Menace (Scarlet Scars Book 1)

by J. M. Darhower

  Or so I’ve heard...

  The guys occasionally swing through when they’re not otherwise occupied, splurging on the strongest liquor and the sweetest women money can buy. I’ve never been, since paying for pussy isn’t my thing, and I’m certainly not there right now.

  No, this place is the opposite of Limerence.

  Mediocre building in a low-rate area near the river, skirting the slums, full of hoodlums with just a few bucks, shoving lone dollar bills in G-strings as they negotiate for a quick, cheap fuck.

  Mystic.

  Nothing mystical about the shithole.

  As it turns out, George Amello owns the place. Who would’ve thought? That makes him Scarlet’s boss, which is funny, you know, considering he told Seven he’d never heard of the woman.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn toward the sound of that voice, to the guy standing right inside the main entrance at Mystic. Six feet tall, arms as thick as thighs, a dark bald head shining under the flickering colorful lights. He’s scowling the kind of way that makes me think he doesn’t know what it’s like to smile—that all business, panties in a fucking twist kind of scowl. He probably thinks he’s intimidating, but a knee in his shriveled nuts could easily take him down.

  “I’m here to see your boss,” I tell him, flicking my wrist, waving him away. “Run along and get him for me. Make it quick.”

  He stands there, raising his eyebrows, and hesitates a moment, delaying so long I’m close to losing my temper. Music is thumping wildly not far from my head, some eighties hair-band song, pouring sugar on a cherry pie or some equally metaphorical food-inspired bullshit.

  “I think you ought to leave,” the man says. “Amello doesn’t entertain folks that don’t have appointments.”

  “He’ll make an exception for me.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he isn’t going to like what happens if he doesn’t.”

  It must sound like a threat, because the guy reacts as such, uncrossing his bulging arms as he takes a step toward me, like he expects me to balk. I raise an eyebrow, just daring him to lay a finger on me, when a voice cuts through the tension, shouting over the music. “Darrell, its fine. I’ll see him.”

  Ah, ol’ Mello Yello, the yellow-bellied motherfucker. I turn, seeing him standing in the doorway to an office beneath the DJ booth. He eyes me warily, probably wondering why I came here.

  I waltz past him, right inside. Amello clears his throat, saying, “leave us,” to a pair of guys. They vacate the office and Amello shuts the door, hesitating there, like he’s nervous to be alone with me. Probably ought to be.

  “Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,” I mutter, strolling across the office, around his desk. There’s a wall full of monitors broadcasting live, showing every nook and cranny of the club, women performing acts not meant for innocent eyes. “Kissed the girls and made them cry.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting down behind his desk, ignoring my teasing. Smart.

  “Why? Am I not welcome?”

  “Didn’t say that. I was just wondering what brought you here tonight.”

  “Good question,” I say, my gaze scanning the monitors, stalling on one near the top, a view of a dim hallway. A woman saunters through it, leading a man toward an isolated back room. I can’t see her face, but I recognize the rest of her.

  “Well?” he asked. “What do you want, Scar?”

  I kind of want to kill him. Not even going to lie. But at the moment I just want him to shut the fuck up so I can watch her in silence. That’s not going to happen, though. No, he’s too nervous. He fidgets and huffs and shifts around in his chair, waiting for an explanation for my presence.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot, Georgie,” I say, watching as Scarlet leads the man out of the hallway. I scan the other screens until I find her again.

  It’s a perfectly square room, a small platform in the center, a pole jutting out of it and connecting to the ceiling. A deep leather lounging couch takes up the back as mirrors line the walls surrounding it. Besides that, a few wayward leather chairs are shoved aside, and a small bar runs along the left, red lighting consuming the room.

  Scarlet glows... well... scarlet. There’s no other way to describe how the color tints her skin. She’s stunning, bathed in red, just like I knew she would be.

  A smile lifts my lips as I turn to Amello. He’s lucky, so damn lucky, and the son of a bitch doesn’t even know it.

