Angels Fall

by J. A. Huss

  It’s never gonna happen, but I’ve always prided myself on my eternal optimism, so I just keep on truckin’.

  “Ha!” I laugh again.

  I grab my backpack, get out, slam the door, and walk to the building.

  I am Pete’s old, black door. I think I’m paraphrasing the movie Fight Club to myself. Which has a lead character in it called Tyler. Who is played by Brad Pitt. Who looks like the Tyler I know. Which makes me think of him. Which pisses me off. Christ.

  Inside it’s dark, as usual, and there’s like seven people here, as usual. And Candy, the girl on stage, is bent over, holding onto the brass pole, bumping her ass up and down to the beat of Pretty Fly (For a White Guy), working it hard as she looks over her shoulder at the one guy sitting up near the stage, mouthing the words, Give it to me, baby.

  He takes a sip of his beer and throws her a single.

  I walk past and head for the stairs. Because if I’m the morning manager at Pete’s then I need a fucking raise.

  I climb up, determined, my jaw set, my knock firm. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna work my ass off like Candy down there, and take a half-heartedly thrown dollar bill as my payment.

  “Yep,” Pete calls.

  I find him slumped over his desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scans a spreadsheet on his computer.

  “Hey,” I say, all my confidence faltering.

  “Madison,” he says, not looking at me. “What can I do for you?”

  Madison. Jesus. That’s a wake-up call. I feel like I’m talking to the dean back in college and not my strip-club boss.

  “Um… well,” I stammer. “I just…”

  He looks up at me, fluffy eyebrows raised. “Close the door.”

  Holy shit. “Did I—Am I in trouble?”

  Pete crosses his arms across his chest. “Dunno. You tell me.”

  I’m not sure what that means, so I just turn, close the door, and take a deep breath. “I just… feel like I’m doing a lot of extra work.” He squints his eyes at me, like that was a loaded comment. And it probably was. Because it’s leading somewhere, so… “I mean, I fired someone for you. And I made the schedule last week. And I handle little problems, like with the other girls and stuff. And since, you know, you don’t have a morning manager, and I seem to be filling in, and I’m pretty sure Raven gets a salary for her extra efforts, then maybe…” I run out of breath and stop, unsure if I should pull the trigger and say it.

  Say it! the devil screams in my head. You’re the boss!

  “I’m kinda the boss down there, OK? And you’d be taking advantage of me if you didn’t pay me for my extra work.”

  He stares at me. I squirm and shuffle my feet, praying that I didn’t just piss him off and get myself fired. He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

  “Figure… what out?”

  “Your worth.”

  “Ha!” I laugh it out for the third time this morning. But then I shut up, because I think this is going my way.

  Your way? the angel says. This is your big plan? Manage the morning shift at a strip club?

  Shut the fuck up, bitch.

  That was me, not the devil.

  “I am worth something here, Pete. I’m not saying I’m better than anyone, but I’m…” I swallow hard. “I’m committed. Ya know? And I’d do a good job. I swear. I’m competent.”

  Pete stares at me for a few seconds. “Mmmhmm. And all kinds of people are interested in you right now,” he says.

  My smile is tight. “Yeah, well, you know. I’m an interesting girl.” I force that fucking smile to stay put.

  He slides his glasses down his nose. “Guy who came here about you—”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Pete says. “Kinda crazy if you ask me.”

  “Look, I know it’s not the best situation to be in, OK? But I’m handling it. And this job is helping me. And if you let me work harder for you… I’d be worth it, Pete. I swear. And then I could pay back my debt and Carlos Castillo would go away… and things would get better. I mean, I can’t pay off the whole thing on a stripper paycheck, obviously. Or a manger paycheck, either. A hundred and seventy-six-thousand dollars is like, two years’ worth of pay. I know that. But I can probably get him off my back, and things would cool down, and… and…” Pete is looking at me like I just said something totally wrong. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You owe Carlos Castillo a hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars?”

  “Um…” This feels off. Like Carlos wasn’t the guy who came looking for me. “Actually, a hundred and eighty-five thousand. But I’ve made nine over the past few weeks, so I deducted. Maybe it was Logan who came looking?” I say, trying to put the pieces together. “You know, that asshole henchman Carlos has doing his dirty work? Could be either of them.” Pete stares at me. Not blinking. Just staring. “I guess.”

  “So…” He leans back in his chair, “Who exactly is Tyler?’

  “What?” I practically choke on the word.

  “Tyler? Fella who came here about you. Couple times.”

  “Tyler?” I say, so fucking confused. “He came in here again?”

  “Mmmhmm,” Pete hums. “Pretty crazy. If you ask me.”

  “Well, he’s a soldier who—” I say, then roll my eyes. “This isn’t about Tyler. This is about me. Remember? I want to be your morning manager?” I need to redirect this conversation back to that. Because I just admitted I owe a drug lord a lot of fucking money.

  “So this Tyler. He is your friend, then?”

  Jesus. He won’t let it go. “Um, well, yes. We’re old friends, I guess.” I decide telling Pete about my sexual relationship is probably not work-appropriate. Especially when we did it out in his back alley.

  “And he’s not crazy?”

  “Well, I dunno about that.” I laugh. But Pete doesn’t think it’s funny. So I say, “No. Not really. He’s just… fucking Tyler.”

  “And you left him a note to stay away?” Pete asks.

  “What? How the hell—”

  “He came here with that note asking me for advice. At three in the morning.”

