by Xavier Neal
“Or an ex-spy's butler? I don't know...but I've seen him pull some impressive computer tricks. My advice is bring him a treat if you're going to persuade him to do something for you he probably shouldn't. He likes those weird French cookies.”
I toss a hand up in a request for more information.
“I don't fucking know bro'. I like my cookies like I like my women. With names I can pronounce.”
Don't...jus' don't....
Shaking my head, I give him a nod of thanks and hit the button to be taken to the ground level.
The Castle isn't set up like you would imagine. That's actually part of the fun. See, most people have no idea there is even a strip club in this high dollar area. They just assume strip clubs are disgusting and only in seedy parts of their beloved city. My oh my how wrong they are. French, who is a helluva woman with a beautiful face and imperious presence, owns the entire building. The two dominant décor colors of the entire place, club included, are black and gold. The basement area is where the magic starts. It's home to the illusive night life which caters to those with reputations much too delicate to even think about being in a place like this and anyone else deemed worthy by the queen, in fortune as well as stature. On the ground level, there's one glass door that's only accessible with a key card, there's also her office, maintenance, and medical. Yeah, I said medical. As in round the clock doctors to handle twists, sprains, and breaks at the very least. French likes to have a pharmacy on hand for colds or allergies or whatever the hell else could makes it hard for you to do your job whether that's insomnia or upset stomach. To help keep us limber and out of med's office, we also have a private massage therapist come in a couple times a week. We also have our blood tested for diseases and drugs once a month unannounced. Yours doesn't come back clean? You're fired. No exceptions. Queen has all angles covered inside this palace. From the way everything is laid out to the hand-picked staff, I'm pretty sure she only leaves this building when she absolutely has to.
Arriving at the front desk where Sebastian is sitting with a welcoming grin, I brace myself for the best way to proceed.
What the hell is the best way to ask 'hey can you help me find this blonde woman I fucked over the weekend? No. No name. Just her measurements'. Oh hell. Jus' sayin' it to you sounds dumb as shit. I'll spend the night working on that part, as for now, gotta figure out the proper form of bribery.
He kindly asks, “May I help you, sir?”
I lean both my arms on the counter and grow a friendly smile. “Yeah, I'm...tryin' to impress this chick I met last week. She's got a real fondness for um...French cookies. Got any suggestions?”
There's no hesitation in his response. “Madeleine cookies are some of my personal favorites.”
Worked like a charm.
“There's a little bakery right up the road who makes the best in the city. It's called 'A Slice of Haven'. Would you like me to phone you in an order, sir?”
Quickly, I deny, “No, thank you. I can swing by on my way home. I appreciate the suggestion.”
“Of course, sir.” There's a brief pause before he asks, “Have you scheduled all your appointments for the week, sir? Madam is requesting I ask due to the...conflict we had last week.”
Curiosity causes me to cock an eyebrow. “What kinda conflict?”
The redhead gives me a pointed look. “It is not my place, sir.”
He probably pretended to be a butler for a spy. I swear getting him to spill about anything not French approved is like trying to rip a can away from a goat. It just ain't happenin'. At least not without potentially losin' a finger.
“Have you scheduled yourself, sir?”
As soon as I shake my head, he lifts the tablet with the weekly calendar already on the screen. “Just the usual this week. Hair. Waxing. Massage. Wardrobe. Rehearsal space.”
My eyes scan the open slots. “I always book my rehearsal space a couple weeks at a time according to Cass' class schedule.”
“Very accommodating of you, sir.”
Try to be a gentleman when I can. Plus she's one of the only dancers who's willing to let me tie her up. While there are no female strippers in the club, French hires dance majors who are looking for jobs in their field to help work out routines. Idle performances are unacceptable. I'll tell you what, after a couple years doin' this, staying fresh can become a bit of a challenge without a little help.
I type my name in empty slots for the usual break down of maintenance.
No better way to describe it. We're required to be kept groomed to perfection weekly. Thankfully it's all handled in house and I don't have to do this shit on my own. Havin' someone to wax you where the sun don't shine is fuckin' weird enough without the difficulty of hunting them down all on your own.
The minute I'm done I slide him back the device. “All booked.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Sebastian.”
Heading out of the building, I pull my cell phone out and key in the name of the bakery. To my surprise it's within walking distance. With a smirk I prepare to slide it back in my pocket when it begins to vibrate.
Instinctively I groan in annoyance before answering. “Yeah?”
“That's how you answer the phone?” my older brother's voice grunts. “That's not polite.”
“It's you. I don't have to be polite.”
