Sin With Me

by JA Huss

  Her words echo in my head the whole way to Pete’s. We’re just a bunch of fuckups who have to deal with what we’ve done.

  Truth.

  I hate to admit it, but everything that’s happening to me now is my own damn fault. I’ve never wanted to play the victim and blame anyone else for my problems, but on some insidious level, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

  I pass by a billboard for a show tonight and wince as I see the date.

  Why do I constantly have to be reminded of what the date is? Does the universe think I’m oblivious? Do my parents think I’m oblivious? I know what the fucking date is. I know what’s coming up. It’s burned into my brain like a goddamned brand.

  I think I was drunk for eleven days straight, but it might’ve been twelve, or fourteen, or quite possibly an entire month.

  All I know is that the world I lived in—the reality I lived in—stopped. Just ceased to exist. Then a new world emerged. The one where my parents moved to France. The one where I was left here in Vegas to half-stumble my way through college, determined to finish no matter what. The one that started this ball of bullshit rolling downhill.

  And every year I relive it on the anniversary.

  I typically get drunk. It’s like… normal now. Just what I do to cope. But I have to work next weekend, so maybe that will take my mind off things?

  Maybe? Hopefully?

  I arrive at Pete’s right on time, but that means I’m two minutes late by the time I walk past Raven’s scowling face and enter the dressing room.

  “You must really want me to fire you, huh, angel?”

  I scowl at her new nickname. Bitch. But then I adjust—the way I always do—and smile. “Sorry, Raven. It won’t happen again.”

  She squints her eyes at my retreat.

  But what’s the point? Why try to win this fight with Raven? She’s no one, right? She’s not in control of my future. Sure, I need this job. More than ever, actually. But it’s not like there aren’t a million other places in this world where I can take off my clothes for money. Hell, I’m not even close to the bottom of the barrel as far as adult entertainment goes. I’m practically a whore now. I did suck that guy’s cock for money last weekend. I’m one baby step away from becoming Annie.

  Maybe that’s why I took up with her in the first place? It’s a way to justify my fall from grace, right? She’s setting an example of how much farther away the bottom is.

  “It better not,” Raven snaps. “I’m so sick of your shit. And I told Pete what you’ve been doing.”

  “What?” I say, a wave of panic rushing through my body. “What did you tell him?”

  “Flashing your pussy on stage. He was pissed.”

  I gulp a breath of air. “What did he say?” I ask, serious.

  “He said if you do that again, you’re out. If it were me, I’d have shown you the door already. But he’s sweet like that. And I’m not. And he’s the boss, and I’m not. So you get one more chance. One, Scarlett. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I say. I should really tip that waitress who covered for me last weekend. If she tells them what I did with the beard guy, I’m fucked. And even though I hate this job, the thought of going out there to find another, equally degrading—possibly more degrading—job like this just makes me feel ill.

  “And don’t fuck around in here, either. Get changed and get your ass out on the floor.”

  I open my backpack and realize that my last-minute talk with Annie distracted me from my pre-work routine and the only outfit I have is the one from last week.

  The fucking angel.

  I sigh as I take it out and give it a sniff. It smells.

  “Here,” Raquel says, handing me a bottle of her perfume.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m so off my game right now.” I spritz a little on the costume and change, hoping I don’t smell like a whore, but knowing I do.

  We’re just a bunch of fuckups who have to deal with what we’ve done.

  Still true.

  I slip on my shoes, twist my ankle as I rush out of the dressing room, and limp past Raven as I enter the floor.

  She shakes her head at me like I’m a total disgrace to this fine establishment.

  That’s a new low, I think.

  But I ravel up all my loose ends and get to work.

  It’s busy, thank you Jesus, and that’s great for me, because I gave all my extra cash away to a friend in need.

  It was the right thing to do, Scarlett, my angel says.

  “Please suck my dick,” I murmur back.

  There’s one, the little devil says. He looks desperate and loaded. Go get him, Maddie.

  So I’m heading over there, my focus one hundred percent on emptying that guy’s wallet—because when the devil gives you a tip, you work it, right?—when a hand grabs my arm and pulls me aside.

