by Emilia Finn
“Quid pro quo.” I sigh. “Fair’s fair. I have to get up and shower, otherwise I’m gonna be late for work. But I’ll think on this a little bit. I might have access to a little information if I play my cards right.”
And just like that, Will’s demeanor changes. “You’re being safe, aren’t you, Bubbles? This isn’t your war, you know? You don’t have to be here.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you again. Not right now. I’m hanging up. Be careful at work; if our murderer works at the docks, and you’re at the docks…”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I love you, Will. Be safe.”
“You know that’s not my name, right?”
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes. “Goodnight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow at breakfast.”
“Have fun at the sweet sixteen, Bubbles. Maybe you could join in and party with them.”
“I’m twenty-three years old, toolbag.”
“I know.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you never had a sweet sixteen, so maybe tonight will be a good chance to live vicariously through those girls.”
“I’m good. Night, big brother.”
“Sweet dreams, little sister. I’ll be home later.”
I hang up and toss my phone aside, then, climbing off my bed, I make my way in to the shower and strip as I go.
This place sucks when compared to the general level of luxury that middle-class families know. But in comparison to our old apartment, the shower here rocks.
I turn it on full blast, turn the hot water up high, since my chat with Will has allowed my body to cool off after my workout, and stepping in, I close the curtain and move under the boiling spray. Timing myself, I allow ten minutes to wash my hair, shave my legs, and exfoliate my face. Then an additional twenty minutes to simply stand so the pulsing hot water massages my shoulder.
Thirty minutes after stepping in, I step out again with a mild case of guilt at the wasted water, but then I focus on my hair. Blow drying, styling, braiding, and curling the ends so I have a half up, half down look, with loose ends that gently bounce against my back.
I stand in a dark brown towel and work on my makeup. Foundation. Bronzer. Eyeliner. A little pencil in my brows. A little red on my lips. When I’m done with everything else, I take the tube of mascara and begin working the wand through my lashes.
I finish in the bathroom at a little past six and dash along the hall to my room, only for a loud knock at my front door to bring me to a skidding stop on wet feet. From rushed anticipation to a heart-thudding panic, I press my back to the wall and wait.
My eyes scan from one end of the hall to another; my mind instantly flicks to the butcher block in my kitchen, and the knives that line up in a shiny row. I’m naked, which means I have nothing but a damn towel to hurt an intruder with. The best I can hope for is to choke a guy, but to do that, I must get completely naked – and shit, call me a party-pooper, but that’s not really my thing.
“Miss Quinnton. It’s me, Ivan.”
My brows pull close in confusion.
“Hello? Mr. McGrady sent me.”
I don’t move a single inch. Not one single quarter of an inch.
“You’re an hour early!” I call out. “I’m not ready.”
“I have a gift for you, Miss Quinnton. From Mr. McGrady. If it would make you more comfortable, I can leave it on the stoop. But please, you can’t leave it out for long, or the rain will ruin it.”
With my back still pressed to the wall, and a hand holding my towel closed, I slide along my hall and dash into my bedroom. I was coming in here to search for a dress, for something pretty to wear on my date tonight, but instead, I snatch up a pair of jeans and work through the ache in my shoulder as I yank them on. I toss my towel, whip a button-up shirt from my closet, and pull that on too.
It would have been easier and faster to grab a hoodie, but that would mean undoing my hard work on my hair and makeup.
Rifling through the pile of things I dumped on my bed earlier, I snag my pocket knife, the very same knife that once carved letters into a tree in the middle of a frozen forest, then I move back into the hall with slow steps. I cross my living room, pass the kitchen, step around Will’s “found” La-Z-Boy, then pause at the door and peek through the peephole.
There, in a suit and cap, Evan McGrady’s driver stands under the shelter of my door with a box in his hands, and a pleasant enough expression on his face that might mean he’s not here to murder me.
