by Tara Oakes
“I’ll bring you some gossip magazines next time.” I close the zipper to my medium-sized bag and blow her a kiss before giving crotchety old Mrs. Daley a friendly wave in passing.
I can’t help but feel sorry for the old woman who shares a living space with mom. I try to visit two to three times a week, but I’ve never seen a friend or family member come by for the other woman.
There are too many people in this place that are just put here and forgotten about. I make sure that mom knows she’s not one of them.
“Excuse me? Nurse?” I’ve become friendly with most of the staff here, as mom’s been a resident for the past month, since this last flare up of her Lupus, the worst one to date.
The portly woman with her back turned to me abandons her chart and looks over her shoulder. “Hey, Molly!”
I smile once I realize it’s Rebecca, one of the friendlier employees around here. “Hey, Rebecca! Would you be able to tell me the status of mom’s chemo? I’ve been on the phone with her insurance company all morning and they said they had sent a letter here that needed some type of authorization for the next round?”
Even though mom has coverage, her insurance plan sucks. I have to fight tooth and nail to get them to cover any of the recommended treatments by her doctors.
“Let’s see,” she uses her hip to close the open file cabinet drawer in front of her and reaches for another one. “Donovan, Donovan …” she passes down a long line of worn looking charts. “Lillian Donovan.”
Once the correct chart is found, it’s taken out of its place and walked over to me, as Rebecca skims through the writing on the innermost page. “Yup. Looks like we got it and sent it back to them. Should be good to go. I’ll make sure she gets added to the roster for this week.”
A flood of relief washes over me. That’s some of the best news I’ve heard in days. The doctors use the chemotherapy to help control the inflammation in Mom’s joints and to keep her immune system in check since it’s decided to declare an all-out war on her major organs.
She should have started the treatment immediately, but her fucking HMO had to make us jump through hoops first, resulting in nothing but stress and headache for me and unnecessary pain for mom.
“Thanks so much, Rebecca, for all your help. It’s people like you who make me feel better about Mom having to stay here.” I give her a warm smile of appreciation. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t work too hard!” I call over my shoulder as I press the large button on the wall to cue the elevator.
Mom’s insurance company gave us a choice of two nursing facilities for her treatment. I look around at the aging elevator with peeling paint and remind myself that this was, in fact, the better of the choices.
It’s less than a twenty-minute drive to come visit and is attached to a small hospital in case there are any emergencies. This place wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I’m glad people like Nurse Rebecca are here to help make the best of it.
Once the elevator dings and the rickety old door opens to the main lobby, I reach in the outside compartment of my bag for the key to Dawson’s Jeep only to be startled by my phone buzzing harshly on vibrate in my pocket.
A kind looking man, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one hand, holds the front door to the building open for me.
“Hello?” I ask into the receiving end of the device as I give a nod of thanks and shield my eyes form the early afternoon sun.
“Angel, where the hell are you?”
I do a mental double take at the greeting. Dawson sounds rushed, angry even. Surely he can’t be pissed at me? “Leaving the hospital now. I’m not late am I?”
Anxiously, I lift my wrist to check the time on the worn timepiece of a bracelet. Nope. Not late. My shift isn’t supposed to start for another hour and a half.
What the fuck is his issue?
“I need you to get to the club. Now. No detours, no stopping. Just get here.”
And audible click can be heard once his words disappear. Those words are laced with something I’ve never heard in his voice. Not quite anger, but something else; something I can’t put my finger on. Panic takes hold of my lungs, squeezing the air out in a loud gasp.
Something’s wrong.
That’s what was in his voice, I just know it. What could be so bad that he wouldn’t tell me over the phone? What would be bad enough that I’d have to get to him right away?
Sasha.
I nearly rip open the Jeep door with newfound strength from the rush of adrenaline that’s pulsing through my veins at the though of something having happened to my little girl.
The truck starts immediately, no silent prayer necessary to turn the ignition like in my old Honda. Regardless of Dawson’s insistence that it was “no big deal” that I drive his brand new car, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea. Now though, with the engine’s quick start and the strong pull of the motor through the parking lot and into traffic, I couldn’t be more grateful for the set of wheels, regardless of who they belonged to.
~*~
The parking lot is full of bikes. Lots and lots of bikes. The club doesn’t officially open until three, and this only confirms that something is seriously wrong. Most of the Slayers sleep during the day and party at night unless they get called up for something like when they turned out to help me move yesterday.
I remember the urgency to Dawson’s voice from his call as I park in the rear lot, slamming the car door a lot harder than I’d intended. I nearly skid across the last patch of gravel leading up to the employee entrance where I pound hard on the cool steel.
It doesn’t take long until the heavy door is opened.
“Where’s Dawson?” I breathlessly ask Chase.
He takes me by the elbow and leads me further into the building with the clicking echo of the door closing behind us. I hear a flurry of voices coming from several different directions, but no music. I find that unsettling. This place is usually pumping with loud beats through the sound system.