  “Scarlett,” a familiar voice whispers in my ear.

  My heart thumps wildly as I recognize who it is.

  “Carlos is out of patience. Says you need to pay him tonight, bitch. Or you’re leaving here with me so the two of you can have a little come-to-Jesus moment about what happens next.”

  Logan is back.

  And he brought a friend as backup.

  Where the fuck is Otis when you need him? Oh, there he is. Chatting with the bartender, oblivious.

  Great.

  “Hey, Logan,” I say, shooting him with my finger. Then I realize that might come off as a threat and tuck my hand away. “How about we talk about this later, huh? When I’m off work. And I can pay you then.”

  He shakes his head. Slowly. “No can do, pumpkin. Time’s up. Go get the money right now, or we’re getting in my car, driving out to the desert, and you’re gonna have that chat with Carlos.”

  I suddenly get the feeling I might’ve underestimated how invested Carlos is in my fake debt to him.

  But it all becomes clear now. Because Logan is pressing a gun to my side.

  So I do what all tenacious Mount Everest climbers do. I reach deep, find another handhold in the sheer, rock wall, and pull myself up another inch.

  I yank my arm from Logan’s grip and I run.

  Chapter Ten - Tyler & Maddie

  TYLER

  The car door opens. The car door closes. The car door opens. The car door closes.

  It’s not doing this by itself. It’s not magic. I’m doing it. Because I am, it turns out, a gigantic pussy.

  I open the door again. This time I manage to actually step out into the parking lot. One boot. Two boots. Just like the start of a Dr. Seuss story. If Dr. Seuss wrote stories about dudes showing up at strip clubs to basically stalk chicks who’ve given them blow jobs. Maybe he did. Seuss coulda been a freak. We don’t know.

  What the hell am I doing? I’ve gotten my panties in a bunch over some Pole Artisan (I’m gonna keep using it until it catches on, I’ve decided) I met once. That’s insane. Unless it’s not. Unless the whole dream-to-reality thing is actually happening to me. Unless she is my destiny. Is that an overstatement? Who cares? Is she? I don’t know. But here’s what I do know: I’m gonna just go in and see if she’s there. And then I’m gonna see if she remembers me. And then I’m gonna see if she wants to go to a Halloween party with me and maybe be my steady lady friend. Because that’s how I feel right now and because that’s all totally logical and will tell me whether or not we’re supposed to be matched for eternity, in Heaven and beyond. Right? Right.

  Fuck. I’m an idiot.

  The car door opens. I step back inside. One boot, two boots, to hell with strippers in their birthday suits. (Damn, that Seuss shit is harder than it looks. Then again, dude was a doctor, so…)

  FUCK!

  I bang my head against the steering wheel. I think that if I hit it hard enough maybe it’ll shake my brain back into some semblance of order. But that’s a big ask from a steering wheel. Shit. I need to just go to a club or casino or something, pick up some skanky tourists, and pump some action into their coin slots. Here y
ou go, baby. I got a one-armed bandit you can pull on. Ha. That’s not terrible.

  I throw the car into reverse and pull out of the parking lot. They’re doing roadwork on Fremont (they’re always doing roadwork somewhere in Vegas—I swear to God those roadwork guys must be mobbed up. There’s no way there’s that much damn roadwork that needs to be done) so I pull around to the alley behind Pete’s so I can take side streets back to the Strip, and that’s when—bursting through the backdoor of the club—she appears.

  I slam on the brakes and she looks right at me. Time slows for a second. The headlights wash her in an unearthly glow, painting her wings, halo, and milky, perfect skin in an incandescent amber. I might hear a harp playing. It’s probably just a synthesizer in the EDM I have playing on the car stereo, but I don’t care. It makes for a very dramatic moment.

  I throw the Defender into park and jump out.

  “Scarlett?” I say. Stupidly. Of course it’s her.

  “Ford?” she replies. Oh, right. I’m still Ford fucking Aston to this chick. What was I thinking? Jesus. But she remembers me! That’s encouraging.

