by Bethany-Kris
Or, strippers, if someone wanted to be particular.
Her father knew it was a good business to be in, and the cash was more than good, but he still didn’t like it a whole lot.
Haven had been one of those dancers at first—she’d taken a pole dancing exercise class in college to keep fit, and challenge herself in a new way. She was always trying to find something to take her to the next level. Pole dancing fitness was certainly challenging, and fun.
It ended up helping.
She didn’t need to dance now, though. Or at least, she didn’t dance on a regular basis like she used to. There wasn’t much need, frankly.
Bending over at the mouth of the running trail that connected with a main trail, Haven huffed hard as she tried to catch her breath. This was her turning point in her runs—the same place every day where she turned around, and headed back home at full speed.
Usually, she only rested long enough to take a drink of water if she hadn’t already finished the bottle, catch her breath, and then she hit the ground running again. Today was a little different, though.
Today, she waited a bit longer than usual.
Took a seat on a bench.
Waited …
Two weeks ago, in this very spot, she’d seen a handsome, dark-haired, green-eyed man with shoulders so expansive and wide, he looked as though he could play football. Haven was tall at five-foot, eleven-inches, but this man had been well over six feet. And yet, in his three-piece suit, he’d looked more like he would be appropriately dressed to sit behind a large desk inside an office rather than walking on a trail with a pit bull.
A ringing call had interrupted their encounter; his phone, not hers. It hadn’t much mattered because Haven was already running a bit late, and made a commitment to pick up her friend’s daughter from school since Valeria wouldn’t be able to do it.
So, she didn’t get the chance to say goodbye.
Or … even ask the gorgeous man’s name.
That bugged her.
She wanted to know his name.
And each day since, Haven had jogged at the same time every day—if she could manage it because sometimes she couldn’t—just to see if the strange man would be back again to walk his dog on the trails. He’d made it sound like he walked his dog quite frequently, so Haven thought … maybe.
This time, maybe didn’t work out.
Like every other day for the past two weeks.
Sighing, Haven pushed up from the bench, did a quick stretch of her burning calves in hopes they wouldn’t ache too badly when she slipped into bed later, and turned to head down the trail again. It usually took her a little longer to get back home than it did to run to her turn around point simply because she was winded, and tired.
Today, she made it with three minutes to spare on her stopwatch.
Damn.
Taking the steps to her bungalow’s painted-red front door slowly, Haven took in the small potted plant Valeria had placed next to the welcome mat. Her place wasn’t big—two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and a small back porch to sit on during hot summer days. It wasn’t much to look at compared to some of the places on the block what with its red door, and beige siding. It didn’t turn heads.
And she didn’t care.
She paid for this house.
She earned it.
It was hers.
Haven loved it for no other reason than that.
Well, and something else, too.
Unlocking the front door, Haven opened it and stepped into the house to find Maria—her roommate and best friend’s five-year-old daughter—hadn’t bothered to pick up any of her toys in the hallway before she’d left for kindergarten that morning.
It made Haven smile.
For the year that Valeria and little Maria had been living with her, nothing was ever dull. Someone was always waking her up, or making a mess to clean. Her house was never quiet anymore, but she liked it that way.
They—and the strip club—kept her busy.
She didn’t have to think about how lonely her life had seemed before a Latina woman had stepped into her club only a year after she took over, looking for a job, but being very clear that she didn’t have papers. Haven had known that night, just with one look at Valeria, that the woman didn’t have very fucking much at all.
She gave her a job.
And a place to stay.
The rest was history.
Haven didn’t regret any of it.
Kicking her Nike sneakers into the corner with Maria’s bright pink rubber boots, Haven didn’t even get to the kitchen where her Bear Claw was waiting for her to devour it after her daily run. The ringing phone on the wall stopped her from getting her greatest treat.
Maybe that was why when she picked up the phone, she all but growled, “What?”
“Bad day?” a familiar voice asked.
Haven relaxed a bit at Jackson’s question. “No, I just got back from running. Something up with the club?”
Jackson handled a lot of the club’s business where the personnel was concerned—anything the girls needed, or the security. He kept their ship running smoothly whereas Haven handled all the paperwork, and making sure the business brought in a hefty profit.
She liked this arrangement.
It worked.
“Well, kind of,” Jackson said. “That order you made last week for the liquor—they called today and said something was wrong with it.”
“Nothing is wrong with my orders.”
“Tell them that. You know they won’t talk to me.”
Haven rubbed at the spot of tension starting to form in the middle of her goddamn forehead. “It’s supposed to be my day off.”
She didn’t get very many of those.
“Sorry—I’ll buy you coffee and a donut to make up for it before opening tonight. We can go to the shop you like down the road.”
She scowled.
Jackson thought he was sly.
He wasn’t.
“No, I’m good.”
“Come on, Haven.”
“Your sneaky attempts to get me out on a date still aren’t going to work, and you’ve been trying it for two years. I don’t shit where I eat—stop asking me to.”
