by K. S. Adkins
“Curious what you’re doin’ here, Detective,” he says, coming up next to me. He’s a lot fucking slicker than I previously gave him credit for.
“Guessin’ you know who I am,” I say. “Also guessin’ you know why I’m here.”
“Got an idea.” He smiles. “But not all ideas are good ideas, my friend, so before this gets bloody, you’ve got about three seconds to convince me to let you walk outta here.”
“Kharma,” I say, straight to the point.
“What about her?” he asks. He's not backing away, but he's not calling his boys off, either
“You two got history,” I begin wanting, my point made. “I ain’t got no problem with history, long as you ain’t playin’ at a future with her, get what I’m sayin'?”
“You got cojones, my friend,” he says lowering his voice, but continues stepping closer. “You been in her life hours, my friend, hours. I been in her life years. We know shit about each other, and that’s got nothing to do with you. You protect her, we got no issues. You comin’ here to warn me off her? That was a mistake. You get one mistake, detective, one.”
“Answer the question,” I growl. “You wantin’ a future with her? Or is this just business?”
“And if it was both?”
“Business, I got no problem with,” I say. “She’s with me, so I’m here outta respect, letting you know that.”
When Ricky started laughing, it didn’t take a genius to figure out it wasn’t from humor. His boys caught on, and each flanked me moving in, at last count there were eight.
“If I thought I stood a chance with her, she’d be inside my house right now making me dinner, naked,” he says, serious, then he looks down, noticing my clenched fists. “Known her for going on ten years,” he continues. ”Saved my ass from being taken out, never asked questions. Not one. Saved me, brought me home, never said a word. That girl doesn’t let no one close. But you? She lets close. She told me she feels safe with you. She never feels safe, so for that, you’re breathin’. If my life wasn’t a fucking circus, and I thought I stood a chance at makin’ her feel safe, you wouldn’t be breathin'. So, we done here?”
“We’re done.”
“You want her to feel safe?” he asks, but I just stand there waiting for what comes next. “Never show your face ‘round here again. As long as she’s safe, you get to breathe. Now get the fuck gone.”
Turning away from me, he walks right back into his place like just seconds ago he wasn’t prepared to kill me on a public street. His boys follow suit, leaving me standing on an empty street, feeling like a fucking king. Ricky Rios and I have an understanding.
Checking the time, I haul ass home to shower, call the Cap, strategize, and pick Venessa up for our first official night as partners.
When Rogan picked me up tonight, he kept looking at me funny, but didn’t say much, except that the Captain’s waiting on my answer. I don’t have an answer yet, because I haven’t figured out the Captain’s play. Add sitting next to Rogan, it was impossible to think about anything other than him. So instead of saying anything, I stared out the window, hoping to regulate my breathing.
Normally, when I’m up here, I tune out the faces in the crowd, but it’s impossible to tune out the hulking man who is just feet away, making sure I’m safe. I can feel his heat from here, warming me up. The crowd is hot tonight…Saturdays always get pretty insane. We’ve got a home game for the Lions tonight, and though no one really comes for the team per se, they flock here after in the hopes of seeing any of the players. Chances are good a few will show. At least that’s what I’m told. I also couldn't care less.
My first set is designed to get in their heads. I may not drink, but the people who come here do, and whether they come to meet friends, co-workers, fuck or forget, the music is key. No one is immune to Eminem in Detroit. He’s one of us, and always will be. He’s come here a few times, and the walls could barely hold the crowd. He’s the shit. So when I open with “Welcome to Detroit City”, even the people tuning out the music can’t help but get crazy.
As I prep my cue, I wonder what Rogan thinks of all this. Is he a music guy? He isn’t a club guy, I know that much. I’m not, either, outside of this place. I can ask him later, since he’s coming home with me and all. I take off my headphones and Blu shines the lights on me, so I grab the mic and greet my crowd. I love what I do, I love who I am up here. I love that the crowd took the time out of their busy lives to come here and let go for a bit. I owe them a night to remember, and maybe a few fights just as a thank you.
