by Harper Riley
I take a final bite of my own, shake my head.
“No way.”
He nods.
“Yeah way, they have ones for Cherries Jubilee, Orange Cheesecake. I’m gonna get Tinsley to wear the Rainbow Sherbet ones for my birthday.”
“Jesus Jaws,” I say, laughing.
I’m not sure if I’m amused or weirded out by the image of his Rosie O’Donnell-esque girlfriend decked out in Rainbow Sherbet boxers.
After a particularly big bite, Jaws shoots me a significant sidelong look.
I shake my head.
“I don’t know man. I’m still not sold on this plan of yours. I want to send the Piccolos a message they won’t soon forget, but I feel like that might be going too far. They have allies of their own too.”
But Jaws can see the excitement in my face even as I deny him.
He grins orangey pink teeth back then, not missing a beat, adds, “Well Boss, you still have some time to decide. I give the old man three weeks, tops. Three weeks and, if we go with the plan, we’re gonna have a monopoly on the trafficking business. Three weeks and we’re gonna be as good as Gods.”
Chapter 6 - Torrie
Everyone knows the moment I’m home. No sooner have I closed the front door then out comes Jane racing and Carlos stumbling.
As I pet Jane’s sleek gray head, I glare at Carlos.
Figures the one morning I’m late getting home, he’s actually awake, although as hungover as ever if his red-rimmed eyes are any indication.
He lingers on the top of the staircase. Then he totters down a few steps before righting himself with a palm to one of the golden roses on our walls.
“You never came home.”
His voice contains all his irritation at not knowing something, not being head of the family, and being my half-brother at all.
I slip off a shoe, and address the other one.
If I take in his disheveled self-righteousness I’m not going to be able to hold my temper.
“Yeah,” I say.
Carlos stumbles down another few steps, sending Jane into a flurry of barks.
I pull her back by the leash.
“Jane,” I scold her, though I’m secretly pleased.
She’s the only one who hates Carlos more than I do. She can probably smell the corruption on him.
“Dumb dog,” Carlos mutters.
I take off the other shoe and, as I’m striding to the kitchen, Jane trotting alongside me, he says, “You never answered the question.”
I stop, consider continuing walking. But Carlos and his insolent question will just follow me to the kitchen, follow me out of the house even.
He’ll use any excuse he can to cause conflict. Ever since the words, “Torrie’s taking over the family business until I’m better” came out of our father’s mouth I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes. The hunger for power.
I turn to face him, while Carlos stumbles down the rest of the steps and strides up to me. He stops an inch away, glaring into my eyes insolently.
There’s a cut on his lip and suddenly, I’m filled with a strange sort of pity for him, this incompetent try-hard who’s my brother.
I almost feel like telling him, explaining it to him. That I don’t want this any more than he does, that I’m just trying to honor our father’s wish.
But the longer I stare into those cold, unfeeling coals of eyes, the clearer it is. There’s no understanding there, no mercy. Carlos wouldn’t understand.
No, in his snarled lower lip there is only resentment.
He would take my admission, my weakness – and use it to rip me apart. No, I can’t give him an inch.
I turn my back on him, head to the kitchen and, over my shoulder, say, “Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?”
My question hangs in the silence.
“Madame left her scarf,” a familiar voice says.
I turn around.
It’s our nanny, Maria Fernanda, standing in front of Carlos, her hand extended. Out of it snakes a sheen of green.
My eyes meet Carlos’ in immediate understanding.
He rips the scarf out of her hand.
“You dumb bitch, I told you not to say anything!”
As Jane explodes into a barking rebuke, Maria Fernanda hangs her head.
“I apologize.”
Carlos advances, yells at the graying roots of her hair.
“You apologizing isn’t good enough, you useless old hag! What’s the point of my father hiring you if you can’t do anything properly?”
She says nothing, keeps her head lowered. But even this doesn’t appease Carlos.
He advances further, so that he’s so close that Maria Fernanda can’t back up any further because she’s pressed up against the wall.
“You did this on purpose,” he snarls, his hand slowly rising as he speaks, “Didn’t you? Torrie’s always been your favorite, hasn’t she?”
As his hand towers over her, casting a shadow over her averted, terrified face, I step forward.
“Carlos, that’s enough.”
I keep my voice even, my face expressionless. So he won’t see the fear.
Carlos rounds on me. His hand is still raised and quivering with rage, while his eyebrows are thick angry clusters.
I lift my chin up, as if daring his blow.
I repeat, “Carlos, that’s enough.”
Mouth contorted in a snarl, Carlos turns from Maria Fernanda’s bowed form to my upright one.
He aims a kick at Jane, who dodges his blow. Then he storms down the hallway and out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
I stare at it for a minute, grab the handle.
“Let him go,” Maria Fernanda says softly.
I turn to her.
Her bun is sagging and her eyes have their own quiet fury.
“Okay,” I say.
Maria Fernanda comes beside me.
“The dog is true to her type,” she says, patting Jane fondly, “Fast and good and gray as a greyhound should be.”
