by Zoey Parker
But as pitiful as the situation is that traps strippers into their day jobs or night jobs or whatever you’d call it, the men who come crawling into establishments like this are ten times worse. When I walked through the big, dark room housing the main stage, I’d taken a glance at the crowd littering the couches and shady booths. Fuckers made my stomach rise.
There are a few different types that populate the seedier strip joints. There are the cheaters, the businessmen clinging to a youth that had blown by them decades ago and left some savage tire marks on their bodies in the form of wrinkles, liver spots, and ulcers killing them one acid drip at a time. These men always tip the most. There are the young kids, too green to know that life is conspiring to fuck them over in the very near future and nowhere near ready for the ass kicking they will soon encounter. These men always tip the least. And then there ae the connoisseurs. These are the guys no stripper wants to encounter. They are the criminals, drug dealers, and murderers, the kind of men who’d put a bullet in a girl’s head for talking to them the wrong way and then go home to kiss their wives and complain about a boring day at the office. Cruel, dangerous men. They don’t tip at all—they take what they want and leave behind what they don’t. They’re vultures. They’re brutes. I despise them most of all.
A man’s got to have a code. If you don’t know what you won’t do, then what are the limits to what you will do? Don’t get me wrong, I’m like the criminals in that I take what I want, too. But unlike them, I don’t leave a trail of broken, innocent bodies behind me. I hurt the men who deserve hurting, fuck the girls who deserve fucking, and then I move on. Simple as that.
That’s my code. I do the right thing at the right time, then I leave. One night only. The next episode is always just a short motorcycle ride away. Still, I can’t help but wonder how long that can last. I’ve been restless my whole life. When I was young, joining the Inked Angels MC was the best way I could think of to keep moving, never pausing for breath, never stopping for longer than it takes to get my nut and hit the road again. But the more I move, in wider and deeper circles, the closer I get to what one might call sticky situations. I’ve got enough scars to verify that. Not to say I’m scared of anything. I’ve got enough scars to verify that, too. I just wonder what will happen if I get into something I can’t find my way out of. Do I get wiped off the map, just like that? Am I reduced to a stain of blood on the asphalt? Or is there part of me that will last?
I think of Devin’s blue, staring eyes, and shiver. Mortar has something that will last. He and Kendra have a baby who will carry their name and their blood, even after both of them are long in the dirt. I don’t have anything like that. No heir, no legacy. Considering the business I’m in, I’ll be lucky to even get a gravestone. I feel something akin to a fist curl up inside of me at the thought.
Another pair of blue eyes pops into my head: Rose’s. I was hoping to see her tonight, but so far, no such luck. I still have her nametag pressed into the palm of my hand. She’s an itch I can’t scratch. I hate the thought of a girl like her getting away. She shouldn’t be slipping through my fingers, she should be climaxing beneath them. A girl like her needs to be bent over my bed, moaning my name and clawing at the pillows while I drive into her. That fragile little body needs a strong hand to work it to its heights.
Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about her. She felt so delicate in my hands when I’d held her in the parking lot. I can’t get the desire out of my head. But I need to put her aside for the moment. I’m here for business, not pussy. And business right now is not looking good.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost one in the morning, and Cesar still hasn’t shown up. The last few times, I’d been annoyed. But this time, I’m concerned. Cesar’s words are still swirling around in my head. He’d been fucking terrified when we spoke earlier. Even for a twitchy, nervous guy, he had looked like a human live wire in the diner this morning, jumping damn near out of his seat whenever someone so much as glanced in his direction. He was genuinely afraid that the Diablos had eyes and ears on him, even then. What had got him so spooked?
He was short on information and long on fear. In my experience, that’s a bad combination. Paranoia makes a man do stupid things, and a man in a line of work like Cesar’s could not afford to be stupid. The second that one lets rumors and reputations shake him from his normal routine, he gets sloppy. Sloppiness leads to accidents. Accidents get men killed. I just hoped that wasn’t the case.
Another few minutes tick by. I’m tapping my foot on the ground. He needs to show up. I need to know more about this new cartel leader, El Diablo Blanco, or whatever the fuck his name was. The pieces just won’t lie right in my head. Why are the Diablos reforming now? Where did this motherfucker come from, and who the hell is he? I guess that’s all semantics, though. The most important thing I have to figure out is what they are planning. For the sake of the club’s survival, we need to get a jump on preparations. Any inside scoop could forestall war. Things have been good since Mortar took over, but we’re still not completely out of the woods. Our weapons stock is low and a significant amount of our money is tied up in investments that won’t come to fruition for a while longer. We need to be smart with what resources we have. That means good planning, and good planning requires good foresight. Sending me down here was Mortar’s way to get a head start on that. But I wasn’t expecting Cesar to be this shaken up. Why had a few nasty-sounding rumors done such a number on his sense of safety? I couldn’t be sure; he hadn’t given me much to go on. But one memory from my childhood keeps flashing in my head over and over again, like a warning beacon.
