by Jaci J
T’s ruining me.
Little by little.
He’s pulling me away from what I want.
T’s eyes narrow and his face darkens. “The fuck you mean, if it was a normal night at work? What kind of night is it, Bailey?” he snarls, putting his cigarette out on his nightstand before facing me.
“You just put that out in your damn nightstand,” I say incredulously.
“Answer my fucking question,” he growls, kicking a boot out of his way.
I sigh. I wish I would have just kept my mouth shut. I know what I’m about to say is going to piss him off further, especially after last night. This will ruin it all, but I have to take care of me. I have to do what’s right for me. “It’s a private party tonight.”
“What?” he roars, hands thrown up and tugging on his hair in frustration. “You’re leaving my fucking bed to do a private fucking show for some other motherfucker? After everything? After last night?”
The owner of the club showed up here and pulled me aside.
That’s as far as it got.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
“I’m leaving your bed to make money to pay my bills,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.
I was there, I know what happened, and I know it scared me.
But it wasn’t the first time in my life I was scared, and it won’t be the last.
“Fuck, Bailey.”
“I need to make money.”
I’m many things, but a pushover isn’t one of them.
I might be falling head over heels for T, but I have to keep my eyes on the prize—my independence.
“I don’t fucking care,” he snaps, pacing the floor. “You don’t leave my fucking bed to dance for other men.”
But I do.
It’s my job.
“I have to go to work,” I tell him plainly and simply.
“The fuck you do.”
“Tyler.”
“It’s not safe.”
“It’ll be fine.”
I’ve been through worse shit.
At five, I was taken by my mom’s boyfriend, snatched from kindergarten and held until my mom agreed to speak to him. At eight, I spent nights, many nights, at home alone, taking care of myself in the worst neighborhood in the city. At eleven, I was touched by one of my mom’s Johns, and I stabbed him in the hand with a letter opener when he tried it a second time. At fourteen, I lost my virginity to a man ten years older than me who sold drugs for a living. At sixteen, I moved out and into a house full of strippers and drug dealers. Since then, I’ve been living just the same—on the edge. This is just the PG version of my life.
But every year, things get better.
Slowly, but surely.
I’m not fucking going back, ever.
I won’t.
Rubbing at his beard, T shakes his head. “How much?”
“How much what?” Grabbing my jean shorts, the ones I’ve been wearing all weekend, I pull them on.
T levels me with his eyes, which are full of single-minded determination. Hard and unforgiving. Cold. “How fucking much are you making tonight?”
That’s impossible to answer. Tips, plus a base fee. “T, stop,” I plead, holding up my hand, wishing he’d just let me go.
I love money, but not like this.
I provide a service that pays me, and pays me well.
But I don’t take handouts.
Not from anyone.
“Fuck no,” he barks, “I won’t stop. How fucking much, Bailey?”
“Two grand, plus tips,” I answer quietly, hating how much money matters to me. With school, bills, and life, I need it. I need the cash, and as much of it as I can get.
Money rules me.
Always has, always will.
Because inside, I’m still that poor, dirty little trailer park rat with a prostitute for a mom, holy shoes on my feet, filthy, stinking clothes, an empty belly, and not a goddamn thing to my name.
Even after last night, even after being scared, I still need money more than I need to stay safe.
He nods, resolute as he turns away from me and walks over to his dresser.
He’s not wearing anything other than a pair of loose gray sweats, his tattooed back to me, and I want nothing more than to do what he says, to get back into his bed.
I can’t, though.
“Here,” he grunts, pulling something from his drawer and tossing it to me. “Now you can stay the fuck here with me.”
I catch it and look in my hands. It’s a roll of hundreds. A thick roll wrapped in a rubber band.
My stomach bottoms out and my chest starts to ache.
He can’t do that.
I can’t accept it.
Holding it out to him, I shake my head. “I can’t take your money.”
“What the fuck does it matter? You took it while you danced for me at that club for a fucking year. My money not good enough for you anymore?”
But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve saved all that money. Every hundred he’s paid me over the last ten months I’ve saved. I couldn’t spend it, not when I knew I selfishly needed to be with him those nights more than I needed the money. And I really needed the money. But I couldn’t spend it. It made me feel cheap, and I didn’t want that feeling attached to T, not when I wanted him so much more than the cash.
“It matters.”
“Jesus Christ, baby, just take the fucking money, then take your goddamn clothes off and get the fuck back in my bed,” he huffs. “You can dance for me if it makes you feel better.”
He doesn’t get it, and I don’t think he ever will and it makes my temper flare, because I hate that I need money this bad, bad enough to fight him about it. “I can’t! I have to fucking work!” I shout, fists clenched at my sides.
“The fuck you do. You don’t wanna take the money then I’ll pay whatever fucking bills you need paid.”
“That’s not how this works!”
I’ll take any other man for everything he’s got.
Not T.
Never T.
Tyler stalks toward me, his face full of thunder. “It does fucking work this way. You’re making it fucking hard. Harder than it needs to be.”