  “I don’t take well to being called names,” I say. “Nor do I appreciate having my reputation called into question. I didn’t rob you. Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. So you can take your ten percent and shove it up your ass, because I’ve got no use for your measly pennies. But I like to think I’m a reasonable man, so I’ve decided to let it go this time, because I figure, you know, maybe you just don’t know any better, but you’ll learn, if you know what’s good for you, and it won’t happen again. You got me?”

  He glares at me. He isn’t happy, that’s for damn sure, but he’s got me. He’s not a complete idiot.

  “What would you think,” he asks, “if you were me?”

  “I’d think I had something somebody wanted,” I say, my gaze flickering back to the surveillance monitor. How true that is… but it’s not his money I’m after.

  I find myself wanting the beautiful bendy brunette that’s working in this shithole.

  “We can be friends, you and I... but that’s a choice only you can make,” I tell him. “If you don’t want to be my friend, you don’t have to be. But I learned long ago there are only two kinds of people in this world, so if you’re not my friend, Georgie? I guess I’ll have to count you among my enemies.”

  I walk out, saying nothing else. He glares at me, having no rebuttal. What’s there to say, anyway? Nothing.

  The club is loud, the music still thumping, some techno bass bullshit without any words now. Blinding disco lights flash, the girl on the main stage swinging around a pole, wearing reflective material, like a cracked-out gymnast.

  I’ve got nothing against strippers. Really, I don’t.

  I’ve got nothing against prostitutes, either. You do you.

  But I do have something against people who can’t even function without shooting something into a vein, without snorting something up their nostril. I spent the first half of my life under the care of someone more cocaine than woman. The agitation, the erratic behavior, the nosebleeds. My mother blew out her septum when I was just a kid, had plastic surgery more than once to try to hide the evidence. I can spot an addict a mile away thanks to her, and the woman on the stage? Cracked-out, without a doubt.

  I avert my eyes as I stroll through the club. Instead of heading for the exit, where the bouncer still lurks, watching me, I veer toward the back of the place. Halfway down the hall, my footsteps falter, and I pause in an open doorway, the soft glow of red lights spilling out all around me.

  I’m not supposed to be back here. The glares women give me as they strut past, leading guys to and from these rooms, tells me so. No sex in the champagne room. We’ve all heard it. They say it doesn’t happen, but I know, in some places, in some situations, sex is negotiable.

  Flash enough cash and pussy can be yours.

  I know it happens here.

  But Scarlet? She’s not even naked.

  Not right now, at least.

  She’s dancing. She looks so utterly bored. Does nobody else notice? Although she smiles, there’s no fire in her eyes, her stare damn near vacant. I’ll give her credit, though—she’s got rhythm. Her hips sway perfectly in tune with the music, like her body is feeling it even if she’s not.

  The little red, lacy see-through get-up she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, even less as she slowly unfastens her top, teasing the guy as the straps fall down her arms.

  She pulls it off after a moment, tossing it aside, exposing the most stunning set of tits I’ve ever laid my eyes on. They’re small, b
arely a handful, but fuck if they’re not perfect—perky, and natural, with the kind of nipples that beg to be tasted.

  The man reaches for her when she turns toward him, his hands moving on their own, like it’s instinct around a set of tits that beautiful, but she grabs his wrists without missing a beat, stopping him as she shakes her head. No touching.

  He obliges, dropping his hands to his side, shoulders slumping with disappointment. Can’t say I blame the guy. She teases him for a moment, shoving them in his face as she dances, straddling his lap and pushing him until he’s lying on the lounge couch. His eyes drift closed, his hands linking together behind his head, as Scarlet turns around.

  Her expression glazes over.

  Bored. Bored. So fucking bored.