  I take a step toward her to ask what she’s doing running out into the alley when, through the back door from which my angel emerged, two guys come charging. They’re both a pretty decent size. The one in front is dressed a little better than the one behind him, by which I mean he wears a button-down and a pair of brown oxfords with broguing on the toe-box, and the other guy just has on a t-shirt and sneakers, but still, it’s amazing how a collared shirt and nice shoes can dress up a pair of dark denim jeans.

  For whatever reason, Evan’s voice is suddenly in my head.

  But only for the briefest of moments, because then I see the gun and forget immediately about who’s wearing what as it becomes crystal-clear why she was running out into the alley.

  “Scarlett. Come on, sugar. It’s time to come with us,” says the one with the collared shirt. The one who’s holding the gun. The guy behind him steps toward her as button-down keeps the gun held on my angel’s perfect tits. Which is a crazy fucking thing to be noticing right now, but it’s what pops into my head. And I have a really, really negative reaction to the barrel of that gun pointed at any part of her.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping toward all three of them. “Um. What the fuck?”

  Button-down snaps and turns the gun in my direction now. All four of us are standing frozen in the spotlight being cast by the Defender’s headlamps, the stars of a surreal little movie that’s unfolding very rapidly here in this alley. Man, I hate being the center of attention, but right now I don’t have a lotta choice.

  “Get back in your car and drive away, pal. This ain’t got nothing to do with you.” This from a guy holding a revolver directed at my chest. Yeah, at this point it’s got at least a little something to do with me.

  “I’m not your fuckin’ pal, and given the rocky start we’re off to, I doubt we’re gonna get there anytime soon.” Oh, shit! That was what I wanted to say to the bartender last week. I’m glad I held on to it. This is so much better.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Scarlett look at me with some astonishment. I think it’s astonishment. It’s hard to get a read on everything going on right now, and I need to keep my focus on the weapon in front of me.

  “Man,” button-down says, “I’m not gonna tell you again…” He tightens his grip on the pistol and extends his elbow slightly for emphasis.

  “No? You’re not gonna tell me again? So what are you gonna do?” I take another step toward him. Meanwhile, his t-shirted backup boy steps my way in return.

  Run, Scarlett. Now is the time. Just fucking run.

  “Bro, you don’t know what you’ve wandered into,” says button-down. “I’m giving you one last chance. You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

  I decide in for a penny in for a pound, so I take another step and say, “I’m not your bro either. And you don’t know who YOU’RE fucking with. Meanwhile you’re wearing brown shoes with a navy belt. Dude, I know EVERYTHING about you.”

  The confusion on his face is goddamn priceless. I can’t see my angel, but I can feel her kind of smiling. I can just feel it.

  Button-down gestures to t-shirt, who’s clearly supposed to be the muscle, and who starts toward me with some purpose in his stride.

  Run, Scarlett. Run.

  But she doesn’t run, and t-shirt is almost in my face.

  So…OK… Here’s the thing about circumstances like these. The most powerful person in a conflict situation is one hundred percent, unquestionably, and without fail the one who is able to de-escalate the mounting crisis.

  After that, the second most powerful person in a conflict situation is the one who’s able to land the first strike and put a motherfucker on his back.

  I don’t wait for t-shirt to reach me. I have long legs so it takes less than two full steps before I’m on him. I’m ambidextrous, which I’ve learned is handy in lots of instances in life. Juggling. Playing basketball. Knocking bitches the fuck out.

  I feint with my left, but I do it hard so it looks like that’s the punch that’s coming, which causes him to dodge to his left, which is incredibly helpful because that means his momentum is already carrying him in the direction of my right fist that lands square on his eye socket and the bridge of his nose. I’ve been using that shot for years, and I don’t give a shit who you are, when I land it as perfectly as I just did on this asshat, you’re going night night.

  And so he does. He hits the ground so hard that I’m actually a little worried about him. But only for a second. Because button-down is still holding his goddamn pistol, and it’s now against my temple. Fuck me. I’ve been out of the military for too long. My situational awareness is for shit.