He really is a McGrady employee, I’ve seen him around, so I release the breath I was holding and start working on the locks. One lock, two, three. The last is the hardest, the most secure, but I get it open without fuss, and slowly inch my door open.
“Miss Quinnton.” He peeks at me through the gap and grins. “Evening.”
“Why are you here so early?”
“A gift, Miss Quinnton.” He offers the box. “From Mr. McGrady himself. I’ll also be your driver tonight, as instructed by Mr. McGrady, so I’ll wait out here. But you mustn’t rush. I have patience.”
I slowly accept the box and furrow my brows. “And if I were to call Mr. McGrady right now, he would confirm you’re supposed to be at my door?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tips his chin. “I am but a servant doing his job. Mr. McGrady has given me orders to drive you safely where you’ve got to go.” He removes his hat, bows, and takes a step back. “I can wait, Miss. Quinnton. Take your time.”
After closing the door and moving back into my bedroom, I take my phone and dial the club. It occurs to me now that I don’t have Evan’s private cell number, so I wait for the guy on the front desk to answer, then speak louder to be heard over the music.
“Mr. McGrady, please. This is Tori calling.”
“Of course.”
I’m sent straight through, no questions, no hesitation, until the line clicks and the room is now much quieter.
“Prima?”
“Mr. McGrady.” I set the box on the bed and exhale. “Did you send a driver for me tonight? There’s a man at my door, and I wanted to make certain that he was yours.”
“Yes, Prima.” He rolls the ‘r’ in ‘Prima,’ and sends tingles right down to the bottom of my stomach. “I sent Ivan. He is five feet, ten inches tall, a hundred and ninety pounds with a paunch at his stomach. He has dark green eyes, and dark brown hair. He was also instructed to announce himself, and introduce himself as mine, so if I find out he did not—”
“No, he did.” Sitting on the bed beside the box, I draw in a deep breath, then let it out again and force a smile. “He did nothing wrong. I was caught off guard because he’s early, but he did introduce himself, and he matches the description you gave, so it’s fine.”
“I apologize for startling you, Prima. It was not my intention.”
“It’s fine. I live in a rough area, so it’s always best to be careful.” I look at the box. “You sent me a gift?”
“Oh, yes,” he purrs. “I do hope you like it. Did you open it yet?”
“No, I… no.”
“Well, go on.”
I reach out and work on loosening the ribbon securing the gold box closed. I pull the gentle silk away, let it pool on my covers, then I open the lid of the box and gasp.
“Oh wow. It’s so pretty.”
Jamie
Lap Dances Don’t Come For Free
Just as Sophia promised, I’m able to walk straight through the front doors of Zeus’ nightclub. No check-in. No search. Not even a coat check, since it’s not winter. I merely walk through the front doors and emerge into the flashing club to find strippers sliding along a pole, and men sitting around to watch them.
I stop just inside the doorway and stand in the shadows for a moment to take stock of my surroundings. The room spread out in front of me is slightly sunken. Three steps down, you find yourself in a space filled with small circular tables framed with two chairs each, though most only have one person occupying each space. Everyone has a drink in
front of them, and though there are topless servers making rounds and delivering more, the men’s eyes are glued to the stage. The poles. The women dancing around them.
There are three entertainers on stage; two have tops on, one does not.
None of them are Cam… or, well, Quinn.
Thank god.
The lights above flash and flicker, they make it so the dancers appear to move faster, smoother, sexier, as music serenades the crowd, and men toss cash at the women’s heeled feet.
“Sir?”
I turn and look down into a short woman’s light eyes. She wears a bikini of sorts, sparkling gold, and heels that are massive – and yet, she’s still tiny.
She balances a drink tray on her arm and still manages to reach up and pat my chest. “New to Zeus’?”
I smile and prepare to play my role. “How could you tell?”
“I know all the men that walk Zeus’ floors. Would you like a tour, Mr.…?”
“Serrano.” I take her hand when she offers it, and bring it up as though I intend to kiss her knuckles, but I don’t make contact. Fuck knows where her hand has been tonight. “And thank you.”