“Detroit!” I yell, and their screams excite me. They realize I’m about to go live so they crowd the platform. That has always bothered me but I understand they want to get as close to the music as possible. I just don’t want them near me. “Welcome to Lush, everyone. I’m so fucking happy to see you tonight.” While the screaming continues, I notice that there are more men usual, and I’m relieved to have Rogan behind me right now.
“So, I have a question for y’all...” I let the anticipation build “Did the Lions win tonight?” The boos and cups flying always crack me up, every damn time. This is why our drinks are served in plastic, not glass. “No? Well that’s alright, they play Dallas next week, so what do you say we meet up again same time same place, yeah?” The crowd is balls out right now. They love this shit; they love any reason to give it to the Lions.
“Because…Detroit City knows Kharma always delivers, so fuck those Lions! Let’s do this shit! Where are my gangsters and all my thugs at? Welcome to motherfuckin’ Detroit!” I scream. And when the place erupts, the cue kicks in and the crowd shows Eminem some serious love. I’m pretty sure he’s smiling. Wherever he is, he feels it, and he should. He’s the fucking master.
Eminem 1
Lions 0
As the first set fades, I grab a drink and walk over to Rogan who looks, well…constipated, to be honest.
“How are you holding up?”
“Too many people here,” is his reply.
“When we hit max capacity, security will close the doors.”
“You have two males watching you, so stay away from the edge of the platform. Don’t give them an opening,” he growls, alerting me to their presence.
“Which side?” I ask, frustrated I didn’t take notice…hence the bodyguard.
“Your left.”
“Thanks. Got another hour in you?” I ask.
“I’m good.”
“Alright, pizza’s on me when we get home,” I say, and by the look on his face, ’home’ coming out of my mouth was a shock to both of us.
“I like pizza,” Rogan says awkwardly, and it’s adorable.
“I like pizza, too,” I smile.
“Get back to work,” he grunts. “I got your back.” Then he smiles at me, and it’s a shock that goes directly to my clit. The sensation is better than any vibrator I’ve ever owned, and let’s just say I own plenty. I find myself wanting to do anything and everything I can to make him smile like that every day. I have no idea how to flirt, so I wink and hope he gets the point. Please get the point, and don’t think I have something caught in my eye, because I suck at this.
Having him here was fun, not awkward even a little bit, so I decided to have even more fun. Fading the last track out then bringing in an old favorite of mine, I let it loop, get in front of the platform and start shaking my ass to ‘Bitch Betta Have My Money’.
When the lights shine on the crowd, I venture a look and see they’re having a great time, so I dance a little harder, dirtier, earning me someone’s bra, a business card, and a murderous look from Rogan.
He approaches, pulling me back behind the platform, which earns him a lot of ‘boos’, but what I got was a lot worse.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing right now?” he growls in my face.
“Twerking,” I say. “Why?”
“I’m here because the crowd that comes here takes shit too far with you. They want to put their hands on you, all over you.
You fucking cool with that all of a sudden, or did I miss why I’m here?” he yells, but without yelling. “Answer me. Why am I here?”
“To watch my back,” I whisper, feeling ashamed of myself.
“Hard to watch your back when it ain’t fucking facing me,” he says. “How about you keep that ass where it belongs? In case you forgot, it ain’t out there, its back here.” He's pointing at the platform. I get it.
“That’s fair,” I say, looking at the ground.
“It ain’t about fair,” he says. “It’s about safety. Your safety. Those idiots don’t care about your safety. I do. Keep your ass back here, where I can protect it.”
“Fine,” I say, getting the point. “I need to get back to work.”
“Look at me,” he says, raising my chin. “I just want you safe. You don’t see what I see. What I’m seeing ain’t a bunch of people just having a good time, Venessa.”