I was six years old, standing on the beach with my father. He worked on boat crews of all shapes and sizes, from chartered fishing vessels to massive cargo ships that crisscrossed the ocean for months at a time. He would be gone for massive chunks, weeks on end passing by without my seeing him. But he was a good man during those rare moments when he was around. We used to walk on the beach together. He’d have a glass beer bottle swinging in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lip. I learned to love the smell of smoke early on. When I made him laugh, he’d let me steal a sip of his beverage after checking around to make sure no nagging old ladies were looking.
That day, the clouds were low and roiling overhead. “Hurricane on the way,” he mumbled around his cigarette as he cupped a hand to light it against the stiffening breeze. My eyes must have grown round as dinner plates, because he looked at me and laughed, then passed the beer over so I could take a tiny swallow. “Wanna know a secret?” he asked me.
I nodded. Of course I did. What son didn’t want to conspire against the world with his father? We kept walking down the beach. The pier jutted up ahead. Crumbling, salt-stained wood rose above us, barnacles clinging to the bottoms of the posts where the high tide would roll in.
“There’s one surefire way to know there’s a bad storm coming,” my father said.
“What’s that, Dad?” I asked. We were passing under the pier now. The shadows were cool and moist. A briny smell from the tide pools filled my nostrils.
“Look up.” He pointed upwards and I followed his finger to gaze at the underside of the wooden planks. At first, I saw nothing. Then I noticed it: a blurring, skittering gray motion weaving between the wood. It took me a moment to figure out what it was. It looked like a river of fur. “The rats always run when a storm is coming, Vince. They know. They can smell it coming, and they’re smart enough to get the hell out of the way before they get sucked out to sea.”
I gazed at the rats scampering along the boards, away from the ocean that had begun to withdraw. The breeze had stopped, I realized. The waves ate less and less beach. Nature was getting ready to put on one hell of a righteous display. I felt fear gnawing at the lining of my stomach. It wasn’t the rats that scared me, although the current of rodents flowing past us overhead would have terrified most of the kids I knew. It was what they represented. Like cockroaches and Twinkies, rats could sur
vive just about anything. If they were running away, whatever they were running from must be something truly terrifying.
I never forgot those rats.
Funny that such a random memory would occur to me now, although I suppose it isn’t that random after all. Cesar is a rat. If he is getting ready to run, then maybe it really is time to be scared.
The door to the private room I’m sitting in creaks open. Someone slips through. Three thoughts flash through my head in quick succession. At first, I think it’s Cesar. But the moment the person steps into the light, I see that it’s a female. Tan skin and long, dark hair swinging over her face. My second thought is that it’s Rose. I notice with surprise and then irritation that I suck in a breath. Like I’m dying to see her. When I finally see that it’s a random stripper, I let the breath out in a long whistling exhale and lean back against the leather couch. What is this feeling slushing in my stomach? Disappointment? I need to get that shit out of the way real quick. Rose is just a girl. One I don’t even know. There’s plenty more where she came from. The best thing to do would be bang someone else and get her out of my head.
As if she can hear my thoughts, the stripper sidles over to me. “Hey, baby,” she says with her lips brushing against my ear. She places a small hand on my chest to steady herself as she swings a leg over my thighs and plants herself on top of me. The red-tinged lights shine down mutely from above. Every few seconds, the music from the speakers outside rattles the walls.
Inside this private room, though, the speakers are playing more softly. Bump and grind R&B oozes low and sensual around us. I survey the body of the girl on top of me. She’s got massive tits. The bikini top she’s wearing does virtually nothing to keep them up. She must agree that it’s not doing much, because as I watch, she reaches a hand behind her back and undoes the knot. The scrap of garment falls away from her torso and she casts it aside.
“Like what you see, papi?” she murmurs. She picks up each of my hands in hers and brings my palms to her breasts. Her hips start to grind back and forth over my jeans. I haven’t said a word yet. “I can give you a dance, if you’d like,” she continues. Her teeth are tiny, like white chiclets, but the tongue she lashes out across them looks wily and capable of anything. The lust emanating from her eyes is enough to make a weaker man come in his pants.
What the fuck is wrong with me? The feeling of disappointment has taken root in my loins and won’t let go. This stripper is bobbing up and down on my cock, stroking my bulge with her hands, giving me “fuck me” eyes like I’ve never seen before, and yet I feel nothing.
“Or,” she whispers, leaning forward to kiss my neck with pillow-soft lips, “we could lock the door and do a little bit more.”
And yet, nothing.
It feels like my body is betraying me. I’m fully soft, not an ounce of physical attraction anywhere in me. My hunger to fuck, normally so omnipresent and eager to be sated, has vanished. In its place is a weighty, metallic-tasting depression. I don’t want this girl. I want the one whose nametag I’m still holding.
I want Rose.
“Not tonight,” I say gruffly. I scoot back on the booth seat and push the girl off of me.