  He cocks the hammer. “Buddy, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you just walked into a world of hurt.”

  I think about what I told Jeff last week on his birthday. The stuff about being a hero. The moment you try to play hero, you get yourself killed. But it’s also important to understand the predicament you’re in. It’s critical to be able to read the environment. And I didn’t do four goddamn tours in some of the most hostile environments on earth by being the kind of person who scares easy. So I assess what I can about this circumstance, glance over at Scarlett, who looks pretty freaked out (which is appropriate—I’d be concerned if she didn’t), turn to face the barrel of the gun, and look button-down dead in his weaselly eyes.

  “Yeah… Man, I LIVE in a world of hurt, so anything you can do right now to help me find my way out of it will be a fucking improvement.”

  We stare at each other. I press my forehead into the barrel of his stupid gun. Just do it, man. Just fucking do it. Come on. Just fucking make the sounds inside my head stop.

  “DO IT!” I almost surprise myself by how loud I scream. I know I surprise button-down, because he flinches. And when he does, I grab the gun out of his hand and punch him as hard as I can in the stomach. He doubles over and now I press the gun against HIS temple.

  “Ford!” Scarlett yells. “Don’t!”

  I look at her with a look that says, I’m not gonna. Relax. And I wink. She doesn’t know what to make of that. Which, again, is fucking awesome.

  I lean down close to button-down so I can whisper in his ear.

  “So, since Scarlett asked nicely, I’m gonna do what she wants. But I swear on my mother’s soul, if you ever come near her again, I will beat you until you’re begging me to finish you and then I will take you and leave your bleeding body in the desert for the snakes and vultures to take their fucking turns. Do. You. Hear. What I am saying?”

  Button-down looks like he’s about to choke on his own rage. Which I’m really grateful for because it means he’s got some fight in him. There is nothing more inexcusable than taking down somebody you know you can take down. There’s no honor in it. In fairness, I could’ve taken down both of these idiots with an arm tied behind my back while competing in a potato sack race, but it
still helps to know he’s got moxie. (I’m gonna bring back moxie too. Just like I’m gonna make Pole Artisan a thing.) But finally he nods, grudgingly.

  “Great. Now get up, get your girlfriend, and get the fuck outta here.”

  I help him to his feet. T-shirt is out cold, still bathed in the lights from the Defender. I pick him up and hand him to button-down, who awkwardly takes him under the arms and tries to lumber with him down the alley and around into the parking lot. It takes forever. There’s a moment where I almost think I should run up and help the guy. (“Here. Let me give you a hand. It was me who fucked you both up and all. Sheesh. So sorry.”)

  As they round the corner, out of sight, I turn around to see if Scarlett is still there. She is. Where she’s standing the lights are bouncing off her wings, casting a massive shadow that looks like a butterfly on the wall of the building behind her. I don’t know what to make of the look on her face. I really don’t. I’m expecting her to ask any number of questions, starting with ‘what are you doing here?’ That’s sure as hell what I would ask if someone showed up and pounded the crap out of two guys who were chasing me with a gun.

  Wait. Two guys were chasing her with a gun. That actually seems like the more important issue to address. WHY were two guys chasing her with a gun? A gun that I am now holding. Great. I’m holding a gun. Which means I have to get rid of the gun. I suppose I could keep it, but who knows what awful shit has been done with this gun? Nothing, probably. That’s the whole reason I felt like I could take it away from the guy. He threatened me like three times. I’ve been stabbed, blown up, and shot at more times than I can count and never once in any of those cases did anyone give me a heads-up. If your intention is to kill someone, you kill them. You don’t give them a chance to walk away. Most people don’t get that. In my experience, ninety-nine percent of all threats are hollow. Anyway… I think I’m rambling.

  Scarlett (I have to find out her real name. I wonder if she’ll tell me now that I’ve saved her life and all) steps toward me, carefully. I reach into the cab, stick the gun in the glove box, and move around the front of the car to meet her. She shakes her head just the slightest bit, like she can’t understand what just happened. That’s fair. I can’t either.