Jane isn’t as happy at being patted as she usually is. Her gaze is locked on the door, as if she expects Carlos to return any minute.
The poor dog doesn’t understand. That Carlos is gone, and that it’s what he’s left that is much worse.
After a minute, Maria Fernanda rises, says, “Tea.”
I follow her to the kitchen. Her hand is still shaking as she lifts the old “P” emblazoned kettle to pour out peppermint tea for the two of us.
Even as slowly as she walks, her tremors cause droplets to surge over the sides of the cups.
She puts the cups down on the kitchen table, then dabs the spills off the saucers.
I sit down at the table and, sitting down herself, folding her hands into a creased single shaking entity, Maria Fernanda says, “She came – Madame Laurenz.”
“When?”
“Last night when you were gone.”
I nod, stirring the milk in my tea, swirling it around as the thoughts in my head swirl around.
It’s never a good sign when that witch Laurenz is in town. She is Papa’s ex-wife after all. What can she want now? What is she planning?
“Like a crow circling carrion,” Maria Fernanda says to her tea glumly.
She grabs my hand. Her clasp is not as comforting as usual with her next words, “Be careful. They’re planning something.”
I try sipping my tea, but my impatience only burns my tongue.
I nod dully.
I say, “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry Maria.” Though I believe it even less than she.
I check my phone but there’s nothing from my wild albino friend from last night. It’s been less than an hour; he’s probably not even up yet.
The screen goes black, and I glare at the worried stranger reflected there.
What’s wrong with me? Why did I even give the guy my number anyway? So we had mind-blowing sex, so what? I’ve never given any of the others my number – why start now?
I sho
ve my phone back in my pocket.
Whatever, it’s not up to me now.
Maria Fernanda grasps my hand again, and I meet her kindly gaze with a smile.
“Be careful,” she repeats, her hoarse voice almost a sob.
I nod, but Maria Fernanda’s face is only growing more discouraged.
“Be careful of the darkness,” she whispers.
My heart goes cold.
“What do you mean Maria?”
But her gaze is rooted over my shoulder. I turn and follow it to our family portrait from a few years ago.
I find the photo just as hideous now as I did when it was taken four years ago. The too-bright too-sharpened image is the definition of overdone. It’s the whole family, and yet we all appear half there, like caricatures of ourselves. All our arms are enlaced, our smiles propped-up. As if our family wasn’t falling apart.
My gaze goes to my mother, her face all jagged angles and hollows, her smile the most propped-up of all.
“Your mother tried to resist the darkness, but in the end, it swallowed her too.”
At Maria Fernanda’s whisper, I glance over. Her deep brown eyes are on the same doomed enigma. My mother.
“What do you mean?”
At my words, Maria Fernanda doesn’t react, only shakes her head, repeats, “In the end, it swallowed her too.”
When I squeeze her shoulder, she flinches.
I say, “Maria...”
The words seem to emerge from her against her will, her mouth twisted, her gaze fixed on something invisible to the eye, she says, “Every morning only one side of the bed had to be smoothed out.”
Then she leaps up and rushes out of the room without another word.
My gaze returns to the family portrait, to my mother’s dead eyes, the crease of concern on my father’s smiling face.
For years, I’d sensed it, the rot under the sheen of our easy lives, trips and gifts stacking up like so many useless idols. After what Carlos let slip about “the girls” the other week, there’s no doubt of what the darkness is. And yet, after Maria Fernanda’s admission just now, I’m beginning to think that what my family does for a living is just scratching the surface. That the full horror lying behind the truth is worse than my worst nightmare.
Chapter 7 - Gavin
A nothing of a day and it’s nighttime already. And I still haven’t texted her.
Sprawled on the armchair I’ve spent most of the day in, I force myself upright.
Just because it’s the weekend, that doesn’t mean I get to be a piece of shit for the entire day.
I’ve already exhausted “The Godfather” series, and that phone number is still on my bedside table waiting for me.
I pick it up, twirl it between my fingers.
How about I start with: Never got your name.
No, I should just stick to the usual: Hi. It’s never given me problems before.
Actually, just a time and place would be best. That’s what I really want after all, right? To have her vanilla musk wrap around my skin, lose myself between her olive limbs, forget all this for another night. I want to experience her, feel her. Have her.
I tuck the number back in my pocket.
I’m not putting it in my phone. Not just yet.
I tuck my phone in my back pocket. Go outside and get on my bike. Start driving to the club.
It’s time for the nightly check-up.
Already I don’t like how this latest fling with the red zipper dress is going. I just spent five minutes more than I should’ve wondering what to text the woman whose name I don’t even know. This isn’t a good sign. I can’t have another time like before.
I speed up the bike, so my attention is forced to shift to the present.
Ah, the road flying below my wheels, the city sailing by – a movie I’m in charge of, I can step into.
It never gets old. The world on fast forward. Vehicles and people and stores– all of it sailing past in a blurred montage that somehow makes sense to me, that I can somehow piece together into a whole. The city is beautiful. My city, Toronto.
