her skin is pale and creamy. Her bourbon-colored eyes widen when she sees me staring at her. I automatically take a step closer, thinking two things.
She doesn’t belong here.
And I want to make her mine.
Chapter Four
Alyssa
Another day. Another dollar. That’s a popular saying around these parts, but it’s an idiotic one. Nobody would be content to earn a solitary dollar for a full day’s work. I’m certainly not.
But if it fits, it fits, and because this is the life I’ve chosen, I’m marking the passage of time by the money I earn each day. I turn from the bar, a full plate of glasses in one hand, and my eyes land on a passing stranger.
He’s both classically handsome and rugged, with green eyes that appear emerald and majestic under the neon lights.
He looks at me, stealing my breath, and sending a shiver down my spine. He seems dangerous even in passing, but I want nothing more than to be pulled in. Suddenly, he frowns, shakes his head, then turns away to head toward the back. He pushes his way through the crowd like a man on a mission, and the only thing left simmering in my mind is what kind of mission this handsome stranger is on tonight.
I deliver my drinks then return to the bar and lean against the stained wood counter. My break isn’t for another two hours and my feet are already killing me. I straighten abruptly, however, when I see Marley heading toward the hallway that leads out back. She stumbles into the wall at one point, slaps the surface, then slowly slides to the ground. Either she’s drunk, sick, or having an emotional breakdown.
