by Shandi Boyes
"Abby?" Jet questions, his one word as breathless as my panicked composure. "Did you nearly fall...? That was cutting it close. I don't think you should do that again. You scared the shit out of me..."
His words trail off when he notices me packing. “Where are you going, doll face? You have another two performances.”
“I...I’m... This...”
I can’t get my words past the panic curled around my throat. I don’t know what is more distressing, wondering if my cover has been blown or my near-death experience. Considering I’d rather be dead than caught, I’d say it is my first worry.
“Abby...” Jet follows me into the dressing room, darting between a dozen topless dancers on his way.
I flick on the outdated bulb before moving to the section reserved for my clothes. Although Pete's first three hundred dollars went toward two outfits, the remaining eight spread sparingly on three feet of hanging space belong to me. I paid for them out of my profits, hoping a change-up in outfits would keep the regulars entertained until I devised more daring routines.
“Stop and think about this, Abby. You need the money.” Jet isn’t prompting me about my dire financial state because he is concerned about Pete’s profits. He's reminding me because he has become more a friend the past three weeks than a coworker.
I stop shoving my clothing into my open gym bag when he adds on, "Running won't get you anywhere fast. It hasn't in the past; it won't now. It's time to face your past, Savannah."
I clamber backward, shocked and void of a reply. I never told him my real name—not once.
“Oh... come on. Don’t be scared. It’s me. Lollipop Jet.” He digs a cherry cola pop out of his pocket before shoving it into his grinning mouth. “Look in my eyes, Savannah. Tell me what you see? It isn’t a man who will hurt you.”
He steps back, placing an unthreatening amount of distance between us before raising his eyes to mine. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach for the second time tonight when the reason behind his familiar eyes comes to light. How did I not see this earlier? Have I been walking around with blinders on?
“Jeffrey...?” My words are as unconfident as my facial expression. “Jeffrey Moat?”
I see Jet’s tongue curling around his lollipop from the broad grin he's giving me.
“But you moved to Cali years ago. Your dad is a lawyer.” I scan our location. Although Vipers glistens like my skin after a dusting of body glow, it is still a strip club. No amount of sparkle can alter that fact. “You shouldn’t be working at a strip club.”
“Why not?” He chuckles under his breath.
“Because... because...”
I’m stumped. I work here, so how can I give a valid point without degrading myself?
“You’ve lost a lot of weight.” I roll my eyes. That’s the best you could come up with? Anyone would swear I was meeting with the ladies who use to run our primary school PTA, not a boy I went to school with until grade seven.
“And you’ve gained a few pounds... in a good way.” Jet’s last sentence comes out in a hurry, unfazed by my snarled growl.
I groan for the second time when his eyes fail to deviate from my chest.
"Sorry. Old habits die hard." If he weren't smiling, I might have believed him. "You were always a looker back in the day, Savannah. I’m glad to see nothing's changed."
His compliment removes some of my worry. “When did you move back to Ravenshoe?”
I can't believe how different he looks. When we were young, Jet was very overweight. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and his left shoe was padded because one of his legs was longer than the other. He didn't look like this...hot enough to fight off three to four eager women every night. The Viper's female clientele don't arrive at precisely 6 PM every night for cheap drinks. They come for Jet.
"A couple of months ago," Jet answers, reminding me that I asked a question. "I ran into some trouble in Cali, decided to start afresh. You?"
He asks his question without any stipulation. If I don’t want to answer, I don’t have to.
“Same.”
He nods, not deterred by my short reply. “So you inevitably knew tonight would happen, right? You can’t come home and not expect to see old faces. It would be nice, but very unlikely.”
Sweat slicks my skin. “You saw Brax too?”
Jet nods again. "Hasn't changed, has he? I swear he's been rocking that hairstyle since kindergarten."
I laugh. “It suits him.”
“Yeah, it does,” Jet replies with a shrug, not entirely convinced. “But you need to shake things up a bit, dust off the cobwebs, so to speak.”
I immaturely roll my eyes. “Are you sure your family moved to Cali? Or did you just don a skirt and hang out with the senior girls at Ravenshoe High?”
My voice is snarky from memories of Amelia saying something similar to Ryan years ago. What I said to Ryan over a decade ago was true, Amelia was a nice girl, but neither of them saw the bitchy looks her friends gave me when she said her comment loud enough for me to hear. Although peeved, since I had a long way to go to repay the money I believed I owed Axel, I was happy Ryan was moving on.
Somewhat.
Maybe.
That’s a lie.
I was devastated.
He deserved to be happy, but I had always hoped we’d find that happiness together. God—how wrong was I? I just wanted him to wait a few more months... Ten years later and I still haven't gotten my shit together. At least this time around I'm not solely to blame for our separation. Ryan instigated it; I’m merely sustaining it.
“Brax... really? I never saw that one coming.”
I glance at Jet, confused by the shock in his tone.
"That worried look on your face. That's from Brax?" His facial expression doesn’t reveal if he's asking a question or stating a fact.
“Nothing happened between Brax and me."