There's a ruffling sound and then a snap, “Mama would wring your neck if she heard you say that.”
True. Very fuckin' true. When it comes to mindin' your manners my mother is judge and jury with no mercy. Someone sneezed in an elevator once, she said 'bless you' and when the woman didn't say thank you, the ear full that lady got had the entire elevator praising my mother like it was the goddamn inaugural speech. Pop always jokes I get my charm from her and good lucks from him. Sam looks just like her but is as stubborn as our father, though neither will ever admit it.
“What'd you need?”
“Nothin' yet,” the twitchy tone causes my body to tense.
He's fuckin' high. I hate talkin' to him when he's like this. And he only calls to talk about one thing when he is. I love my brother, lord help me do I love my brother, but ever since I left him home it's like he hates me for it. I couldn't fuckin' stay. I needed to be on my own for plenty of reasons we're not about to fuckin' talk about.
“Unless you've got an answer. You got an answer?”
I glance both ways before crossing the street. “I've still got time, Sam.”
“Speakin' of time, you know who I ran into last week while I was helpin' Mama shop for new plates?”
“Wait. Why was mama buyin' new plates?”
“Pop had Sherriff Briggs and his family over this weekend and his kids...well they're kids of the law. You remember how that goes.”
Felt up the daughter of the cop in the backseat of his car when he was off duty. It was her idea...
“Anyway, I ran into Clayton Shawn.”
“Quarterback from your las' year in high school.” My eyes drift to the passing traffic preventing me from crossing the street. “How's he been doin'?”
“Wife. Baby....” The sadness in his voice is replaced almost instantly with irration. “New job. Guess where?”
“Workin' for the company like everyone else in town?”
“Imagine that. Pop will hire everyone, but his own flesh and blood son? How the hell is that righ'?”
“You do work for Pop, Sam.”
“Not the way I want. Not the way I deserve. And damn sure not the way he's holdin' out a spot for you. So, if you know what you plan to do,” he pushes. “then you need to go ahead and tell Pop. Sooner you tell Pop-”
My voice hardens. “I don't know, Sam.”
“But if you do-”
“I already told you I don't. You don't have to keep callin' to check.”
But he does. Any time he's added that shit to his system he does. I miss the days when the worst thing he put in his mouth was a little bit of dip. Now I have to fuckin' worry some day s
omeone's gonna call to tell me he's ODed on coke. Whenever I try to bring it up, he says it's not that bad. He only does it when Pop stresses him out too much. Lately, that seems more and more. I know he blames my inevitable homecomin' but...there's gotta be more there, righ'? I'll tell you what, even if there is, I don't wanna think about it for a few more months.
There's another ruffle from his end of the phone and a faint voice in the background.
“What's that sound?”
“Nothin',” he insists. “Just uh...uh...uh...a delivery.”
Probably the kind I don't want to know about.
“My nerves are shit since Pop decided it was my fault no one was here to sign for the delivery and he had to go back to town to pick it up. It wasn't my fault! I tried to tell Mama I needed to stay but-” His voice cuts itself off. “What the hell ever. And what about you? What are you doin'? Why do I hear traffic and stuff? Where are you?”
“I jus' left work.”
“Doin' what again?”
He doesn't know. None of my family does. Not exactly something I mention during Christmas dinner, which is the only time of the year I ever go home any more. Even then that's not exactly willingly. Jus' a promise I made so they would give me the space I needed.
“Makin' money to pay for my livin'.”
“Which is just fuckin' stupid,” his rant begins. “You could've just taken the money Pop tried to give you-”
“And spend the rest of my life knowin' I didn't earn it? Not really my way, Sam.”
“At least he offered it to you...And what sort of life has 'your way' got you anyway? Livin' in some shitty one bedroom studio while waiting tables instead of bein' home with the rest of us keepin more important shit runnin'?”
Thousands of dollars weekly gets me a penthouse, a new BMW I paid for in cash, and more in my savings account than he's probably seen in his bank account over the past four years.
Opening the door to the bakery, which is decorated in navy and white, I prepare to end the conversation I'm never in the mood for when the face behind the counter catches me off guard.
I swear I know her....
“Look Sam, I gotta go.” Before he can object, I hang up, and casually approach the counter with a wide grin. With a slow wag of my index finger and I say, “I....I know you.”
The mocha colored girl grows a shy smile.
Yup. Definitely know I remember that smile.
“No you fucking don't,” a hard growl comes from behind me.
I glance behind me to see a tall, well-built male with balled fists and a pissed off expression.
Lover not a fighter. Don't worry about it. I've handled bigger tempers in worse situations.