I expect to be taken to Dawson’s office, the small cramped and cluttered room where he first offered me a job, but instead am led down a hallway I’ve yet to have reason to explore.
We stop abruptly in front of a plain looking metal door with some type of security window built in. There’s something odd about the door, though. It doesn’t have a handle.
Chase quickly types a four-digit code into a security pad that looks like what we have back at Dawson’s place and before I know it there’s a beep similar to what you’d hear when entering a jewelry store. The door clicks open and Chase uses his back to push up against the grey metal, opening it wide for both of us to enter.
I recognize several faces. Uno. Gryff. Dawson.
He looks relieved to see me, tearing away from his conversation with the two other men.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, afraid of what the answer may be. Everyone looks so serious, so mad.
Dawson’s gigantic arms circle around me, holding tight, and for a moment I believe that whatever the news is, I can handle it … as long as he holds me.
“Bad fucking day, Angel.” I hear fatigue in his voice. He inhales deeply, his face buried in my hair, breathing me in. “Baby’s Ol’ man, Stitch.”
My eyes widen and I pull back. “Oh my God! What happened?” I think of the pregnant woman, my new friend, my mentor of sorts.
“Don’t know yet. Information’s trickling out. Some sort of ambush. He’s been stabbed, we know that much for sure from our source on the inside. The whole prison’s on lockdown.” He rattles off the facts. I hear a crash behind him where Gryff’s tossed a chair over in anger.
I look from man to man registering the seething fury radiating from each of them as Dawson recounts what’s happened.
“What can I do?” I whisper.
“We’re leaving. Taking Baby up there. Gotta find out for sure. Gotta be there, if--”
It dawns on me that they don’t know if Stitch is going to make it, or if he’s even still alive. I’ve nev
er met the man but I see by the look in Dawson’s eyes, in the other Slayers’ eyes, how much he means to them. I recall how Baby lights up whenever talking about her Ol’ man.
Oh God! Their baby. Not even born yet and quite possibly fatherless already.
“Where is she? I need to see her.” I step backward, toward the door. A vivid memory of Baby telling me how the other Ol’ ladies are like your sisters. How they’re the first ones there when shit gets bad.
I can’t imagine shit getting worse than this for her.
“Angel, wait,” Dawson keeps me close. “I need you to stay behind. Watch over the club. It should be a slow night, but I don’t want to freak Baby out even more. I want to keep things as normal as possible until we know shit for sure.”
I nod. “Sure. Whatever you need.”
Dawson places his hand on my lower back and we turn, him guiding me out through the same electronic door that beeps when opened. “The dancers will handle themselves. You just take care of the register. The bouncer, the cook and the bar boys will take care of everything else. I just need you to lock up.”
“Sure. I’ll have Lana pick Sasha up from preschool and watch her until I get home.”
I hear sobbing grow closer as we approach Dawson’s office. Dawson pushes the door open just enough for me to enter. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Make sure she’s ready.”
I take a deep breath and brace myself before entering. I’ve never consoled a person like this before. Dawson pulls me in quickly, sensing my nervousness, and plants a firm yet reassuring kiss on my sluggish lips.
“You got this.” His eyes show the confidence he has in me. I swallow and nod slowly.
He’s right.
I got this.
CHAPTER TEN
MOLLY
“Just booted the last guy out, Angel.” Butch, the head bouncer reports as I count the stacks of cold hard cash.
Ah! I’ve lost count again.
That’s the third time I’ve lost my place within the crisp bills, although the first two times had absolutely nothing to do with Butch.
“Thanks. I’m good here, if you guys want to head out. Esè will stay until we lock up.” I clear the calculator and prepare to start again on tallying up the money.
He’s big, with massive muscles underneath his tight black shirt, but he wears no leather. He’s not a Slayer, but a regular employee. “You sure ‘bout that Angel? I don’t mind staying.”
It’s late. Even for a place like this that has its last call around two on a Monday night, it’s late. It’s nobody’s fault but mine since I couldn’t figure out how to close down the register.
I know if I hadn’t been as distracted as I was tonight, that I’d have been able to shut the system down and count the cash on the first try, but I’m too shaken up.
Dawson had called briefly when they arrived not long ago at the hospital closest to the prison. Stitch had in fact barely survived the attack and was transferred there under guard since the prison infirmary was unable to meet his needs. I could hear Baby sobbing in the background of his call as rules prevented her from seeing her husband until he was out of surgery.
Dawson hadn’t told me much but I keep picturing some attack like I’d seen in movies. Something in the prison shower, or the mess hall.
I shake my head to clear the image while I lose count yet again. “I’m sure, Butch. See ya tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait long to leave, no doubt tired from a long night of trying to control drunken men.
One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred.
“See ya, Angel! Good job tonight.” Lexi, one of the last dancers remaining behind calls into Dawson’s office as she passes on her way out of the building.
I drop my head to the table with a tiny thud after loosing my count yet again.
This just isn’t gonna happen, I tell myself. Not tonight at least. I take the bills and zip them into the blue canvas bag like I’d seen Dawson do the other night, placing it into the empty wall safe he’d left open for me before shutting it and spinning the dial.