“T—”
“Trust me to take care of you, yeah?”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“It’s not you. It’s me.”
He laughs darkly. “That’s some fucking bullshit. Used that line a time or two in my life, but never had it used on me. Fuck, trust me. I got you.”
Does he, though?
Am I willing to risk it all?
Standing in the middle of his room, looking at him, I feel crazy. I feel like tugging at my hair and scrubbing at my face, all in frustration.
This is why this is never going to work.
“You’re not fucking understanding me,” I growl, backing away when he walks toward me. “You fucking met me at the club. You can’t just decide that suddenly you don’t want me working there when you fucking met me there.”
He snorts. “Yeah, baby, I fucking can. I don’t want motherfuckers in there touching my girl. I don’t even want them fucking looking at what’s mine!” he shouts back, pulling the wad of money from my hand and turning, shoving it in my purse.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him, stepping around him and toward the door, pulling the money from my purse and leaving it on his bed.
T doesn’t let me go.
I never expected him to.
19
T
SHE’S FUCKING CRAZY if she thinks I’m letting her walk out of my room to go dance, naked, for other men, especially after last night. She’s beyond fucking crazy if she thinks I’m not going to fight her on it.
“Let me go!” she shrieks, struggling against my hold.
“Calm the fuck down,” I growl, my face in her neck and my mouth at her ear. “You’re gonna piss me the fuck off.”
“Good
,” she fires back, clawing at the hands I’ve got wrapped around her waist, holding onto her and against me.
“No one is looking at my girl naked.”
“I’m not your girl.”
I hate that shit, because we both know she is.
“You’re not? Weren’t you just in that fucking bed, riding my cock, agreeing that I owned this pussy?” Letting one hand slip down her body, I cup her cunt through her worn jean shorts. “This shit is mine,” I remind her, since it seems like she’s fucking forgotten.
“It was just sex.”
That shit stings.
More than it fucking should.
I hate that this bitch can cut me down so fucking easily with just her words.
I let that shit die right there.
After last night?
After everything?
Fuck it.
If it’s just sex, then…
I set her ass on her feet and step away from her. I want her, and it’ll fucking gut me to watch her walk out of my room, knowing she’s going be getting naked for other men, but I’m not the motherfucker that bends over and lets a bitch fuck me. If she wants to play it this way, play it like this is just sex, then that’s how it’s going to roll.
She looks at me, almost like she’s fucking sad and hurt that I’m done fighting with her. I’m a man who’ll fight to the death, but not when the thing I’m fighting for isn’t going to fight just as hard.
I want a goddamn battle.
I want a fucking war.
But if Bailey isn’t going fight just as hard, then neither am I.
“I want to stay,” she says softly, pushing that long dark hair out of her face and over her shoulder. “But I have to work.”
I hear that shit. Hell, I fucking admire that shit in her, but not when I’m more than willing, more than happy to give her the money she’s so goddamn worried about. I’ve got enough of it.
“Then you better get your shit and go. Don’t keep those motherfuckers waiting on you.”
“Don’t be like that,” she pleads.
She doesn’t like me not fighting for her.
Good.
“Like what?” I ask her, knowing exactly how I’m being. Petty. Jealous. A prick.
“Mean.”
“Baby, you haven’t see mean.”
This is fucking nothing.
She doesn’t trust me, and that hurts worse than all the other bullshit.
“What the fuck does that mean?” she asks, grabbing her purse and throwing it over her shoulder.
“It means get your shit and get out of my room.”
She looks like I’d just smacked her, and I’m glad. Maybe she’ll understand that what I say, I mean. “Jesus, Tyler. You’re a fucking dick.”
I don’t look at her again.
Grabbing a smoke from my pack, I light one up and take a drag. I’m going need more than a goddamn cigarette when she leaves.
Bailey doesn’t say anything else. I hate that she makes me feel any type of way, and I hate that she gives up so goddamn easily. And I hate that I know there’s fuck all I can do to get her stay her other than by brute force, and I know goddamn well that won’t work. Not in the end, anyway.
“You’re an asshole,” she tells me before slamming the door behind her.
_______________
“Yo,” Buck calls, walking into room one. He takes one look at me and asks, “The fuck crawled up your ass?”
I’ve been in here an hour.
Alone and drinking.
It’s a motherfucking pity party.
A fucking party for one.
“Not a goddamn thing.”
“You cryin’ about last night?” King laughs, finding a chair.
“Fuck off.”
“Must be a woman. Only fucking thing that’ll make a man drink alone on a Saturday night when there’s plenty of available pussy walking around this joint, wet and willing,” Rocky says, chuckling.
“That shit is garbage,” I grumble, taking a pull from my beer. Not a chance in hell I can go back to that shit after having Bailey. No other woman will compare, and that, my friends, means I’m fucked. Fucked so goddamn hard because the bitch I want isn’t here, and I shouldn’t give a single fuck, but I do.
“Beer?” Poncho questions, looking at my hand.