She frowns. “Oh, come on, Daddy, let’s have some fun,” she protests.
I ignore her. “Not tonight.” I look at the nametag in my hand. I’d wonder what’s wrong with me, but the answer lies between my fingers.
I don’t look up as the girl turns haughtily on one heel, scoops her top from where it fell on the floor, and marches out of the room in a huff. I’d rather be alone than with another girl right now. I don’t know what the hell that means, but the grating irritation of her presence is all I have to go on.
My watch chirps from my wrist. One o’clock. Cesar is an hour late. In the underworld circles he and I move in, tardiness is not an option. Something bad has happened. I know it with the same immediacy and certainty that recognized and latched onto Rose. I don’t need to reconsider or think it over; I just know.
A new thought occurs to me suddenly. What if I’m being set up? Cesar said it himself—the Diablos have eyes everywhere now. Could they have been watching me this whole time, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and take me out? Or maybe Cesar himself sold me to them. Whatever it takes to save his own hide. Self-preservation is the only god he worships. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities for him to trade my life in return for his own. I growl. The last place I want to end up in is a ditch tonight.
I sweep my eyes across the room, looking for cameras or anything else I might find. I see only what has been here the whole time. The room is small, eight or ten feet across, lined with black leather couches and red lamps set into recesses along the wall. A set of double doors leads back to the main room. No one is in here except for me.
Adrenaline courses through my veins. I need to move, now. I’ve been in one place for too long. Only idiots park themselves in foreign territory and wait around patiently like a kid at the bus stop. That’s begging to get killed. Dying in Mexico is not on my bucket list. Motion, exit, immediately. No time to waste.
The second I jump to my feet, the door bursts open and a flying blur slams into my chest. I’m a quarter second away from whipping a knife out of my belt and plunging into the person’s throat when I realize with a jolt who it is.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim.
“They’re after me!” Rose shrieks back. She’s panicked, eyes wild with fear. I can tell she doesn’t even know who I am yet. She’s running blindly from something that is scaring the living hell out of her.
The universe is a weird bitch. Call it fate, karma, whatever the fuck you want, but every now and then it throws things together in a way that reminds people we aren’t so goddamn important after all. We’re pool balls on a billiards table, getting bounced around whether we like it or not. This is one of those moments where something comes at a man when he least expects it. The only thing to do is keep on rolling.
“Come with me,” I order. I grab her hand and start to drag her along behind me towards the door. She comes willingly at first, but when I feel her heels dig in, I stop and turn around.
Her mouth is agape. “What…what are you doing here?” she gasps.
“I don’t think we have enough time to play twenty questions,” I retort. “Are you in danger or not?”
Her mouth flutters open and shut like a fish. She’s in full fight or flight mode, but my sudden reappearance in her life has clearly thrown a wrench in the works. She looks like a robot short-circuiting. “Yes,” she manages to splutter after a few precious seconds tick by.
“Then let’s go.” I’m all action. Motion feels good. It gets the gunk cleared out of my system. I need to move, act, respond, ride like the wind. I turn back to the door and start to walk, but Rose reins back on my arm again.
“What now?” I spin around to ask her, exasperated.
“They’re following me! The men!”
Without another word, I pivot back to the door and squat low, resting my ear against it. The bass is loud every time it hits, but in between notes, I can hear the rising tide of shuffling feet and enraged voices churning in the main room.
Boom.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?”
Boom.
Glasses shattering. Something heavy slams into the floor.
Boom.
A female voice shrieking.
Boom.
Heavy, booted footsteps sprinting up a ramp.
Boom.
Two sets of steps. “We’re coming for you, bitch!” a furious voice proclaims. I know exactly who the fuck they are. I wait until the door handle starts to twist. The second I see its rotation begin, I throw the full weight of my body into the door. It flies outward on its hinges. The hard edge catches one man squarely in the center of the forehead. I hear an ugly crack. He stumbles backwards and collides with his partner behind him. Limbs tangled, they both go tumbling back down the shallow ramp they had just run up, cursing.
I see the trail of wreckage they made as they’d run across the room. Drinks are broken, shards of glass strewn across the floor. Patrons stand angrily, looking on in fury and astonishment at the scene unfolding before them.
I don’t wait to see how the men react. The bass booms again, rattling the building to its foundations. I seize Rose’s hand in mine.
“Which way out?”
She points. We run. Zigzagging down a crooked hallway, we reach a side entrance and burst into the night. It’s black and sticky with humidity outside. The air hugs the inside of my lungs as our feet pound the pavement of the parking lot.
My motorcycle stands gleaming at the far edge of a circle of light cast from overhead. We cross the asphalt towards it. I don’t stop to ask for permission from Rose before grabbing her by the hips and tossing her across the back of the seat. I mount, yank the key in the ignition, and bellow, “Hold on!” over my shoulder before gassing the engine. Tires squeal as we rip out into the night.
There’s a storm coming. We need to get out before it’s too late.