“Don't fucking hit on my girlfriend.”
I turn to face him, lifting both my hands innocently. “I wasn't.”
“That was a fucking pick up line.”
“It wasn't.”
“You're gonna try to look me in my fucking face and tell me I don't know a fucking pick up line when I hear it?”
In a calm voice I insist, “It really wasn't. I actually know her face from somewhere.”
The guy prepares to snap once more as he moves in closer, but the chick demands, “Calm down, Dean. He.....he actually does.”
Another sharp growl escapes him.
Great. A pissed off bull and I'm the waving flag.
“How the fuck do you know him?”
“Dean-”
“Why the fuck do you know him? What-”
“Breathe,” she snips.
“Don't tell me to fucking breathe! What the fuck is going on here?”
Breaking up a couple to try to find information about my latest bed mate wasn't on the agenda.
“He was...” her shaky voice trails off.
Preparing to dodge the blow I know he's going to throw, I finish for her, “The stripper from the bachelorette party she attended this weekend.”
As predicted, he swings and I immediately dodge. The female shrieks at the top of her lungs, but it doesn't stop him from attempting a follow up blow. Gracefully, I block the shot and the following three thrown.
Grew up with a big brother, remember?
Before he can take another swing she yells, “Damn it, Dean! Enough!”
“I'm not gonna let some asshole stripper try to hit on my fucking girlfriend in front of me!”
“Whoa.” I block another shot. “I swear it wasn't her I hit on.”
His hands drop, though his chest continues to rise and fall profusely.
Hell. Is that what being in love does to a guy? No wonder Arik's fuckin' miserable. Even when I had a girlfriend years ago I was never this hot headed over her.
The woman behind the counter adds, “I wasn't the one he slept with!”
Quickly, I shake my head. “Nope. In fact the only reason I remember your girlfriend is because in the history of my profession she was the only chick I've ever come across unwilling to stuff cash in my underwear.”
My choice of phrasing lunges him forward again.
Deserved. Could've said that a bit better.
“Dean!”
The call of his name forces him to back down again before his hands are successfully around my throat. Slowly, he turns his head to face his girlfriend, a look of rage mixed with sorrow in his eyes.
I can thankfully say this doesn't happen too often.
“Relax,” she softly commands. “I've told you a million times, nothing happened.”
He shoves his hands into his gym shorts.
“Why don't you believe me?” The hurt touch in her tone is one even I can feel.
Again. Didn't mean to fuck up one relationship in route of....well I can't say another. I don't know what I even want from the beautiful blonde. Is it this? Is the eventual madness of wantin' to smash the brains in of every other male to ever glance her direction somethin' I want in my life? I know I damn sure don't need it. Not right now of all times.
She doesn't wait for a response from him. Her brown eyes land on me. “What are you doing here?”
The reason flashes through my mind as the sound of her moans echo throughout my brain.
One more night. That's what I want with her. One more time to see if it was real or a fluke.
“I heard you have the best madeleine cookies in the city.”
She smiles sweetly. “We do. However, we're all out for the day. Would you like me to put in an order for tomorrow?”
After a slow nod, I say, “That'd be great.”
The woman begins to type in the computer, requesting a name and number for the order while her boyfriend leans against the counter, still within punching range.
Wouldn't have expected him any further from me.
At the end of the order, she questions, “Can I get you anything else?”
Not one to pass up on an opportunity so beautifully laid out for me, I offer her my debit card, lean both my arms on the case, and casually suggest, “The phone number of the blonde I slept with?”
Instantly she giggles and he tenses beside me.
Damn. Doesn't take much with him, huh?
“I....I....”
“You know the one I'm talkin' 'bout? The bride's right hand all night? Bright blue eyes? Wore a lace dress, no bra?”
Remember everything about her, down to the heart shaped birthmark.
The look in her eyes softens. “I know who you're talking about, but I can't give you her number.”
“You sure?” An innocent smile flashes across my face. “I'd love to see her again.”
“Then why didn't you get her fucking number after you screwed her?” Dean growls.
Turning my head to face him I say, “Because it's against company policy to do that.”
“But stalking down one of the other guests is alright?”
“This was a coincidence.”
However the reason I was buyin' the damn cookies to begin with matches his sarcasm. Let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?
&n
bsp; He grunts, “I'm supposed to believe that bullshit?”
“I honestly don't care what you believe,” my bite isn't well received by the way his fists tense again.
“I can't give you her number,” the chick speaks up before we have a chance to start arguing. “But I can give you where she'll probably be tonight.”