I was drinking rum, but knew that shit wouldn’t fly when I had to be halfway sober in order to function during Church. So I switched to beer, and it’s not doing a goddamn thing for me.
“You see Tubs walking around?” Poncho asks Buck.
Buck laughs, snagging the seat to my right. “Swear to Christ, that ugly blonde left a snail trail around the club, her loose snatch dragging across the floor behind her.”
I don’t want to laugh, but I do. He’s not wrong, and that’s exactly why I want Bailey and her tight cunt and body in my bed. That shit is like pure coke, rare and fucking addictive. The woman is a goddamn problem.
My goddamn problem.
My old man walks in, followed by the rest of the club. Everyone taking their seat around the old-ass, beat-up table out back in room one.
“Welcome, motherfuckers. Everyone get fucked-up and their dicks wet last night?”
Everyone nods, smiling.
“You’re welcome,” my old man chuckles, lighting up a cigar. “Now, down to business. We know where those shots came from,” he informs everyone, pushing a piece of paper into the middle of the table, his eyes cutting to me. “It was the reason the Russians were here. They had the same issue.”
Oh, really?
On one of the two pieces of paper is a grainy ass picture.
“The fuck is that?” Poncho drawls, looking at it and then at my pops.
Jerking the piece of paper off the table, I take a closer look at it. Rock grabs the other.
It’s out front of club, the highway running by us. A truck in the picture, some junker, black and rusted. And in the front seat, hanging out the passenger window is some guy with a gun. I can’t make out his face, the type of strap he’s got, or whether or not he’s wearing a cut, but what I can see is a distinct sticker over the back fender, a sticker I remember well.
Fuck.
I try like hell not to jump to conclusions, but I’m not that type of guy. I jump first and ask questions later.
“You think this shit has to do with our deal with the Russians?” I ask my old man, even though I know the answer to the fucking question.
It does.
Rock doesn’t let him answer. “You know it fucking does. We’ve had fuck all going on in the last six months, and then this shit starts up as soon as we get into bed with these Russians. And now they’re getting hit, showing up here, blaming us.”
“This is a goddamn clusterfuck,” I snort, scooting my chair from the table and reclining back, kicking my feet out.
I’m done.
Checked the fuck out.
“We need the income,” Mick adds. “We’ve done worse for a profit.”
“Doubt we’ve dealt with anyone with more fucked-up drama than the Russians, though,” Rock tosses back, arms resting on the table.
He’s not wrong either.
“We do what we’ve gotta do,” Buck insists, head cocked. “Fuck the drama.”
Jesus Christ.
“We’re already dealing with them, bullshit or not. We need the cash flow and access to guns, so whether those bullets have to do with the Russian, deal or not, we’ll fucking handle it and all the other shit we’ve got going on,” I bark, tossing the picture back onto the table, tired of this shit already.
We’re used to the bullshit, and today is no fucking different. Hell, we’re already ass deep in it, so what’s the point of arguing about it? We all know my old man doesn’t like to go back on deals.
“Agreed,” my pops growls, everyone seconding it.
He looks at me. “You comfortable over there, son?”
Holding my hand up in the air, I give the asshole a thumbs up. “Fucking gran
d.”
“Good thing, princess. Don’t want you present and conscience or anything.”
“Yeah,” I huff. “Me either.”
“Jesus,” my old man mutters. “Anyway…”
Moving on to something else, someone knocks on the door, which doesn’t happen often. No one interrupts Church. Something’s not right.
“What?” Pops barks at the door, swinging around in his chair.
“T,” the prospect calls out, sticking his head in the door when my old man calls him in. He looks nervous. He should be. “Your phone’s going off, and I got word that there’s some problem down at the Pink Cat.”
God-fucking-dammit.
The Russians.
Bailey.
I fucking knew I shouldn’t have let her go.
BAILEY
Sitting in the dressing room, on a chair in front of the mirror, I stare at the red mark on my cheek and the small split on my lip.
I feel weak for crying.
I feel stupid for crying.
I feel crazy for crying.
My night was normal, outside of how I left things with T. Work was work. I was dancing, working for my money until shit changed in an instant, and I knew as soon as it happened that I made a fucking mistake.
Sonny pulled me off the floor and put me in his office.
I knew.
Two men in suits, Vincent’s thugs, shoved me into a chair. As soon as they did, Vincent started asking me questions. Questions I couldn’t even begin to answer. Questions I’d never answer even if I did know.
Is T your man?
Were they being played? Played by T and his club?
What do you know?
What have you seen?
Are you a fucking rat?
I couldn’t answer those questions because I had no idea what he was talking about, and when I told him that, he got mad—mad enough to hit me when I told him to fuck off and leave me out of their criminal shit. He was in my face, hammering me with questions and accusations, and I couldn’t stop my mouth from running.
I was mad.
So fucking mad.
And all I could think while in that room was how this was T’s fault. Had I never went there with him, let him convince to me to go home with him, these assholes would never have pushed me for information.
