“Shane’s nice,” Dominick says as he knees Miles in the balls. “Sometimes, too nice. So let me continue. If I hear that you’ve been within a half-mile of this club, or within a half-mile of Meghan, this is going to seem like a walk in the fucking park. If I decide to let you live, you won’t leave the hospital for a long fucking time. Do you understand me?”
By this point, Miles is sobbing. “Y–y–yes,” he blubbers, tears mixing with his blood. “Please.”
I’m disgusted by this piece of shit. Begging for what? Mercy? Like he would’ve given any to Meghan if he’d gotten her alone in his car? He’s weak, preying on a woman when she’s defenseless. Although, after that jab to Miles’s nose, maybe she wouldn’t have been quite the meek mouse he expected. The thought gives me a hint of satisfaction.
Miles continues to cry, his pleas to stop peppered with threats of lawsuits, still not understanding that we don’t handle things like that at Petals. Dominick looks offended at Miles’s breakdown and winds up, kicking him in the stomach hard enough that I’m pretty sure Dom missed his calling as a field goal kicker. “Shane, before Miles leaves us, make sure he’ll be jacking off left-handed for the next two to three months.”
“Certainly, sir,” I reply, stepping forward again. Miles tries to fend me off weakly, but I grab his right hand without a problem, goose necking it before punching him in the ribs just for fun. “This way, asshole.”
It’s harder to lead Miles out to his car, mainly because he’s taken so much of a beating his legs can’t really support him. It takes both me and Logan to get him across the lot.
Finally, we reach his car, and I twist Miles’s wrist a little more, making him whimper. “Keys.”
Using his right hand, Miles finds his keys, holding them out to me. “Unlock your door.”
He pushes a button, and I open the door, looking into his teary, fear-streaked eyes. “I’m not a bad guy,” he whines. “I just wanted to say sorry.”
“I’m sure. But you know what?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Now you understand fear. Now you understand what she felt when you grabbed her wrist tonight. How she felt when you came at her in this parking lot. Now you understand that for all your macho bullshit, you’re just five seconds away from being someone’s little bitch. Put your hand in the door.”
The realization of what’s about to happen clears away some of the haze in his eyes, and he starts shaking his head, a whine coming from deep in his chest. “No! Please, no—”
I force his arm out, slamming the door on his fist. There’s a crack, and he cries out, dropping to his knees. “My hand!”
“You have until I count to twenty to be out of the parking lot . . . or else, your neck is next,” I say, picking him up and heaving him into the driver’s seat of his car. “One. Two. Three.”
I’m bluffing about the neck part, but it does the job. He leaves as quickly as he can, running over the curb as he pulls out just as I reach twenty.
Turning, I head around to the back door of the club to report to Dominick. As I walk, I know that on some level, I should be bothered by what I did tonight.
A two-on-one beating that left a man broken, bleeding, and with only fate to decide if he lives through the night should give me pause.
But the fucker deserved it for what he did to Meghan the first time. And the fact that he showed back up to intimidate her again?
A part of me hopes he does die, all snug in his fucking bed tonight, choking on his own blood. And if he doesn’t die, he spends the next week pissing dark brown and looking like he picked a fight with a steamroller, because if he shows his face near the club again, I will kill the son of a bitch. Consequences be damned.
Whatever it takes, because Meghan deserves to be treated with respect.
Chapter 7
Maggie
Stretching on my sofa, I lean back, sighing. Thank goodness I’m off today from both of my jobs. After last night’s craziness, I need a day to recover, unwind, and settle my mind. My hand is sore from where I punched Miles, and typing this afternoon might be a bit of a challenge, but I’m not the least bit sorry.
The light throb is a reminder that I’m a strong beast of girl who can put those killer cardio-kickboxing class and elementary school Tae Kwon Do moves to good use when needed. Getting up, I doctor a cup of coffee and plop back down on the couch, turning on old gameshow reruns as background noise as I curl up with my laptop. For some reason, listening to Richard Dawson asking what the survey said gets my creative juices flowing.