“That’s … a disgusting analogy.”
“So be it; no dating employees. I’ll be there in twenty.”
Haven hung up the phone before Jackson could say anything more. She really wasn’t interested in hearing him, yet again, miss the entire fucking point of her refusing his offer. Jackson wasn’t a bad guy, and he was pretty harmless compared to some patrons that came into the club to watch the girls dance every night.
Still, he didn’t take a fucking hint.
And that was a problem for her.
“For the fifth time,” Haven said to the annoying man on the phone, “it’s fifteen bottles of Patrón, and ten bottles of Jameson.”
“Then why does it say—oh.”
Haven felt her jaw click from how fucking fiercely she was clenching it. Two years of ordering liquor and doing the sheets the same goddamn way each time, and all it took was a change in staff at the warehouse for her liquor orders to be somehow screwed up every single time. It was getting to be a little ridiculous.
“Oh, what?” Haven asked.
“I was … okay, fifteen bottles of Patrón, and ten bottles of—”
“My order sheet was made out correctly, wasn’t it?”
The man cleared his throat, and the volume caused the speaker to crackle in Haven’s ear. “Well …”
Sitting at the desk in her small office, Haven rubbed at the even worse headache now starting to act like it might turn into a migraine if she didn’t somehow handle it quick, fast, and in a hurry. She stared blankly at the wall with a large painting of the New York City skyline—something her father had left behind, and never asked for it back—as she willed the man on the phone to speak, and get this goddamn call over with.
“I may have been reading it incor
rectly,” the man finally admitted.
“You do realize that you just spent an hour of my time telling me I filled out the order improperly, and I was possibly going to see charges and fees because of it, right?”
“Yes, well, it was a mis—”
“And even after I repeatedly pointed out to you that my order was correct and done in the way it has always been done, you continued to press that I was wrong.”
“I am very sorry, ma’am.”
Haven gave a tight shake of her head, and rubbed at her forehead once more. “Listen, if this issue comes up again, we’re going to have a problem, or I will find a new distributor to buy liquor from. I’m probably a drop in your bucket, but I’m going to make a safe guess here and say I am not even close to the only business you’ve pissed off lately. Have a good day, sir.”
She cradled the phone on the base, and sighed.
“All worked out, then?”
Haven had all she could do not to roll her eyes at Jackson’s question. He posed it from where he stood leaning in the doorway of her office—clearly he’d been standing there listening for a while. She really needed to start remembering to close the damn door.
“It’s fine,” she said.
“Ah.”
At his knowing tone, she glanced up from her desk to find him frowning, but not looking directly at her. “What, Jackson?”
The blue-eyed, blonde man was tall, lanky, and by all accounts, handsome if you asked any of the girls who worked the poles. And frankly, a lot of women outside of the club, too. Jackson didn’t lack where female attention was concerned.
He just … didn’t interest Haven.
At all.
“You’re still pissed at me about the coffee thing, huh?” he asked. “Sorry, H. I do know how to take no for an answer, but I just thought … well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, right? I get it; no more. We good?”
Haven softened a bit. “It’s not you.”
“Don’t pump up my ego, now.”
She laughed softly. “Really, it’s not you. This is just … work, Jackson. I’m not interested in it being anything else, and the more you ask, then the more I have to reject you. Stop being a glutton for punishment, all right?”
The man grinned. “Well, they do say no pain, no gain.”
Haven cocked a brow. “And you’re not my type.”
Maybe that will do it.
Jackson came right back with, “Then, what is your type?”
Tall.
Dark.
Mysterious.
Handsome.
A guy who preferred a pet to people.
Not at all related to work.
Like the guy she met on the trail.
Except she didn’t even know his name.
Haven settled on saying, “Not you, Jackson.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The man shrugged. “Your loss.”
Maybe it was.
But she doubted it.
The ringing of her desk phone saved Haven from needing to say something to Jackson that would likely hurt his feelings even worse. She reached for the phone, and flicked her wrist at Jackson at the same time to tell him to scatter.
“Before I go, the bookie called—said he’d be in tonight.”
Great.
Haven wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about Jackson giving the okay for an illegal bookie to use their club for his … well, whatever the fuck he did. The guy did keep a low profile—even if he had three different phones that never stopped ringing, and he also brought in patrons. She chose to turn her cheek.
“Yeah, thanks, and close the door,” she told him as he turned around to leave. “Stop listening to my conversations—it’s called privacy.”
Jackson gave her a wide-eyed look colored with false innocence as he closed the door behind him. She just shook her head—over his nonsense—and picked up the phone with a short, “Yeah, Haven here. What can I do for you?”
Her office phone was a different number from the main club—it was used for business purposes, and the employees. Nothing more, and nothing less. She didn’t have to answer the phone with an introduction to the club first, which she liked. And yet, she could still have main calls to the club transferred straight through to her number if needed.