“Mr. Serrano.” She blushes as I release her hand. “Well, alright. Let me drop this tray off, then we can start.”
She dashes away without another word, tosses the tray to the long bar stretching along the back wall, then she’s back, and sliding her arm around mine like we’re on a date.
“My name is Rose, and this is what we call The Pit.” She extends a hand to indicate the space three steps down. “It’s not as grotesque as it sounds. It’s just a space, and since it’s lower, The Pit is a logical name.”
She leads me down the steps and through the crowd. “This is where the majority of our clientele congregate for their evening of relaxation.” She indicates toward the stage. “Our dancers take thirty or sixty-minute shifts. In and out, a fresh new routine each time they come out. This keeps the view…” She grins. “Titillating for our guests.”
“I concur.” I look to the dancers and frown when one slides down with her back against the pole. She opens her legs wide, leaves nothing to anyone’s imagination, then she closes them again and rises.
It’s hard to hold onto my smile when I see Quinn in my mind. When I think of her dancing like that. When I think of the men that get to see, the money tossed at her feet like she can be bought.
“Mr. Serrano?”
“Yes.” I look down at my guide, and strengthen my smile. “Very nice indeed.”
“The bar stretches along the back wall. You may go there any time you like, but there is table service, so if you’d rather not get up, you have only to catch my eye, and I’ll fetch immediately.”
Like a dog. “Perfect. Do you dance?”
She snickers and turns her face a little to play her game of coy. “I wish. I’ve tried it, and I attend dance lessons with one of our other entertainers, but I guess some of us are gifted with grace, and some of us,” she pokes a thumb back at herself, “are not. Come along.”
She leads me across the room and back up the three steps until we stop at the bottom of a staircase.
“There are private rooms up here.” She leads me up. “But you cannot enter one unless you’re with a Zeus employee.” She glances up and meets my eyes. “This is not a hotel, so you cannot bring your own female friend and use our facilities.”
“But I can choose a female employee and do as I please?”
She grins and pats my hand. “Only with her permission. Every Zeus employee has the power to say no.”
“And do they regularly exercise that power?” I grit my teeth and pretend my gut isn’t on fire. “Do many decline an offer?”
“Rarely,” she purrs. “To be selected to come upstairs means the man is quite…” She considers. “Well, he is wealthy. He can afford her time. But nobody wants to dance for a guy that gives creepy uncle vibes, no matter how rich he is. Usually, our dancers say no to those types of men.”
“And your boss is okay with it? With saying no to money?”
“Yes. Mr. McGrady is very fair.” We stop at the top of the stairs and turn to look down upon the club. “He wants to make money, of course. But forcing his dancers to do things they do not want to do, while profitable in the short-term, usually means losing quality entertainers.”
She turns and meets my eyes. “Mr. McGrady is a businessman at heart, and he knows the value in keeping his staff happy. He will not force us to do anything we do not want to do. Would you like to look inside a room?”
“Uh…” I turn and study a closed door. “Sure. Okay.”
“Come along.” She takes my hand, no longer an arm wrapped around mine, but fingers intertwined, an embrace as she leads me toward the door and knocks.
When no one answers, she cracks the door open and peeks inside.
“Vacant. Come on.” She leads me into the dark room, lit only by the rectangular windows high up on the wall. They’re there to allow light in, but not onlookers.
“Is this where McGrady runs his prostitution side hustle?”
The girl turns to me, eyes narrowed, but shakes her head. “Not prostitution, Mr. Serrano. These rooms are for dancing. The chair, for sitting.” She indicates toward a double leather couch pushed back against the wall. “Our guest is to sit, relax, watch. And it is up to us to entertain, to make it worthwhile for you.”
I lift a single brow and study her eyes. “No sex?”