  Her eyes are fixed to the ceiling, to the lights shining down on her, as she half-heartedly grinds her ass against his crotch. I watch her for a moment before taking a step into the room. She’s quick to sense my movement. Her head lowers, and a hint of panic sparking in her eyes. Alarmed. Her gaze meets mine, the guy not noticing a difference, but I can sense it. I see the way her posture changes, her breathing labored, shaky exhales escaping her lungs as she watches me. I slowly approach, my footsteps undetectable over the sound of the music.

  If she’s truly bothered by my presence, she doesn’t let it show, not missing a beat as she dry humps the guy. It’s not like in her apartment, not like when I had her pinned to the door, thrusting against her, driving her to the brink.

  No, she’s getting nothing from this. No arousal. No excitement.

  Fucking boredom.

  I pause in front of her, cocking an eyebrow, as she continues going through the motions. A small smile twists her blood-red lips. It does something to me, that smile. I don’t know how to explain it. People don’t get to me the way a look from this woman claws its way under my skin.

  Nudging her chin, I tilt her head up further, watching her throat flex as she swallows, like I might be making her nervous. Good. Her lips are parted, her warm breath greeting me as I lean down toward her, tilting my head. My thumb slowly swipes along her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick, just a breath away from her mouth, when she whispers, oh-so-shakily, “Kissing is gonna cost you.”

  I laugh under my breath and press my lips to hers—once, twice, three times—soft, barely a peck, but she bites my bottom lip the last time, sending a sharp stab of pain through it. I wince, licking my lip as I stand back up, a slight copper taste on my tongue. She drew blood.

  She knows it, too.

  There’s the spark.

  It lights up her eyes.

  Squeezing her chin, I lean down again, kissing her once more, rougher this time, before whispering, “You taste better now.”

  She still hasn’t missed a beat.

  The woman is good at what she does, that’s for damn sure.

  Letting go, I retreat a few steps, my eyes scanning her, my gaze lingering on those tits. There’s more I’d like to stick around and do, but I know damn well Amello is watching my every move.

  I’m going to have her, though.

  No doubt about it. I’ve made up my mind.

  Men like Amello get their panties in a twist when you steal from them. He called me a thief, so that’s what I’ll be. Like I said, if you don’t appreciate what you’ve got, someone like me will be more than happy to take it.

  Scarlet’s cheeks flush, visible even through the thick layers of makeup, her eyes twinkling, every ounce of boredom gone in a blink.

  Definitely not the only one getting a thrill out of this.

  I stroll toward the doorway just as the song changes. It’s barely a second of silence before the music starts up again, but something happens in that moment, a shift in the air when someone off in the distance screams. My footsteps falter. Turning my head, glancing back, I watch Scarlet come to a stop. She springs to her feet, alarmed, snatching her top off of the floor and fumbling with it, desperately trying to put it back on, but there’s no time.

  No time.

  Chaos erupts. More screaming. Running. Voices shout over the music, incoherent words I don’t understand, but Scarlet seems to. Eyes wide, her body trembles as she mouths something, but her voice doesn’t seem to work right now.

  Uh-oh.

  The guy she’d been straddling sits straight up, realizing his lap dance is over, in a drunken stupor as his bloodshot eyes narrow at me.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, but I don’t have a chance to answer before a distinct rat-ta-tat-tat sound echoes through the club, the harrowing rattle of incessant gunfire.

  AR-15, I’m guessing. My chest tightens. Son of a bitch. Is he being robbed? Again?

  “Oh god,” Scarlet says, finally finding her voice. “No, no, no…”

  There’s a tremor to those words. Terror coats every syllable. Never took her for the kind to buckle in the face of danger. She sure as fuck didn’t balk when it came to me. The commotion gets louder, people fleeing from the club, racing down the hall toward the back exit before doubling back, like that way is blocked.

  Whoever it is has the place surrounded.

  Sitting ducks.

  Scarlet retreats deeper into the room. It’s only seconds. That’s it. Mere seconds of pandemonium. She jumps behind the bar to the far left of the room, cowering there, shielding herself from view. I take a few steps that way, not completely approaching, just coming close enough that I can see her.

