by Lana Sky
“If I had, I would have told you.” I sound like a hostage reading a script, though maybe I am. I’ve memorized what to say when he’s like this. It’s become a fucking mantra. “Look. Dante’s my brother—”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?”
“But so are you. You were always there for me. Always. I won’t bail on you.” Tonight, anyway. “You know that.”
“Do I?” Arno hisses out a breath, his shoulders slumping as he braces one hand against the table. “I do—I fucking know that. I know that.”
We both just needed to hear me say it, though for very different reasons.
“It’s probably just a fucking coincidence,” he adds, shaking his head. “Some new gang on the scene that wants a cut of the pie. Whoever they are can get in fucking line.” He runs his hand down the side of his jeans, his palm resting over where he keeps his gun.
That little tea party didn’t cure his itch for violence. Before the week’s out, he’s going to empty that chamber into someone. It’s another addiction he’s developed, in addition to booze.
“You said that guy worked for the Cartel, but he wasn’t from south of the border, if you know what I mean,” I say, changing the subject. “Jose isn’t known for his inclusive employment policy.”
“You’re right. He didn’t,” Arno admits between clenched teeth. “He was one of the Jersey Devils. Those crack-dealing punks. Their whole den got wiped out two nights ago, courtesy of the so-called Spanish bitch, and he ran to Jose like a little pussy rather than remember who his gang owes their protection to. Word on the street is the arsonists are the same ones who ghosted the Russians, but no one seems to know where they hold base or just who they’re after.”
“Shit.”
“You got that right.” Arno hauls himself upright and runs a hand through his hair. The look on his face could be called a smile by some loose definition of the term. Nothing seems to reach him these days like the threat of a good fight. “But you didn’t come here about that.” He meets my gaze directly, and I almost think I see a hint of his old self. “You wanted something. What?”
It’s not an ideal subject to tackle while he’s still got Old Besty the revolver in his pocket, but rarely is he this lucid after downing a whole bottle.
“I have some friends who need jobs—and before you even ask, they both could bring trouble.” I inhale sharply, wishing I had a cigarette to take the edge off. “And…they’re Russians, both from Piotr’s territory.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arno raises an eyebrow, his fingers twitching in and out of fists. “I assume you have a good reason for bringing that shit into my bar.”
“No good reason,” I admit. “They need protection—”
“What makes you think that we won’t need protection if they decide to bring their little Ruskie friends in for a tour?”
“It’s not like that. One of the girls was one of…one of theirs,” I say for lack of a better word. “Newly freed this afternoon. She needs someplace to lie low before I can get her out of the city. And she’s the one who fed me all that intel on Vlad and his operation. Information you can use now to take over some of the bastard’s territory, if you haven’t already.”
Arno always was an opportunist.
“As for the other… She killed Vladimir Olshenkov that night at the club. With an ashtray. Use your imagination to figure out how.”
“Damn,” Arno grunts. Whether in amusement or appreciation, I can’t tell. “So, Vlad’s dead.”
I nod. “I guess I never got to give you the full story of what happened.”
“I figured as much on my own. The Ruskies are running around the fucking city like rats without a queen. Piotr must not be back in the country yet. I might as well make my mark while I can.” He has that hungry look again. The one he typically wears before playing games of Russian roulette.
“So, can they stay?” I ask, bringing his attention back to the subject at hand.
He shrugs. “I got to meet them first. See for myself where their loyalties may lie.”
“I had Francisco show them around. They just want to make some money. You’ll barely even know they’re here.”
He scoffs. “I doubt that. You have a way of attracting trouble. Just like—” He shakes his head to cut the thought off. “Let’s go. I need another drink.”
He snatches up the empty bottle and carries it with him to the door. When we reach the main room, jeers and whistles rise up from the crowd, rivaling the intensity of whatever song’s playing. True to form, Arno smiles fiercely before slapping the ass of the first woman to sidle up to him. He’ll never let them see the worst the bottle brings out in him.
He’ll never let them see the doubt.
“That one of them?” he grunts once he’s finished putting on his show, having spotted Domi already.
I make out a flash of red hair behind the counter. “Yeah.”
“Where’s the other one?”
That’s a damn good question.
The thought’s barely finished crawling through my head when the music cuts off, and someone grabs a microphone near the front of the stage. “Get ready for a special show, you fucks,” the emcee declares. “We’ve got a newbie to the spotlight. Put your hands together for Angel!”
The name alone draws laughs when paired with the appearance of the woman who climbs onto the stage. Angel. She definitely doesn’t look like one. Maybe it’s the dark, unholy gleam in her eye. Or maybe it’s the dry, lifeless, dark hair and the oversized clothes she’s wearing. In comparison to Darcy’s skimpy, pink halter, it’s not the type of attire these men are used to.
“The fuck?” Arno hisses.
The music starts up, drowning out any argument he makes. Only there’s no beat to rile the crowd or pounding bass to dance to. Apparently, someone thought it would be funny to set Angel up for a humiliating little “audition.” I can’t put a name to what runs through my chest when I see her standing there, frozen solid, her head bowed.