“Well…” She looks me up and down with an appreciative eye. “If there was a mutual attraction, and the man had enough time,” which I assume is code for cash, “then perhaps sex is being had in these rooms. But it is only if both parties agree. Are you asking for something more than a dance, Mr. Serrano?” She inches closer, closer, until the toes of her heels touch my feet, and her firm breasts rest against my chest. “Because I cannot dance very well, but I am very much attracted to you.”
“I heard about this one woman who dances here.”
Rose’s eyes shutter with confusion. Rejection. Intrigue.
“Victoria,” I murmur. “I heard she is a very gifted dancer.”
“Mm. She is very gifted. Tori tries to teach me, but it’s a skill one is born with, I think. Not learned.”
“Tori…” I run the name over my tongue. “Dark hair, blue eyes like—”
“Jeans?” She nods. “Yes, such pretty eyes. If you would like Tori to visit with us too, then it will be especially expensive. She does not give private shows usually.”
My gut is still on fire, but this woman’s words serve as a balm, if only a mild one.
“But for enough money, she would accept?” I press.
She shrugs. “Everyone has a price, no? Unfortunately, she cannot visit with us tonight. She is not here.”
“She’s not?” I cast a glance around the dark room. “Where is she?”
“She is not working tonight, Mr. Serrano. Can I offer you a drink? I find, even if I’m not as skilled a dancer as most, I still manage to make a man’s time in this room worthwhile.”
“Uh…” She’s not here. She’s not working tonight! “Sure. A drink, but not a private dance.”
When her expression drops, I pull cash from my pocket and press it to her palm. “But I thank you for the tour. You’ve made my first visit at Zeus’ pleasurable.” I stare into her eyes and smile. “Memorable. I will know who to look for next time I come back.”
An hour after walking into Zeus’, I walk back out again and move casually, not too fast, not too slow, for as long as I’m in sight of the bouncer on the door, and whatever cameras they might have installed around the building. But the second I’m around the corner and out of sight, I break into a sprint and bolt back in the direction of Quinn’s apartment.
I snatch my phone while I run, dial my most dialed number in recent weeks, and while running, I breathe a sigh of relief when the call connects. “Soph! She’s not at the club. Where is she?”
“Hold on.”
/> I listen as she rises from wherever she’s sitting, walks away from a droning TV, then sits again on a squeaky chair. A minute later, she hums in the back of her throat and makes the ‘hm’ sound.
“There’s a fancy car parked outside her place,” she tells me.
“There is?”
“Yeah, hold on a sec. I’ll try to angle around and get the… here, plates. Lemme run them.”
“You can do that?” Thanks to a lifetime of training inside a fight gym, I can run and talk at the same time.
I cross block after block in the humidity, but at least the rain has stopped now. I move in the direction of Quinn’s apartment. Ironically, despite running from the law, the siblings stayed in the same neighborhood as before. Barely a few blocks from the apartment they had before Stacked Deck.
“You can run a plate that easily?” I demand.
“Of course I can. Hush. Oh, I see you. You’re two blocks out.”
“I know where I am,” I huff. “Car’s still there?”
“Yeah, but her front door has just opened. Bet you’re glad that rain has stopped, huh?”
“Yeah, it was a bitch. Whose car is it, Soph?” I cross one last street before turning at the corner and bolting along Quinn’s. “Who is it?”
“Oh damn,” she murmurs. “It belongs to Independence Group. That’s a Zeus car.”
“What?”
I come to a screeching stop when, fifty feet up, Quinn comes into view in a beautiful, floor-length, backless gown.
I duck into the shadows and study the dark purple fabric shimmering under the streetlights, the glittering bangle on her left wrist, the gleaming necklace resting on her collarbone. Her hair is tied up, the ends dangling loosely against her back, and when she moves down her front steps, sparkling silver heels flash in the light coming from the streetlamp near the shiny black car parked at the curb.
“What the fuck, Sophia?” I growl, remaining in the shadows. “What the fuck is happening?”
“She’s got a date,” Soph singsongs. “Those are date shoes, fighter. That’s a date dress.”