I click around, checking my emails, Instagram, and Twitter to see if there’s anything I can cull into a story for the tabloid. There isn’t much. An Instagram girl famous for her booty seems to be stiffing her video editor, both literally and financially. I also cobble together a quick hundred-word blurb about a celebutante dining at the fanciest restaurant in town with her brother, noting that they’re rarely seen together in public. It isn’t much, but it’ll keep Jeanine happy enough to not bug me on my day off.
Nothing’s really smashing ground-breaking journalism, but it’s what I’ve got. Fortunately, I’m still riding high on the Jimmy Keys expose story I was able to write based on his appearance in the club. Jeanine ate that up like candy, just like I knew she would.
I’d even written a couple of follow-up pieces about the fallout when his wife found out, and then when he admitted to having a sex addiction and was seeking treatment.
I think his reaction’s a bit overblown and probably more to save his reputation, considering he was just getting a lap dance. There’s no need for the melodrama, but the cynical side of me wasn’t surprised to see the pedestal-living pseudo-hero fall to Earth with a crash.
After a few more minutes of clicking around, I find myself staring at the TV screen mindlessly rather than digging for more juicy stories. Sure, it’s a waste of time, but it feels good to laugh as a bunch of pseudo-celebrities swap one-liners and give double-entendres for answers to ridiculous questions. It’s light and bright. Nothing they’re saying really matters, but that’s what makes it fun.
Setting my laptop aside, I give in to the draw of the show, but after a few minutes, my phone rings. I mute Charles Nelson Reilly, circa 1978, to grab it, seeing it’s Allie.
“Hey, Allie. What’s kickin’?”
“Are you serious right now?” Allie asks, sounding outraged and amused at the same time. “You punch an asshole customer out last night, and today, you’re all casual, ‘Hey, Allie, what’s kickin’?’ Bitch, you’d better start spilling the story.”
I grin, loving how she’s blunt and straight to the point. She also shows that she cares that way. The more direct she gets, the more she likes you. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Allie guffaws. “Actually, pause right there because I need to see your face when you tell this story. I gotta see how much of your bullshit you actually believe. What are you doing right now?”
I look around my apartment, at the muted show I’m watching, the nest of blankets wrapped around me on my couch, and me still in my pajamas. “Literally, nothing. Why?”
“Perfect. I’m picking you up in fifteen minutes and we’re going for mani-pedis so I can hear it all. Okay?”
“That sounds great, actually,” I admit, grinning. When Allie makes me offers like this, she always insists on picking up the tab. “I’ll be ready.”
We hang up, and I hurry to get ready, pulling on shorts, a T-shirt, and flip flops before retying my ponytail and swiping some mascara and lipgloss on. It’s not fancy, but it’s what I’ve got on short notice. I’m just making sure my mouthwash is doing its job when I hear a knock, and I know I’m out of time.
Of course, when I open the door, Allie looks like a million bucks. Her chocolate hair is hanging straight down her back, her makeup is impeccable but perfect for daytime, and while she’s also wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she manages to look like a Pinterest pin while I look like a fashion don’t list victim.
“Are you planning on ha
nding out heart attacks today?” I ask, and Allie grins.
“Nope, that’s your job. You look gorgeous,” she says.
I smooth the wrinkles out of my T-shirt and laugh. “You must be high! Come on, let’s go. Who’s driving?”
“Like you have to ask,” Allie says, dangling her keys. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
Forty minutes later, we’re sitting in matching pedicure chairs, my feet already feeling softer as they soak in eucalyptus-scented water. “Mmm . . . nice.”
“So, what color do you think?” Allie says, flipping through the color guide. “I’m thinking dark navy blue, something that’ll stand out.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t think so,” I reply, flipping through my own copy. “Hey, what do you think?”
I hold up my card, a pinkish light lavender that just caught my attention. Allie grins, giving me a thumbs-up. “Totally you. It’s so sweet I need to check myself for diabetes.”