I spot the DJ grinning behind the booth and start in that direction, curling my hands into fists. Once I get my hands on him, he’ll be the one entertaining everyone.
No.
Flashing yellow eyes stop me in my tracks, and I nearly plow into some biker in front of me. Any protest dies in my throat. Her hips sway as if to spite me, forging her own sensual rhythm from the music. Slow. Fast. Slower. Brown hair drapes her shoulders as her head rears back, displaying her throat and stealing my fucking breath away.
At Moe’s, I was too busy making sure not to blow my cover to watch her dance. A beautiful blonde was a dime a dozen in a place like that—it felt wrong to look.
But here…
The defiant tilt of her chin dares me to look away—“And here I was, assuming you really were a pervert.”
Fuck it. I am. Her swaying limbs capture my attention and consume it. The longer I stare, the more disoriented I feel. It’s like she’s on another goddamn planet. The noise doesn’t affect her. No one can touch her.
Especially not me.
With an easy shift of her weight, she grabs the pole with one hand and swings herself around it. Only a few words trickle across my brain to describe the movement—sloppy, wild…fucking beautiful.
She peels the sweatshirt off first, building tension with every slow raise of her fingers. It hits the floor as the stage lights reflect off the sweat on her skin like glitter. The smooth curve of her back is all I see. Then her hip. The top of her thigh…
Gritting my teeth, I turn away and find that Domi’s watching me from the bar. When I take the stool across from her, she hands me a drink, but her eyes don’t leave the stage.
The dance could last minutes. Seconds. I just know that I’m still staring at my hands when the emcee reclaims the microphone and shouts something to stir up the crowd.
A hand falls over my shoulder. Arno. “They can stay,” he grunts as he pushes past me.
I should follow him. Anything but wait for the slim figure weavi
ng through the crowd toward me. She’s still topless, her unbound hair doing little to hide her body from every horny biker clambering for a glance. As she draws even with my stool, she leans in so that I can hear her above the music. Her smell affects me more than the booze does.
“Is something wrong? Did I rip any stitches?”
“What?” I look down, hunting for blood. My hands are shaking too badly to touch her. I have to knot them into fists. “They look fine to me.”
She’s trembling though, like a druggie during a wild high. For whatever reason, she seems to think I’m the unstable one. Her hand brushes my arm. “Are you okay?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, raising my voice over the music. “I mean, you don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.” Real smooth, Espi. I don’t even know what I’m trying to fucking say, but I can’t stop talking. “We can find something else for you to do.”
“Is there something wrong with dancing?” Her wary tone warns that I’ve stepped on a landmine.
“No. Of course not. Here.” I shrug my hoodie off and offer it to her.
She accepts it without comment, draping it around herself and zipping it up to her chin.
“You got the job, by the way.”
“Good.” Her expression doesn’t change as she claims the shot meant for me and drains it. Then she wipes her hand across her mouth and turns away. “But I won’t stick around for long. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
Shit. She slips through the crowd before I can say anything. Going off the slight flush to her cheeks, I’ve pissed her off.
Way to go, Espi. I start after her, but in the end, I just order another drink. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself for one night.
God willing, it won’t happen again. Maybe she should make good on her promise to skip town. I tell myself that’s what I want.
But a part of me doesn’t buy it, no matter how many shots I down.
Not one fucking bit.
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
A half-naked woman gapes at me from the surface of a mirror. She’s a wreck. God, I barely recognize her. Brown, bloodshot eyes flutter in a losing battle against exhaustion. Her pretty face is her saving grace. If I squint, and in the right lighting, I’d still call her attractive enough. She might even hold my attention during a dance.
But she couldn’t hold his. How pathetic is that? I finger his sweatshirt, unable to forget his face or that tight, hollow expression. The more of my clothes I took off, the less he bothered to hide his thoughts. The confusion. The curiosity. The pity…
He pitied me.
“Think these will fit?”
“Huh?” Distracted, I turn my attention to the blonde beside me, who is presumably in the middle of finding me something “hotter” to wear than my current attire.
“You look like a size two.” She holds up a pair of tiny denim shorts and a white bustier and tosses them both onto a rapidly growing stack compiled against the back of a metal folding chair.
We’re in what I assume is the equivalent of Mulligan’s dressing room. There are no brooding guards here to enforce a code of strict silence—just a burly man lurking outside the door, whom the blonde cheerfully referred to as Joe. His job seems to revolve more around keeping unwanted visitors out rather than anyone in.
“You looked good out there,” the woman continues as she fishes through the wardrobe and surfaces with a bit of slinky, black material that I think is meant to be worn as a skirt. “You must have danced before. Where at? Murphy’s? Sirens? Big Daddy’s?”
“I don’t think you’d know it,” I tell her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “They…they didn’t pay well.”
“Oh.” The blonde frowns and tugs yet another garment from the closet. “You can take these, too. The last girl to fit this stuff hasn’t worked here in ages. I’m Darcy, by the way.” She turns to me with her hands on her hips and extends one in my direction. “Welcome aboard. Our slots typically start at nine,” she adds once I’ve shaken her hand. “Ten minutes a girl. We rotate every hour. You can take Molly’s spot. She got herself knocked up a few months ago, so she’s out on ‘maternity leave’ until next week.” She makes air quotes around the words, her voice colored by double meaning. “It’s nearly the end of the shift, so you’ll meet the rest of the girls tomorrow night. The key players you really need to know are Arno—big guy, red hair, crazy as shit. He owns this place. As long as you don’t piss him off, he’ll have your back.”