Stopped at a light, I see Uncle Tetsu’s Japanese Cheesecake is almost empty. For the first time in months, there’s no lineup.
I lick my lips, the creamy moisture in my mouth summoned up just by memory.
I could do it. I could go in there, grab an Angel Hat, have a nice snack for the rest of the way.
I glance at my phone, the light changes and I speed off.
I only have five minutes as it is, and that’s how long it’ll take to get there. I can’t be late. It took ages to get this routine in place: the girls being ready an hour before we open so I can inspect them.
Rebel Saints didn’t rise to be the most prestigious strip club for no reason. I mean, yeah, it’s a front for where the money really is, my other girls, but I still take pride in how I’ve run it.
It is named after our motorcycle club, after all.
I park my bike in front, though I walk to the edge of the building, let my hand run along the chrome exterior fondly, as the pink tilted lights cast my shadow into colorful hallucinogenic shapes.
Even the chrome walls have been scrubbed clean of their weekly grime.
No, I never saw any point in half-assing the club, even if it was just a front. I’ve always believed how you do anything is how you do everything. Laziness is like an infectious poison, and if I practice it here, it would only be a matter of time before it infects everything.
Pip’s already there, giving me a bear hug.
“They’re all ready, Boss.”
I stride in, grinning at my almost haloed reflection in the mirrored walls.
The white suit was a good choice. Not very practical, but look at what a striking contrast my full-white form makes to the black walls.
The girls can’t help but regard me with awe, hold my every word as law.
I step in the room and the music starts blasting.
It’s Britney, and the girls are ready.
Orange is in front tonight, and if the way she’s twining around that pole is any indication, she’s happy to see me.
At the top, she wraps around it with both legs, dangles her head down, says, “Hey Boss.”
My gaze slides from her flaming hair to her coral lips, to, finally her orange peel bra.
I nod. Yes, this is good.
I continue on. Next is Coconut, her pout all a-ready for me. Her hips are an entity in themselves, gyrating and rotating and shaking the little grass skirt into constant motion, sashaying the song itself into submission, her hips controlling the beat now, not the other way around. She runs her teal nails over her coconut top slowly, and I’m convinced.
She’ll be a hit, I can tell.
It wasn’t easy replacing three of the girls in a month, but I didn’t have a choice. Taryn was one overdose away from being carried out of here on a stretcher, and Nicole’s crying bouts in between shows was starting to get on my nerves. This is no place for lost little girls.
Before I even move, on the next pole down, Strawberry is ready for me. By the time I’m there, her legs are spread, beautiful long limbs extending out in perfect olive lines, her red-chained hands gripping the pole they’re attached to as she lowers herself over the huge half-strawberry on the ground.
I grin.
It was Jaws’ idea. It’s brilliant.
When I return to the first stage, the girls have switched out. Now its Cinnamon, the light dusting on her body glittering as she shimmies up that pole, her tan ass jiggling eagerly.
Perfect.
Next is Icing, rolling up her sock. Seeing me arrive she turns around so I get a nice view of her ass as she leans over.
“Sorry Boss,” she coos, shoving her ass up further.
I step onto the stage, then stop.
Hold on, Gav. No touching the dancers. That’s my rule, and for good reason. No way am I getting involved with one of them again. Not after what happened last time.
“Get your shi
t together, Icing,” I call.
She pouts, disappointed that I didn’t come over to discipline her in person.
I turn around, stride away to the back, to my office. I’ve just thought of something to take my mind off things.
Inside, enclosed by hardwood walls, supported by a maroon leather recliner, I feel more in control already.
I’m not going to be controlled by my urges, like some animal. No, not anymore. I’m past that now.
Icing will just have to suck some other guy’s dick to get away with being late.
I take out my phone and the little piece of paper and put them on the desk in front of me.
If I really want to get this over with, I’ll call her, not text. That way there won’t be any waiting. Just me, telling her what I want, her agreeing. That’s the way to do it: short, sweet and simple.
I lift my phone, then put it back down.
She never even told me her name. I don’t even know if this is her phone number.
I lift my phone.
What does it even matter? Why do I even care? What about Hannah?
I get up, shove the phone and paper back in my pocket.
This is a distraction. I shouldn’t be starting anything, not now that Hannah is missing. I don't have time.
When I stride back out, Icing’s finally ready. Her stockings rolled up to her thighs, the tips of her nipples erect through her tube top, her gaze doesn’t shift from me as she strides up to the pole, wraps her arms around it, then her legs, then fuses with the cool metal.
My hand dips in my pocket, crumples up the paper.
Why would she not tell me her name?
Chapter 8 - Torrie
As soon as my tea is done, I get Jane’s leash and put my coat back on.
What I have to do now is clear.
I flip up my hood and put on my big sunglasses.
The drive to the office doesn’t take long. My father has never been a patient man, so the office is all of five minutes away. Parking is leaving my nice red Porsche with a nice dignified young man whom we pay, who I think actually waits there the whole day until the odd time one of our six or so employees roll up and need their car parked.
As I walk up to the familiar black building, I glance at my reflection in the two-sided glass.
