by Emilia Finn
“I don’t care if I get in trouble,” he scowls. “What are they gonna do, kick me out and not take my money anymore?”
No, they’re going to shoot you in your face. Or snap your neck. Or do horrible things to your mother. “We also get in trouble,” I lie. Sort of. “By not telling you to stop, we’re encouraging it. And by encouraging it, we put our jobs at risk.”
His sense of chivalry slides in exactly as I knew it would. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, ma’am. I was only trying to help.”
“You can help by sitting down and watching. Enjoy the show. Tip us extra if you’re feeling generous, but don’t worry about us climbing up anymore. This is our job, and we’ve practiced a million times.” I drop my chin in a type of bow, then glancing up, I smile. “We appreciate you, though. We don’t get many gentlemen around here, so thank you for that.”
“Come on, Tori.” Lita impatiently tugs my arm as one song ends and another begins. “We’re all gonna get in trouble if we stand here talkin’ any longer.”
“I’ll be over there,” the guy nods toward his chair. “Not so far away. I’ll stick to myself, I swear. But if you ever need help…”
“We know who to ask. Thank you.”
Lita and I turn away from the guy before all three of us are taken out back and ‘roughed up.’ Climbing onto the stage with elegance that should almost be impossible, considering the large step up, we listen as the song changes again, since the DJ knows our beat now.
It doesn’t matter all that much what song is played, because we don’t choreograph to a single title or voice. We move to a beat, and all songs can be categorized with others of the same beat.
Making my way to my pole – ohhh, how I feel cheap knowing I have a pole that I call all mine – I do one fast walkaround, like I’m a cow at a fair. I’m being studied, graded, matched against the best bulls for mating… or, well, fucking.
I won’t fuck any of the men in this club tonight, but that doesn’t mean they don’t all plot in their minds. ‘If I was the bull,’ they think to themselves, ‘she would do just fine for a little fun in a paddock where no one could see.’
I walk a lap around my space on the stage, and glance into the pockets of darkness and see many familiar faces. Others are new. Some are sitting so far in the back that all I see are hands, or legs, possible sculpted jaws.
I glance over to Lita to see she’s doing the same – but with more ass. She moves in six-inch heels like it’s not a special skill on its own. She smiles for the men with the money, and when the chorus begins, she turns and starts climbing.
I take a little longer to make my way up the pole. My shoulder aches, the muscle sings around my shoulder blade, and moving around with silks digging into the joint isn’t as much fun as we make it look.
I study the men who sit around and watch us. Some slide their hands over their junk. Others slide their hands into breast pockets and take out their money clips.
The gentleman sits back like a lazy cowboy at the end of a long day on the ranch. He wears jeans, when many others wear black suits. He wears his hair in a messy cap of dirty blond, where most others wear theirs gelled back, scaring it into conforming.
Inside this club, among these other guys who pretend to be so superior, with their fancy jobs and fancy cars, he’s an oxymoron. And that word, that memory, sends me hurtling back years ago to the Rollin On Gym.
‘Cool name, by the way. Boy names for chicks are kinda cool. Makes you an oxymoron.’
Too bad I could never tell Jamie my actual name.
I glance up at a movement on the second level and lock eyes with Evan. That’s all he needs to do to send me spinning back to my pole and sliding the silks around my shoulders. I’ve put it off long enough. I’ve procrastinated. I’ve drawn my tease out as far as I safely can manage.
Now it’s time to work.
I climb, climb, climb, and using the silks the way I might use a male dancing partner’s arms, I allow myself to fly, to stretch out, to defy gravity, and all the while, I open my legs and give these men the show they came for.
They’re not here for ballet steps or perfect choreography. They’re here for filth, for a fantasy, to be made to feel like gods among men. Because for an hour at the end of the day, that small pocket of time between clocking out of the office, and clocking in to the family home with their wife and kids, this is where they come to feel like men. Like heroes. Like some kind of special, when they toss their cash for us to sweep up at the end of a dance.