It all worked.
“Haven, shit. I am so sorry.”
Haven frowned at Valeria’s tired, sad voice on the other end of the call. This was not who she expected, and her worry picked up a notch. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping right now? You’ve got a special on tonight.”
“Yeah … about that, amiga.”
Oh, no.
Haven knew what was coming, and she also knew it was sometimes unavoidable when it came to the girls. Things came up—unexpected shit.
Still, it made for a rough night.
“The school called—Maria was suddenly running a fever,” Valeria said, “and then before I could even get over there, she puked all over the counselor. She kept vomiting, so I thought I should bring her into the clinic.”
Haven chewed on her bottom lip. “Which clinic?”
“The one in Queens, you know.”
Yeah.
The safe one.
They’d take Valeria’s money, treat her daughter, and say nothing about the fact Valeria had no papers for her daughter, and no ID to go on record other than a clearly fake driver’s license. Haven didn’t know a lot about her friend’s situation, but what she did know, it was more than enough to tell her it couldn’t be good.
Valeria didn’t talk about her time in Mexico, or what sent her running to the States. She didn’t talk more than saying she had her daughter at seventeen, and now at twenty-two, the only thing she wanted to do was try to give Maria some semblance of normalcy.
Haven loved her friend.
And Maria.
She didn’t ask because she loved them.
“Lo siento,” her friend apologized. “I know you’ve been running the ads for my special all week, and it’s supposed to be a big night for the club. I don’t think I’ll get out of this clinic anytime soon.”
And even if Valeria did get out in time to make it to work, where would that leave Maria? Sure, Haven could and would look after the girl—she often did in the evenings when she was home, and Valeria danced. But not when the girl was sick. That was a mother thing; Valeria wouldn’t want to leave her daughter, and Haven didn’t need to ask to know that would be the case.
“That doesn’t matter—I will handle it. I always do. No worries, Val.”
Her friend let out a quiet breath of relief. “I am sorry.”
“Just make sure Maria is good. That’s what matters.”
“Okay.”
“Want me to bring home something greasy and hot?”
Valeria laughed. “My guardian angel, Haven.”
She snorted. “Not even close to an angel.”
After a quick goodbye to her friend, Haven hung up the phone. She stared at the flyer—one of many between online ads and personals—that had been put out for Valeria’s special that evening. A well-known, popular New York DJ would be at the club in two hours to set up for the evening. Haven had paired him with Valeria for five dances choreographed to music he made specially for this event.
Now she had no dancer.
A very expensive DJ.
And soon, a club full of angry patrons.
Great.
This day couldn’t get any worse.
Sure, any girl could get up and do their thing while the DJ played whatever music the girl asked for, but that’s not how this night had been promoted. Valeria worked all of one night a week on the stage for one single dance, and for the rest of the time, she tended the bar and helped on the floor.
So, this was supposed to be a big night. Someone had to dance. Someone who didn’t dance often, and who the crowd would love simply because it was them dancing.
That left one person.
; Her.
Haven glanced at the black wig she used to wear to dance—it was her signature, in a way. Black hair, cream skin covered in ink, and a leather costume.
It had been a while since she danced.
Who cared?
It was the best way to get rid of a headache.
Win-win.
THREE
Strip clubs weren’t Andino’s typical scene—no judgement, he just tended to prefer his business to be done where distractions weren’t present in every corner. It was easier to get right down to the nitty, gritty of things when he didn’t have to worry about his associate being distracted by a piece of ass grinding her lower half against a metal pole while half naked, that’s all.
But, he had also let this meeting with the bookie go for two weeks while he decompressed in New Jersey for his little break. So, he didn’t have much of a choice but to get this done and over with as quickly as possible.
A strip club it was.
Safe Haven, actually.
Andino smirked a bit at the flashing neon sign above his head—Safe Haven was an interesting name choice for a business like this. He bet there were quite a few men who did find a safe haven within the walls of this joint. You know, as long as their wives didn’t find out they were there.
The large man dressed in all black with the word SECURITY stretched across his T-shirt stepped aside as Andino came to the front door. As this wasn’t one of his regular haunts, the security guard didn’t recognize him, and so he was subjected to allowing the man to do a quick pat down before he opened the door. He muttered something about Andino keeping his hands to himself, and to have a good evening.
Right.
He wasn’t here for the girls.
Andino did a lot of shit—mixing business and pleasure was absolutely not one of them. It never ended well.
All strip clubs tended to look the same if they weren’t an absolute shithole. Dark walls, shiny floors, and raised platforms with poles. Tables, booths, and a bar typically decorated in the same color scheme. Dim lighting.
Andino was—maybe even pleasantly—surprised to find Safe Haven was none of those things. Oh, sure, the floor shined, but it wasn’t simple tile or shined cement. Light hardwood, actually. The walls were covered in artwork, and neon signs that spelled out different names, places, and even the signature Safe Haven name of the joint.