“Sounds fair enough.”
“Right? Then there’s Francisco, the bartender. Arno’s right-hand guy. He can make you any fucking drink on the house—but he’s always listening. If you want to talk shit about this place, don’t do it while he’s around. And then there’s Espi…”
“What about him?” My lungs tense up as if they’re fighting to inhale every trace of that name. Curiosity? Maybe that’s it, explaining the way my pulse hammers even as I picture his face.
“He’s Espi,” Darcy declares. “He’s a good kid, but don’t underestimate him. A lot of people try to because of his age.”
“How old is he?” I’m caught off guard by the way my stomach clenches in anticipation of the answer. Does it really matter? Maybe. That angelic face could leave even Grey guessing.
“Twenty, I think,” Darcy says offhandedly. “He won’t bother you, if that’s what you’re worried about. He usually keeps to himself.”
I watch her flip through another series of hangers, desperate to suppress the relief I shouldn’t feel.
She’s pretty. Piotr would have put her on his stage as well, but not because of her looks. I saw the way she counted the stash kept inside her sparkly, pink bra.
This isn’t a game to her. This is business.
“That’s all I can tell you for now,” she says as she shoves the remainder of the approved clothing into a duffel bag. “The rest, you just have to learn as you go along. I guess you can enjoy the rest of the show. Tomorrow, the fun begins. Anyway, I’m on in five.”
She flashes a grin before running a hand through her loose hair and prancing down the hallway that leads to the stage. I hear the usher announcing her arrival from here. Bunny.
Left alone, I don’t know whether or not to take her advice. Enjoy the show. From what little I’ve already seen, there isn’t much to enjoy. The girls are pretty. They’re shapely. They’re harmless.
They’ve never learned to swing on a pole while Piotr watched from his throne and cracked each knuckle in warning. They’ve never had Vlad to contend with should they bore their audience.
They’ve never had to crave the safety of the stage.
Is this the life Anna’s been forced to lead? I picture her swaying against a metal pole, and my throat becomes painfully tight.
Desperate to clear my head, I leave the dressing room with the bag of clothing and hunt for a familiar face.
The bar is packed nearly wall to wall, but I still don’t have trouble differentiating one haunting scent from that of booze and vomit. I follow it over to the bar counter, where I find Espi watching Domi serve up liquor.
Noticing my approach, he lifts a bottle of beer in salute. At least he isn’t holding a grudge for earlier. “How do you like the place so far?”
It’s a rhetorical question. I think he’s just hunting for anything to say at all. Despite the noise and our raucous surroundings, it’s easy to sense the tension lying underneath. Arno may hide his emotions well when there isn’t a gun to wave around, but at the heart, he’s no better than Vlad. They emit their poison subconsciously, infecting everyone around them.
He’s anxious. He’s worried. Unsurprisingly, Espi seems to be of the same mind. He indicates for me to follow before stepping away from the bar and down a narrow hallway that opens up to a rickety stairwell.
“I got you a place,” he announces, turning to face me directly. “If you wanted to stick around here. You and Domi can share it for now. It’s above the
club.” He looks pointedly at the steps.
“Oh.” I let the offer sink in, digesting what it really means without him having to explain it out loud—He’ll get his house back, at least. “You think she’ll be safe here?” I can’t hide my skepticism if I tried.
As if to punctuate my words, the sound of shouting followed by glass breaking reaches our corner. A second later, we hear Arno bellow out, “Let ’em fight!”
“Trust me,” Espi says. “This place may look rough, but it’s safe. But just in case”—he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small object—“there’s always this…”
He slides something across my palm, and my hand instinctively cradles it. It’s heavy. Familiar. I relish the weight as my forefinger seeks the trigger out. It’s a gun. Espi’s expression never wavers, and it takes my tongue three attempts to spit out any words at all.
“Why…why would you give me this?”
“If you don’t want it, I can teach Domi to use it—”
“No. It’s fine.” It’s better than fine. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the familiarity of the weapon, but I do now that I’m holding one in my hands again.
The memory of Piotr feels a little further away. Not by much, but it helps.
Still, the bigger question springs to my lips. “You would trust me with this?”
He shrugs casually. “Why not?” He makes it seem so spur of the moment.
But it’s not like that. I can see it in his eyes, which attempt to avoid mine for once. He’s thought about this long and hard. He knows it’s not his only option—but he also knows that I could kill a man with an ashtray or attack him with a whiskey bottle unprovoked. He’s already seen the truth—I’m much safer with a gun.
“I’ve got some stuff to take care of tomorrow,” he tells me, shifting his weight from side to side.
“Is something wrong?” Cotton and warmth tickle my fingertips. I’ve touched his shoulder without realizing it.
“I’m fine,” he says, gingerly shrugging me off. “You and Domi can settle in. I’ll be around tomorrow night to check in on you.”