I spin on my pole, and slide my hands over my skin like a lover’s caress. I touch myself – my stomach, my thighs, my chest – and let men think it’s their hands on me. I catch some eyes, because when we do that, they pay more, and I peek into the shadows at others.
Just because I can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see me.
I study thick legs in dark pants. Muscled forearms peeking from rolled sleeves. Stubbled jaws, as though they shaved only this morning, but the day alone was stressful enough that they grew more.
A little while after stepping onto the stage, Lita and I tag-team. We seductively clasp hands, switch sides of the stage, and we go back to dancing, but now we have a new audience. Fresh eyes, fresh money.
The ache in my shoulder has changed from a burn to a roar, but I train hard to make sure it doesn’t show. I smile… or bite my lip. Wink… or flutter my lashes. I work through my toolbox of money-makers, accept the bills tossed at my feet, and I finish my set a thousand dollars richer and with no new injuries.
I’ve had worse shifts.
Lita and I finish our routine at the same time, and we make our way to the floor. Though the gentleman sits perched on the edge of his seat, busting to be able to help, he does as we asked, and keeps to himself to save us all.
Though, of course, should I stumble and fall, I’m certain he’d catch me before I hit the floor.
With cash, and a set of bodyguards now taking up by our sides – the bodyguards are for Evan’s money, and have nothing to do with our safety – we make our way to the stairs and past a shadowed pocket where a man stands hidden. His size is apparent. His aftershave. But there are many men in here who wish to remain anonymous, so I pass without acknowledgment, make my way up the stairs, and hold onto the scent of his cologne for as long as my lungs can keep it in.
Lita is let into our changing room without pause, but as though I could see into the future, I smile for Evan, and don’t miss a beat when he nods for me to go in, drop my cash, and come right back out.
He doesn’t have to say the words. He doesn’t have to say a damn thing, because men like Evan McGrady control their universe, they control every damn thing, so I squash down the teenage rebellion in me, do as I’m told, and with a fast swipe of my hands, I snatch up a robe on my way back out the door and onto the landing.
“Mr. McGrady.” I smile and loop my arm in his when he offers.
“Come with me, Prima.”
It’s not a question, but a demand. Not a gentle request, but an ‘I’ll slit your throat and find myself a new dancer if you defy me.’
He leads me to the elevator and past a bodyguard, and after the grates are noisily closed, we make our way up one single flight – it would be faster, though not quite as dramatic, to use the stairs – and into his office.
Expensive, mahogany desk. Heavy, maroon curtains. A brown leather ‘gentleman’s club’ couch; we all know the type. Evan’s office is expensive, classy, if you’re into the mafia types, and clean. An easy feat, considering the cleaning crew who comes through the club on a daily basis to rid the place of semen, cocaine, and regrets.
“Prima.” Evan releases my hand and leaves me standing just inside the room. He crosses his office with a slow saunter, shrugs out of his suit coat, and lays it over the thick arm of the couch, then he stops by his desk and leans back against it so he has a full view of my body.
After I dance for the men downstairs, I guess he figures I have to perform for him
too.
“You seem… distracted, Prima. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” I fuss with the cord that wraps around my robe and try on my shy girl act. It’s only seventy-percent fake. “I’m sorry if my dancing was not—”
“Your dancing was magnifique,” he croons. “The men love you very much.” He crooks a finger, and summons me closer.
I take a step forward, then another. But his finger doesn’t stop until I’m close enough for him to wrap his arm around my hips and tug me in.
Gone is the scent from downstairs, and in its place is Evan’s cologne. No doubt expensive, but it’s an assault on my senses. Too much, too strong.
“Come to dinner with me, Prima.”
My brows wing up in surprise. “Huh?”
“Romance.” He walks his fingers over my chest and up to my shoulder, then pushing my robe aside, he peppers gentle kisses to my skin. “You wanted romance, no? You want a husband, not a casual lover.”