Jet breathes out dramatically. “Good, because he always looked at you like a little sister, so that would have been weird—”
“Ryan, on the other hand,” I interrupt, praying he doesn’t say he also saw me as a sibling, as that wouldn’t just be weird, it would destroy every fantasy I’ve ever had.
Jet smiles a blistering grin. “Ah. So you two finally sorted your shit out?”
A grin cracks onto my mouth. "Somewhat. We kind of dated for a few years... Then things went sour. Then we dated again..." A grimace finishes a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.
“Then things went sour again?” Jet fills in.
I nod. “As sour as you can get.”
Jet shoves my half-packed gym bag onto the counter we’re standing next to before nudging his head for me to sit. When I do, he crouches down in front of me like a coach about to give a pep talk to his star quarterback.
“What happened?” His tone is not intrusive or rude.
I take a moment to consider how to reply in a mature, non-emotional type of way. I shouldn’t have bothered. “Ryan cheated,” I blurt.
Jet falls onto his backside, making me giggle. “Ryan-Take-a-Chance-on-Me-Carter cheated? No fucking way.”
I take a mental note to book an appointment with an optometrist when I roll my eyes for the third time in under five minutes.
"You must have misread what you saw... Smoked crack... Knocked your fucking head, because there's no way Ryan Carter would cheat. The guy wouldn't even let me glance at his paper when we were taking a spelling test in third grade. Cheating isn't in his vocabulary."
After blowing air out of my mouth so fast my lips wobble, I stand and make my way back to my wardrobe. “I would have believed you if he didn’t reveal his philandering ways himself.”
Jet stares at me, blinking and mute.
“Are you sure that’s what he confessed to?” He hands me a wrapped lollipop, as if sugar is the answer for everything.
I twist off the plastic and pop it into my mouth before nodding. “He said he got sick of waiting so he moved on.”
“He
couldn’t have waited to tell you he wanted to move on before moving on? That’s whacked.”
“Whacked? We are too old to say ‘whacked,’” I giggle, my words extra throaty from the sugary spit my lollipop is creating. I can understand Jet’s fascination. They are delicious.
“Speak for yourself. I lived under my dad’s command for twenty-five years. I’ve got years of youthful misdemeanors to make up for.”
“Ah. Now the strip club job makes sense.” I barge him with my barely covered hip.
He grins while waggling his brows, confirming my suspicion.
“You sure you want to do this?” He nudges his head to the two original outfits I started with. “This is the first time I’ve seen anyone I know here. Maybe Brax’s visit was just a one-off. He was standing with Keke. I’ve heard rumors they are more than friends.”
I take a deep breath. “I can’t risk it. Ten years of silence will already make things awkward, let alone if it happens here.”
Jet glances into my eyes for two heart-thrashing seconds before dropping them to my midsection. I don’t need to peer down to know what he's looking at. I’ve felt its significance long after the burn wore off.
“It’s not what you’re thinking—”
“I didn’t say it was,” Jet interrupts, returning his eyes to mine. “But it’s got to mean something, and I’m fairly sure it is the reason you sashayed into this club three weeks ago with your head held high even though you’d hit rock bottom.”
Sick of lying, I nod. The ink on my hip is precisely why I am here.
Pretending he can’t hear Pete shouting his name, Jet runs his hand down my goosebump-mottled skin. “Then take a step back and breathe. You’re earning a living. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you decide this isn’t what you want, hand in your notice. But if it is what you need, there's no shame in admitting that.” His wisdom matches his wise eyes.
When I nod, he takes a step backward. "I'll tell Pete you've got woman issues." The cheeky glint in his eyes doubles when he drops them to my teeny tiny white pants.
“Even Pete won’t have any issues understanding why you can’t perform your last two shows.”
I nearly correct him that there are feminine products that stop that from being an issue, but when his glance lingers on my bare thighs longer than what could be deemed acceptable, I realize he isn’t worried I’ll represent the club in a negative light—he’s perving.
“The loss of an eye will be worth the sacrifice.” He chuckles when I grab one of the stilettos resting near my knee and peg it at his head.
His dash out of the dressing room slows to a snail’s pace when I call his name. I wait for him to spin around and face me before asking, “Why Jet?”
I know why I picked the alias I did. It is the same reason my name changed a minimum five times the past ten years—my safety. But what purpose does Jet have for a change in name?
“Do you want the honest answer? Or a watered-down version?”
My arched brow answers his question on my behalf.
He pulls his lollipop out of his mouth before licking his lips, adding to their glossy appearance. "Because I make women come faster than a rocket."
My eyes pop open. That was not an answer I was anticipating.
My shock doubles when he adds on, “If you ever want to test my skills, give me a holler.” A bold wink seals his cocky offer.
Stealing my chance to reply, he disappears into a sea of half-naked women who don’t bat an eyelid at his boastfulness. It is business as usual, making me suspect everything he said was true.
Even the parts including his sexual abilities.
Chapter 9
Ryan
"Are you sure this is the address Damon gave?" I question down my cell, glancing at a crumpled piece of paper my mom handled me earlier this evening. "It's not what I was expecting."