  No, it’s not a robbery, and it’s clear she senses it, too

  It’s more like a massacre.

  I know a thing or two about those.

  I stand there, shoving my hands in my pockets, staring at the doorway as someone bursts in. A man dressed in all black, wearing a ski mask. Huh. The drunk from the lap dance freaks out, yelling, “Who the fuck are you?”

  Unlike when he asked me, this guy is kind enough to respond. He answers right away with a bullet to the face, no hesitation.

  Who the fuck are you?

  BANG.

  Scarlet doesn’t move at all, doesn’t make a sound, as the gunshot echoes through the room, a big, burly motherfucker pulling the trigger, dropping the scumbag with a single shot.

  He turns to me next, pointing the gun, finger still on the trigger, but this time, he pauses. Eyes narrowing, he studies my face before shouting something out in a foreign language, a single word sticking out of the gibberish: Scar.

  My hands clench into fists in my pockets as I force myself not to go for my gun. “I guess my reputation precedes me, huh?”

  He looks like a bear, I think, the burly motherfucker, as he shoves the ski mask up, offering me a glimpse of his face. He doesn’t respond with words or a bullet, which I think is answer enough.

  Someone else joins us, a bit shorter and smaller, otherwise similar in features. No ski mask, this one. No gun. He’s not even dressed in all black, instead wearing a dark gray suit. He carries himself differently, too, an air of confidence surrounding him, much of his skin covered in dark tattoos.

  That would make him the leader.

  That’s pretty easy to see.

  It’s peculiar, though, almost surreal, a strange sense of déjà vu assaulting me. If I weren’t witness to this, I swear to fuck, I’d probably suspect myself, too. It feels too familiar, like watching a cheap reboot of a classic. Either this is a case of great minds thinking alike, or this guy has been studying my playbook.

  The moment the newcomer yells, spouting off something foreign to his guys, Scarlet reacts. I see her tense from the corner of my good eye. She presses against the bar, trying to fade into the shadows, as she mouths something to herself, over and over and over, still not making a sound.

  Look, it doesn’t take a genius to put four and six together and come up with ten, you get what I’m saying? Cowering woman. Foreign McFuckFace with his own little massacre squad. It’s like I’m in the midst of yet another Die Hard sequel.

  Does that make me Bruce Willis? I don’t know.

  But I a
m willing to bet that makes ol’ Bebop and Rocksteady here our dastardly villains. And doing that basic math in my head, I’m saying it all adds up to the Russians.

  The men chatter back and forth as I observe them before someone says that damn word again. Scar.

  He turns to me then—their leader, ol’ Bebop—and stares me down as he steps closer. “The notorious Scar. I have heard much about you.”

  “Good things?”

  “Horrific things. Murder. Mayhem.”

  “So... good things,” I say again.

  He laughs. “The best things.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “I’m not sure I can say the same about you, though.”

  “You have not heard of me?”

  I was going for I hadn’t heard any good things, but we’ll go with that. “Afraid not.”

  “Oh, but I am sure you have,” he says as he smiles. “You just do not know it was me they spoke of. Reputation is not important to me. I do not care what anyone thinks as long as I get what I want.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  “Depends on which day it is.” He laughs again. “Today, like most days, I am looking for a girl. Maybe you have seen her?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Does she have a name?”

  “Morgan,” he says. “She is a very pretty girl. You would not forget her if you saw her. She has the sweetest smile.”

  That she does.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I tell him.

  “That is a shame,” he says as he glances around the room. He can’t see behind the bar from there, but if he comes any closer, Scarlet is fucked.

  His gaze shifts that way, and he seems to consider it, before gunshots erupt in the hallway, a man shouting, “Vor!”

  It captures Bebop’s attention, and he glances that way, muttering under his breath before turning back to me. “I have respect for you, Mister Scar. I admire a man who takes what he wants, because I do the same. So I will leave you in peace, since my fight is not with you.”