I stick out my tongue, and Allie laughs. A few minutes later, our technicians take our choices and get to work, buffing and smoothing our feet until they tingle.
As the ladies really get into their work, Allie looks over at me, leaning back in her chair. “Okay, now spill it.”
“Well, I was working the floor,” I begin before giving her an edited play-by-play of last night’s events. Of course, I have to leave out names. We’re in public, and I know that name dropping could bring unwanted attention. “So, anyway, I socked him in the nose.”
“You caught that motherfucker in the nose?” Allie asks, barely containing a fist pump. “How’d the boys react?”
I think back to the shocked looks on Dominick and Shane’s faces, and I grin. “I surprised them pretty good, I think. I’m sure they thought I didn’t have it in me. Honestly, I didn’t think I had it in me either, but watching the way he was trying to weasel, I just knew I had to fight back. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I was going to be afraid of jerks like that my whole life,” I reply. “And you know what? It felt really good to stand up to him that way. I think the guys probably scared the bejesus out of him more though. Hopefully, he won’t try coming around again.”
Allie gives me an odd look, like I must be having the sillies or something. “Uhm, he definitely won’t come around again if he knows what’s good for him. I’m sure they beat the shit out of him. Did you see the guys again last night?”
I think back, then shake my head. “No, Bossman came in and told me I could take off early, considering everything. He even comped me the missed tips—reached into his pocket and slipped two Bennies in my hand like it was nothing. I was so surprised, I went straight home and slept like the dead till late this morning. Why?”
Allie seems uncertain if she should say more but finally hums to herself and makes a decision. “Well, I saw the boss’s hands later. He had a few scrapes, and his right shoe was scuffed. And I’m thinking your knight had more of an axe to grind.”
“How so?”
Allie bites her lip before replying. “Later, when he was walking us out, I noticed that one of his hands was bandaged. I asked, and he said he was fine, but . . . if I could give you a guess, I’d say your knight laid a major asswhipping on your motherfucker.”
I let that sink in.
Dom and Shane beat Miles up . . . for me. I should be horrified at the caveman-like behavior, disgusted that they sank that low instead of . . . what? Using their words? Not saying pretty please and calling the cops?
I scoff at my own line of thinking. It’s not like this is kindergarten, and I know Dominick protects the club and his girls fiercely. They used brute force because they’re able to and that’s what the situation called for, especially after Shane gave Miles a threatening talk the first time around.
I mean, even I got a shot in, so their beating him up isn’t all that different from what I did, right? Maybe more aggressive, taken further, but I know that deep inside, I’m not upset at what they did.
I’m thankful they defended me that way, made me and all the other women Miles has likely tried to intimidate safer with their actions.
“Well, I’m glad then. If I never see that poohead again, it’ll be too soon.”
Allie chuckles, shaking her head. “Poohead. I swear the universe missed out on one of the greatest jokes in history when you weren’t named Pollyanna. Then again, you don’t seem upset by the news.”
“I’m not, honestly. It was . . . I guess you could say it was noble. From a certain point of view.”
Story complete, our conversation turns to other matters. Allie chats about what she’s been up to, mostly sticking to some new clothes she picked up online the other day before grinning. “And guess what?” she says, not even giving me a chance to guess before she rattles on excitedly, “I got another job!”
She’s giddy, almost dancing in her seat, making the lady working on her nails look at her sharply. “Miss, I cannot do the contours correctly if you keep moving.”
“Sorry,” Allie apologizes, turning back to me. “So, yeah, new job!”
“Oh, my gosh, are you quitting?” I ask, worried. Allie’s my best friend. I couldn’t imagine what work at Petals would be like without her.
She laughs, shaking her head. “Of course not. Nothing pays like the club. But this is a shot at some classical ballet. Two classes a week to adults who want to stretch and tone and feel graceful. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I can use my training for more than splits and spins on a pole.”