“Um…”
“I don’t usually do this,” he warns in a low, deep growl. “Please be aware of the concessions I am making in an effort to preserve your dignity.”
“Uh…”
“Dinner,” he presses. “Candles, starlight, maybe a little dancing.” He pulls back and smiles. “Romance.”
“Oh…” I draw a deep breath, only to instantly regret it when I remember his cologne. “Um… I’m…” You don’t get a choice, dumbass! “When?”
With a victorious smile, he blindly reaches back and snags the phone from his desk, then he brings it to his ear without dialing. “Ruth. What night is Victoria not dancing next week?”
Wednesday. The answer is Wednesday.
“Wednesday.” He grins. “Perfecto. That is all.” He sets the phone back in the cradle and turns to me. “Wednesday, Prima. I will have a car pick you up from your home.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“No?” His eyes turn to fire within an instant. “No?”
“No, yes! I just meant…” Shit, shit, shit. “Um…” Fuck. “Okay. Sure. I just meant the car is not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is, Prima.” He goes back to making out with my shoulder. “I will have Ivan waiting at your door at seven o’clock. Yes?”
“Um…” I swallow down my nerves, and give a jerky nod. “Sure. Okay. Thank you for understanding my needs. With the…” I clear my throat. “My need for romance. I can’t help who I am, you know? And I wouldn’t feel good about myself if I went to bed with a man before I was wed.”
“I will make all of your dreams come true, Prima.” He slides his tongue along my collarbone and up to my neck. But I take no pleasure in his touch. There are no tingles in my belly, no curling of my toes.
There’s just a swirling in my stomach: disgust, nerves, grief.
“I have information for you also.” He pulls back and smiles. “I have information on Nate Hardy, the fighter.”
“You do?” My voice comes out on a loud squeak. “What did you find?”
Evan’s dark eyes search mine. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but all I can manage is hope. Genuine hope that he might be the key to our freedom.
“This man you are searching for… he is dead?”
And there goes my hope.
“I don’t know,” I admit on a sigh. “I am told he is dead, but there is no body. I cannot believe he is dead until I see it for myself.”
“And what is your interest in this possibly dead man?”
“My brother is being framed as the killer.”
It’s kind of ironic that I’m so open with my truths, when I would never dare tell anyone else. Lita might feel compelled, in all her innocence, to call the police and turn me in. But Evan’s life is lived in the darker sides of town. In the shadows. On the side of the law that would end up with a man behind bars. I trust him not to snitch on me, just as he trusts me not to snitch on him about the dealings inside his club.
“There is an alleged witness that saw my brother murder this man, but it’s impossible, because in the window of time that Nate was allegedly killed, I was speaking with my brother on the telephone. He was at work, not in a shady area of town, hurting people.”
“And you’re certain you’re not confused on the time?” Evan’s eyes flicker between mine. “Could you be blindly defending someone you love?”
“No, it’s impossible. My brother would not do that, and even if he did, he wouldn’t lie to me about it. But more than that, there is no body. How can there be a murder if there is no body?”
“Trust me, Prima.” He smiles the smile of the devil. “That is possible. So…” He searches my eyes. “You would like help to find the body?”
I shake my head. Then I nod. Then I shrug, because I have no fucking clue what I need. “I would like help proving my brother’s innocence. Nate Hardy may be dead, and maybe it was murder. But it wasn’t at my brother’s hands. And until there is a body found, I refuse to acknowledge foul play. Finding a body would be the logical first step. And if that body just happens to be alive and well when found, then my brother is exonerated of all charges.”
“And you say there is a witness?”
“That’s what the police said. There is a witness who has now been moved into protective custody while he awaits trial.” Rage burns through my blood. “Like my brother is some kind of criminal warlord, slaying men everywhere he goes. They will not tell us who this witness is, they will not give us a chance to say that the man is lying. They will not allow us to face him until trial, but by then, it will be too late. They will already have my brother in custody, and forgive me for my cynicism, but this process has been shady since day one, so I don’t expect a fair trial.”