After my mom assures me for the third time I have the correct address, I lift my eyes to the flashing sign in front of me. It’s been years since I’ve been to Vipers, so the address didn’t register when I saw it. I shouldn’t be surprised Damon selected this location. He rocks up out of the blue for the first time in years and requests for me to meet him at our dad’s favorite strip joint.
Brother of the Year material right here, ladies and gentleman.
After glancing down at my dark blue trousers, white button-up shirt, and jacket, I head into the main entrance. The last time I walked through these doors was the evening of Justine's eighteenth birthday. Fuck—who would have been able to predict the obstacles I’d go on to face. If you had told me I'd be walking in these doors ten years later as a detective at Ravenshoe PD, I would have laughed. I never saw my life taking the path it has—not in a million years.
Keeping my chin braced on my chest, I pay the high entrance fee before slipping into the main floor area of the club. My face isn't famously well-known around these parts like Isaac’s, but it is known enough I have the possibility of being spotted. Most likely by criminals, but detected nonetheless.
I guess that’s why Damon chose this location? Corrupt men are less likely to confront their own in their territory. If it weren't for the pull I've amassed the past six years, Damon's extensive list of criminal activities would be higher than it currently sits. He took my word of protecting him from my father's murder and twisted it in a completely fucked up way. He didn't just expect me to take the fall for our father's demise, he anticipated I'd handle every misguided thing he does.
I have news for him. Just like my search for a pretty blonde with green eyes ended years ago, so did my offer of the safety net I’ve been using to catch him the past ten years.
I swore to protect him on the promise he wouldn't become our father. He lied, so there's no need for me to continue my side of our agreement anymore. I've done everything I can: extensive rehab, drug counseling; I even set him up with an apartment in town when he rocked up eight years ago. What did I get for my efforts? Lies, lies, and more lies.
Damon has gone so far down the rabbit hole, I honestly don’t know if he can still lie straight in bed. With every request for money came a dishonest pledge. I caught on to his games years ago. My mom is still learning.
You’d think she’d be more clued into the games abusers play after handling my father’s antics for twenty years, but she's none the wiser. Instead of her life improving when my dad passed away, the baton of burden shifted to Damon. She will go without groceries for a week to ensure Damon’s drug habit is maintained. It is a vicious, demoralizing cycle that has no end in sight.
I love my brother, but I hate the man he has become.
Spotting Damon and Brax in a far corner booth, I increase my pace. Although appreciative of the many flirty smiles I'm getting from the staff at Vipers, I'm not so desperate for female company I'm willing to part with my hard-earned money to achieve it. My detective salary certainly is a step up from the rookie income I lived off when I joined the force a decade ago, but it will never be high enough for me to drop coins on something I can get for free.
As long as she doesn't have honey hair, green eyes, and a lack of self-respect, I'm open to the prospect. But if there’s any requirement involving money, I'm not interested. Not in the slightest. Never going to happen. Nada.
When I reach my brother, I hold my hand out in offering. “Damon.”
He accepts my offer, although hesitantly.
"It's been eight years, man, time to let bygones be bygones," Brax mutters into my ear, greeting me in a friendlier nature than the one I issued my brother.
I wasn’t shocked when Brax called to say he received an invitation from Damon. Damon might be a liar and a cheat, but he’s also smart. He knew Brax was the perfect buffer. He's the equivalent of our brother without the blood or the official title.
Brax did everything in his power to get Damon on the straight and narrow ten years ago. He went out on a limb for him, but because he was only working with half-truths, he didn’t fully comprehend the mammoth task
he was undertaking.
As far as anyone in this town is concerned, my mother killed my father—even Brax believes this. When my mother returned from the rehabilitation home where she resided for nearly two years, she wasn’t shamed, ridiculed, or spoken down to. She was seen as a matriarch of the domestic violence community, which is distressing considering her current predicament.
My mom has grown a lot the past ten years, but she still isn’t half the woman she could be. No matter how much light I shine on her, she will always find a shadow. It is who she is. Nothing can change this.
Brax slaps my back three times, drawing my focus to the present.
“You know why he picked here to meet, don’t you?” I ask, pulling back from his man hug.
Brax quirks a brow. “Yeah, I know. But there's nothing wrong with an off-duty detective spending his weekend looking at some fine ladies.”
He gestures for me to slide into the booth before him, understanding my objective to remain inconspicuous. If anyone here remembers my dad, I’ll be pinned as corrupt in less than a nanosecond. I worked my ass off for years to have the mud removed from my family name. I won’t let anything taint it.
Forty minutes pass in silence, adding to my agitation. Damon has had two lap dances since I arrived, but I’ve failed to see him remove his wallet. I’m not a regular at these types of establishments, but don’t businesses demand payment prior to service? You don’t watch a movie before paying for the ticket, so how can you secure a stripper without proving you have the means to pay the tab?
I chuckle under my breath. Is Damon the problem or me? Perhaps I've disconnected so far from society I'm not seeing things the way they are anymore. I do work—tirelessly. Maybe I'm out of the loop?
I can't remember the last time I went out. I'm reasonably sure it was a year ago when I succumbed to Regina's suggestion of letting her set me up with someone she knew.