“That’s so awesome, Allie,” I reply honestly, grinning. “If I could hug you or high-five you right now, I so would!”
Even though we don’t move, the nail tech by Allie gives us a shrewd look. It’s just that I know Allie’s been busting her butt to make some sort of inroad on her dream of working in the ballet world. She trained for years, even to the point of injuring herself to try and get more turn-out on her feet before an eating disorder put her in the hospital.
Even just her dancing in a strip club is a step for her. I think it shows that she’s at least a little confident in her body again. Sure, she’s got bills a mile high, but in almost every other way, I think she’s almost a role model for me.
Finally, when our nails are done, I’m able to give Allie a congratulatory hug, both of us keeping our nails away from each other in a weird forearm patting embrace.
I’m truly happy for her to get this job because I know she misses ballet. She has an empty room in her apartment lined with mirrors so she can dance and improve. I’d teased her about her voyeuristic sexcapades the first time I’d seen the mirrors, but when she turned on some music and began swaying and leaping through the small space, I knew exactly what that room was for her.
It’s her sanctuary. I guess we all need one.
“Come on, let me buy you a cupcake to congratulate you on your new gig!”
Allie grins but refuses. “Thank you, and maybe later, but I should get going. I work tonight and need to get ready. You working?”
I glance at my watch, surprised at how late it is already. “Yeah, I’m only doing a partial shift tonight though. I’ll be in at ten ‘till close. But come on, one cupcake? I’ll make it double-fudge red velvet.”
Allie glowers at me, then grins. “You’re buying.”
Chapter 8
Shane
“Room check,” I say quietly into my ear mic, notifying Nick, the guy working the door. It’s just another Sunday night at Petals. You’d think Sunday would be the lightest night of the week. I mean, East Robinsville has a lot more churches than strip clubs, but it’s not. It’s not quite as busy as Saturday night, but Sundays aren’t slack either.
There are quite a few patrons. Maybe it’s a carryover from their Sunday morning activities, or maybe it’s the fact that they’re not looking forward to Monday, but the customers seem pretty chill.
But tonight just doesn’t seem the same. Instead of the shitload of things I should be watching for, including but
not limited to making sure the customers behave, that the dancers are comfortable, and that Marco’s not getting stiffed at the bar, I find myself waiting for Meghan. I even know her schedule, and she’s not supposed to be in for a little bit, but that’s not stopping me from anticipating her arrival.
Trying to rein my attentions in, I scan the floor. The new girl on stage seems to be doing all right, although I can’t remember her name. Candy? Caramel? Something with a C that’s definitely fake.
Most of the patrons are watching her with rapt attention, except for the bachelor party that seems more intent on roasting the groom-to-be, leading to some raucous laughter from their table. They haven’t gotten to their lap dances yet, but from what I see, I’d say the bride-to-be has nothing to worry about. Her beau’s got a look on his face that says he’s enjoying himself, but he’s just putting up with his buddies’ antics and he’s going to behave.
Still, I scan each face for a moment, making sure it’s just good ol’ boy fun and not going to be an issue before continuing my threat assessment of the room. It’s a normal Sunday crowd, with guys in just about every age bracket, wealth bracket, and confidence bracket . . . and three girls, two of whom are having ‘nights out’ with their guy friends.
Petals is a decent place, more high-class than most country clubs, so we don’t get too many low-life types. Still, there’s always a mix of folks to keep an eye on, especially in Dominick’s place where he rules with an iron fist. The inherent combination of guys full of liquid courage and sexy women flirting with them is a dangerous equation, like sparks near dynamite . . . unless the rules are strictly followed.
So I keep my eyes open. From my perch, I can angle to the side and see behind the curtains on the far side of the stage. I see when the backdoor opens and Meghan walks in, a backpack thrown over her shoulder, her sweats and tank outfit in place but with full fuck-me hair and makeup going, probably done at her apartment. It’s an oddly endearing combination, the sweet and the sexy all mixed up.
Dirty Deeds Page 7