“So there are two bodies you would like to find, Prima. One alleged dead man, and one witness. Correct?”
I look up into Evan’s eyes, and for the first time possibly ever, I admit to myself that he might be one of the few men on my side. If I remove his sleaziness, his murderous ways, his billion guns, and the fact he’s barely one step up from a pimp, I could admit he might be a half-decent guy.
And when I admit that, I’m able to acknowledge he’s handsome. He’s built. Strong and capable. He’s formidable, and successful at a young age. If only he’d applied his talents to, say, Wall Street, rather than this street, he’d be a good man to be allied with.
“Yes, Mr. McGrady.” I swallow the nerves that lodge in my throat. “That is what I’m searching for. These two men. Find one or both, and my brother could be saved.”
“Then I will search.” He smiles and leans closer. “I will search for you, Prima. Because that is what a man does for his future bride.”
He closes the distance between us before I can object, and presses his lips to mine for the first time ever. His tongue lashes out to tap my bottom lip. He forces his way inside my mouth, and he groans when I whimper.
I do not whimper from pleasure, but from the scorching pain that slashes through my heart.
I’ve been kissed by two men in my life now. One changed my life…
And, well, I guess, so did the other.
Jamie
I’m Coming For You
I walk the dark streets of a city a little more than two thousand miles from the place I call home. It breaks my heart that I’m in the seedy side of town. The smelly side. An old, worn-down hotdog vendor occupies a single corner, while another hosts a woman dressed in… well… bright colors that don’t cover a whole lot of skin.
Steam rises from the grates in the road, and mixing with the aroma of stale hotdogs, and the heat from a warm night, they float together in the air until the smell settles inside my pores.
I’m wearing jeans tonight, a ballcap to cover my somewhat recognizable hair. It’s unlikely anyone will notice me outside of the octagon, but I’d rather not run the risk, so I keep my hat pulled low and my shoulders lifted to make myself slump.
My injured arm throbs and sends a slice of pain into my gut each time I jostle, but
if I walk smoothly, if I don’t cross from sidewalk to road too often, it doesn’t hurt too bad.
I’m wearing a slate gray shirt, dark blue jeans, and boots that are heavy enough to do damage if someone wants to step up, and my arm isn’t well enough to swing.
I pass the hotdog man – his cart says Hotdog Joe in faded red paint – and continue moving in the direction I studied via the GPS in my phone when I got out of my cab two blocks back.
I asked the cabdriver to hang out and wait for me to finish my business. He assured me in no uncertain terms that I can go fuck myself, my mother, and my neighbor’s dog.
I’m gonna go ahead and assume he won’t be there when I get back.
My phone dings in my pocket, so I pull it out and glance at the screen. Swiping to accept the call, I bring it up to my ear. “Soph?”
“Hey. I see you. Why’d you stop driving so far back?”
“I wanted to walk and see the street for myself. You sure this is the one? It’s rough as fuck.” And knowing that, knowing this is where Cam lives makes my heart ache.
“It’s where she was when she took your call. She could have been working, or at a deli, or walking by when she called, but I feel like maybe she was home. How else would she be watching the news when she saw you?”
“This place is the fuckin’ ghetto, Soph. It’s not safe.”
“Better watch your back, then, fighter. Her phone is switched off, so I don’t see her on my map. But I see you. You’re a block away. She’ll be on your left.”
“And I’m supposed to just…” I look into the darkness ahead. “Knock?”
“It’s what most folks would do when standing at a door.” She’s mocking me, smiling through her words. “Perhaps practice your side step, because it’s been four years, and she sounds kinda mad still.”
“You’re not helping, you know?” I grunt and step off the curb, cross the street, and step back up. “My shoulder is fuckin’ singing, Soph.”
“Probably shoulda listened to your doctor, then, huh? Is it in a sling?”