I nod, getting back to work, and feeling thoroughly put in my place. I look around to get an idea of what it is he sees. Shit, even at first glance, I can see he was right, because what I see are a bunch of grown ass men who, by the looks they’re giving me, want to do a whole lot more than watch me dance. After another song, I turn to look at him, and when I do, he smirks at me. So, okay, I fucked up. I got it, obviously he does, too, so I relax and enjoy what’s left of my night.
At this point in the night, the club is pretty self-sufficient. Bummed Macy didn’t make it tonight, I head into the second set, and I turn to load my cue when I feel an arm around my waist. I know immediately who it isn’t, because this stranger’s touch makes me want to vomit. Before I can even react, Rogan has him in the air with one arm, and uses his free hand to punch this random square in the face. The random guy crumples, literally.
I look up to see Rogan approach me, and I realize I didn’t panic (much). Normally, I’d go instabitch and rearrange some ballsack until security showed up, but when I needed him, he was there. I look at him, I mean really look at him, then start wishing for things I can’t have. Like him in my life, in my bed, every fucking night. I could definitely get used to having him there permanently.
“You straight?” he asks while rubbing my arms.
“I’m straight, thank you.” I smile. It’s so hard to hear anything with the music bumping and the crowd eating up some guy getting his ass beat. Yep, the alcohol is working.
“He touched you,” he states, a question in his voice.
“You took care of it,” I say casually.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Yes, it will,” I say, turning to leave, but he takes my right hand and continues to rub it with his rough hands.
“I’ll always take care of it,” he swears, and at that I just nod. Was that a promise that he’ll be here for a long time? Is there a book for this kind of stuff?
As the set prepares to end, this is when the crowd tends to get a little unruly. I know I’m the draw, but I always leave before last call. Some people just can’t separate me from her. Kharma likes the attention. I don’t. The boys will be here soon to play the rest of the night, and I see Blu heading this way. I also hear a whole lot of yelling, and I turn to see Rogan fighting four, no wait, five men at once. The fuck?
Miguel just knocked a guy out who was trying to approach me; he’s shifty for a little guy. I run over to join in, giving Miguel a high five. When I get closer, Rogan tells me, “Get to Max’s office now. Blu! Take her. Go.”
I don’t move, I can’t, I love a good fight too much to move. I don’t know what just happened, but I have a feeling Max is going to get pissed when he hired Rogan to protect me, not go all Chuck Liddell on the customers. Watching him fight does something to me internally. His fists are like sledgehammers, and he uses them like Thor uses his hammer. It’s fucking erotic and beautiful how he moves.
To know he’s doing this for me makes my belly warm, like really fucking warm. A man approaches me, and when he reaches out for me I take my palm, thrusting up, right into his jaw. Not even sparing him a glance, I notice his friends cheer, picking him up and walking him away. Idiots. Only here could you get clocked in the jaw and congratulated for it. No matter what happens, I’m not moving from my spot, I refuse to stop watching these events unfold. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that, ever. Finally, Rogan walks over, and unless I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I’d never know that he had just viciously beat down five grown men.
“Let’s go,” he growls, holding out his hand.
I can hear the ambulance sirens in the background and I couldn’t care less. I take it without question, and off we go. He truly is brutal and I love it. Apparently, so does my inner slut.
Fuck. If I don’t kill someone, it will be a god damned miracle. Who do these fuckers think they are? You don’t just walk up to a female and put your hands on her. She can defend herself, I get it, but this is extreme. One of these days, someone will take it too far, and there’s no telling how she’ll react. Fuck that, how I’ll react.
That’s why I got in her shit earlier, felt bad about it, too, but she’s gotta know where to draw the line. She’s so small – barely 5’2 to my 6’4. If she’s 110 lbs, I’d be shocked. Jesus, a middle schooler is bigger than she is. Granted, she’s all muscle, but I don’t care how strong she is for her size, she’s still fragile. She has a mane of dark brown hair and crystal green eyes and pouty lips. Perfect tits, ass, and killer hips.