He’ll just have to count it when he gets back, I tell myself. I’m not in a state of mind to do anything right now. It’s hard enough to keep images of dying men in hospital beds at bay.
Our conversation had been short but Dawson did explain that they’d be staying the night, maybe even longer, keeping watch at the hospital in case of another attempt on Stitch.
Silly me. One would think someone under the guard of a Sheriff would at least be safe in a hospital bed. Apparently, according to Dawson, Stitch is even more vulnerable now than he was in jail; fewer witnesses and more opportunity for someone to come and finish the job.
The whole idea of it makes me sick. What kind of a sick fucker comes after a man that can’t defend himself? A coward. That’s who.
I don’t know Stitch for anything, but I’m glad Dawson and his men are there. At least that way I know, for Baby and their unborn child’s sake, that no one is getting to Stitch tonight. I remember what Dawson said to Sasha last night about something having to get through him first to get to her.
No one is getting through him. Not to Stitch. Not to Sasha. Under the circumstances, the closest thing to resemble a smile crosses my lips as I realize nothing’s getting to me either. Not through Dawson.
I don’t know the name for the feeling that’s flooding over me right now, having nothing to equate it with in a long time, but I think I feel … safe.
I hear the back door slam shut and not long after, Esè walks in. “All locked up Angel. You ready?”
The building is quiet with all of the lights now off except the back hallway. I’ve never been the last one out before, as most of the dancers stay back to spend “time” with the Slayers after closing. With no brothers around tonight the ladies had no reason to hang around.
I grab my purse from the back of Dawson’s chair and wriggle my tired feet back into my boots. “Yep. Let’s get outta here.”
I make sure the safe’s locked and then hit the light switch before closing Dawson’s office up for the night.
“Hold up!” I hear a whiny voice from behind us. Candy strolls out of the dressing room. Great. Just the person I want to see right now. We’ve been careful to avoid each other all night, but I felt her staring me down whenever she spotted me.
I don’t have time for this shit right now.
Esè holds the door open for us. “After you, ladies. Hey Candy, got any plans tonight? Wanna hang?”
She laughs condescendingly. “I don’t fuck prospects, but, thanks anyway.” I feel her gaze on me once more. “I have a very select clientele.”
I roll my eyes while locking the door behind us. “Well, that list just lost a customer.”
She shrugs. “We’ll see.”
I bite my lip.
Esè senses the budding bitch fight and is eager to be clear of it. “All right. You girls okay from here?”
Other than Candy’s red hot convertible and Dawson’s black Jeep, the back parking lot’s empty. “We’re good. I think we understand one another. You go ahead.”
He nods and waits until we each walk to our respective automobiles and enter, safe from each other’s claws, before he walks around the building to his own bike parked out front.
My engine starts smoothly with hers soon after. The nights are getting cooler, borderline cold, so I turn the heat up blasting the forced air through the vents.
The knock at the window is anything but expected and I whip my head up. Candy’s pouting from outside the passenger door, looking to say something. Oh God, please don’t let her start shit right now. I know she’s one of Dawson’s best dancers and it wouldn’t help things if she were unable to climb a pole because she’s stuck in a hospital bed.
I lower the window and lean over.
“I left my phone in my locker,” she says flatly.
I exhale impatiently. “And?”
She narrows her overly lashed eyes at me. “And I need it. Now.�
�
Of course she does, because Little Miss Entitled can’t possibly go twelve hours without her iPhone, right?
I clear my throat impatiently. Every extra minute I spend with this bitch is one less minute I can sleep tonight, so I better just shut her up. “Fine.”
Cutting the engine, I pull the keys from the ignition and find the one Dawson gave me for the back door to the club. Candy follows me in her ridiculously high shoes as I lead us back into the building, quickly disarming the alarm.
Other than the red glow from the emergency exit sign, the place is pitch dark.
“Hurry up and get your phone.” I turn on the hall light for her to follow the corridor to the nearby dressing room.
My eyes feel heavy, with my lids drooping. I lean back against the brick wall and bow my head for a moment.
Crash!
What the fuck?
I take the three steps forward into the dressing room where Candy’s reaching into her locker. “What was that?” She asks.
“I thought that was you?” I’m alarmed. She shakes her head no and our eyes both dart to the door of the room when we hear it again.
Candy breathes in sharply and opens her mouth to speak but I quickly slap my hand over it.
“Shh!” I whisper.
Voices. I hear voices.
Someone’s up front.
“We need to hide! Now!” I look around hurriedly for someplace, anyplace, to sneak into.
I’m small enough to crawl into one of the generous sized lockers, but there’s no way in hell Candy will. Her boobs alone wouldn’t fit.
We hear the voices growing louder. “Hey. There’s a light on back here.”
Oh, shit. We’re gonna get caught.
Okay, okay. I gotta calm down. I need to think. I scan the room once more. There’s a giant bin of towels and costumes ready to be laundered over in the corner. It’ll have to do.