All that ’good girl’ on the outside and killer on the inside makes her like my own brand of kryptonite. Men see her as a challenge, I see them as dispensable. Beating those drunk assholes was a privilege. Even during the beat down I kept my eyes on her, noticing her eyes were on me. Having liquid courage, some idiot approached her, but before I could break away to rearrange his face she did it herself. Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like it. She didn’t even blink; he approached, she struck, game set match.
Mind off the fight, but back on to her I realize, I’m a giant compared to her, I’ll fucking crush her with my weight if she ever let me near her. Shit. What am I even thinking? I’m thinking I want near her, fucking badly. Like I stand a chance, anyway. Shit. Eyes on the road, dumbass.
“Pull in here. That’s my guest parking spot. I told Boss you’ll be using it,” she says.
I realize that I don’t like the word “guest”… it sounds temporary. I just need to take it one night at a time. One night at a time. I follow her up to her loft, and there are people everywhere. There must be a party. She waves and says hello, but never stops.
“Weekends run long around here.” She laughs. “Like every day.”
“Everyone here in music?”
“Pretty much anything and everything to do with the arts,” she answers, opening the door.
And when I step in, I see a home. She’s welcomed me into her space and, because I suddenly only listen to my dick, I wonder where the bedroom is. The loft, though, is the perfect size for her. Personally, I feel like a bull in a china shop, but it suits her.
Noticing the entire east wall is all windows is an issue, mainly because she has no window treatments. The kitchen is galley style, with a small table and chairs. The living room is plush, though, with a sound system that rivals the club's. Her couch is huge, but it doesn’t look worn, like she never buries herself in it. She keeps the place fairly dark, but it smells good. Glancing over to my bag that I tossed on the floor, I notice her coffee pot is so high end it probably cost more than my TV.
“Where do you want me?” I say, cringing.
She laughs and shows me to a small guest room that has a guitar and drum set in it. No doubt around here, no one would care if you got loud. I find myself wondering what she’d think of my place. It’s big, but it ain’t homey like her place.
“Ready to eat? Because I’m starving. Plus, I have questions,” she asks while getting out the pizza.
We sit down at an island, and neither one of us has any reservations about digging in. We eat it right out of the box
. She hands me a napkin, a Mountain Dew, and resumes eating. She’s a dainty eater. I could probably sit here all day and be content watching her eat because she’s that soothing to watch.
“You don’t like the club scene, but then again, neither do I. So what kind of music do you like?” she asks, and I think I can handle this.
“Metal,” I answer.
“What kind of metal?”
I don’t know really know how to answer. Sensing my confusion I can tell she’s ready to give me a shitload of options.
“Heavy metal,” I grind out.
“But what kind of heavy? Screamo? Death Metal? 80’s? 90’s? Sludge? Extreme?“ Cutting her off before my eyes roll back, I say, “Classic metal. Metallica, GNR, Ozzy, Zepplin. Guys like that.”
She starts to laugh and says, “So tonight must have been awful for you, huh?”
I am infatuated with her giggle. Jesus, I just thought that, her fucking giggle. Sadly, I doubt she giggles much, so I need to think about changing that. If Rafe could hear this, he’d slap my nuts for sure. I should tell her it’s my job, that the music didn’t matter, but music matters to her, so I’ll go for the truth.
“You were there,” I shrug, and like a bitch I can’t look her in the eye. “So it’s cool.”
“Normally, Saturdays, I play variations of punk and metal. But since last night was an epic fuck up, and I didn’t get a chance to prepare for tonight, I went with last night’s set. I love hip hop, don’t get me wrong, but I love to get a mosh pit going, too,” she says, smiling.
I’m positive if she smiled at another man like that, I’d have to gut him. No, check that, I would gut him.
“I wouldn’t allow you in it,” I say, very matter of fact. “You could get hurt.”
“If you were with me, I’d be the safest one in the pit.” She chuckles.
“True. But I’d be in jail.”