  “He. Did. What?” I grab my hair like my head might explode and that’s the only reasonable way to keep it attached to my shoulders.

  “I think he’s been around a lot,” Pete says. “Seen him a few times since.”

  “When?” I actually look over my shoulder like Tyler fucking Morgan is gonna come barreling up those steps and… and… I have a very inappropriate daydream in that moment. Imagery of him fucking me in the alley weeks ago also comes to mind for the second time in like ten seconds.

  “…saw him hanging around outside too.”

  I shake myself back to the present and say, “Outside? What the hell are you talking about? Outside here? Like… is he stalking me?”

  “Do you think he’s stalking you?”

  I have no answer for that. I just stare at my boss, lost. I am not having this conversation.

  Oh, he’s back, baby! my angel says. He’s back. And you’re gonna make up with him and ask him for help. Like you should’ve, instead of kicking him to the fucking curb!

  I laugh. My angel just said fuck.

  “So you owe Carlos Castillo a hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars…”

  “Look, honestly, I don’t owe him anything. But that’s not how he sees it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He hired me to plan his daughter’s wedding, gave me the money for it, and then she went off and got knocked up with some other guy’s kid after I paid everyone for the ceremony,” I explain.

  Pete sighs and nods. “Yeah. And if you can’t come up with the money? He make any type of… alternative arrangement with you?”

  “Um, kind of? He tried. How do—Do you know Carlos Castillo?”

  Pete doesn’t answer. Just goes back to looking at his computer.

  “I’m gonna pay him back,
OK? I just need a break. That’s all. And you could give me a break, Pete. You could just… help me out a little by giving me this extra responsibility.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you pay him back or not. You’re in Castillo’s orbit now. There’s no getting out of it.”

  “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

  “Or,” Pete says, looking up at me from the top of his glasses, “you could just ask your friend Tyler for help.”

  “No,” I huff. “No. Believe me when I say this, OK? He cannot help me. He’s not that kind of guy.”

  “Seems like he can,” Pete says. “Seems like he is. He’s got money. Hell, gave me five grand just to tell him where you live.”

  “Yeah. I know. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  Pete shrugs. “Point is it sounds like he really cares about you and he’s in a position to make your problem go away.”

  Cares about me? “Pete,” I start, trying to keep my temper in check, “I appreciate it, but Tyler Morgan isn’t the person to help me. I’m the person to help me. I’m the only one who can. Know what I’m saying?” Pete’s got kind but tired eyes that look like they’ve seen more than I can know, and I hold my steady gaze on them until he speaks again.

  “Yeah. I respect that,” he says. I breathe out a little.

  “I mean, look, Pete. I didn’t come up here to talk about Tyler.”

  “Or your Carlos problem, but you did.”

  “Just forget about both of those people. OK? I just need the job. Please? I’m a really good manager. I am. And I have a degree in business, so that pretty much—”

  “Everyone’s got a degree in business, Maddie. Even Candy has an MBA.”

  “Really?” Candy has an MBA? Next thing you know, he’s gonna say Raven’s not just some washed-up stripper. “Can I have the job, Pete? Just give me a try for a few weeks and see how it goes. And if I don’t have this place running in tip-top shape, you can say forget it. How’s that sound?”

  “Are you working for free?”

  “Free? Like… no. I need the money, remember?”

  Pete laughs. It’s a nice laugh. I kinda like Pete. He’s not a bad dude as far as strip-club owners go. He runs a tight ship. Respects us. Pays us on time. Always remains calm when the girls complain, and never lets anyone harass us. Unless it’s Tyler Morgan, but I can’t fault Pete for falling for Tyler’s charm. He’s just kinda… charming like that.

  And hey, if you’ve gotta sell your sexy for a living, you really can’t ask for a better place than Pete’s. I’ve heard stories from some of the other morning girls. They’ve got loads of stories about the skanky places they’ve worked before landing here. They’re like… bottom of the barrel, if ya know what I mean.

  Which doesn’t say a lot about me.

  “I can pay you for managing, but it’s not gonna get you out from under what you owe Carlos. I’m sorry. I wish I could. But I can’t.”

  “I know. I get it. But still… how much?”

  He thinks and then he says, “Three grand more a month.”

  “Three…?” I ask, deflating. “I was hoping for a little more than that.”

  “I know, but that’s the best I can do, Maddie. I don’t really need a morning manager. I could just tell Otis to do shit and he would. And besides, you’ll be managing a strip club in the morning, not running a hedge fund. Sorry, kid.”

  I can’t even begin to hide the look of abject disappointment on my face. But then again, he’s right. I don’t know what I was expecting.

  “Good enough. Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it.” I force a smile and start off.

  “Madison?” God, I hate it that he calls me that here. I turn back yet again. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m really not. Just… Tyler. At first I thought he was a psycho, and then when he poured his heart out, I changed my mind. And then I changed my mind back to psycho, because, well, he is. But let’s face it. Guys do dumb shit when they fall in love. And an in-love-with-you-psycho is better than a psycho who ain’t on your side.”

  “He’s not in love with me—”

  Pete holds one finger up in the air. So I shut up.

  “I’ve seen what I’ve seen, and I know what I know, and guys don’t do crazy shit like coming up to randomly talk to a woman’s boss for advice on how to win her back unless they’ve got it bad.” He presses his lips together and suddenly looks older than I normally think of him. “So I’m just saying to ya… You don’t always get a second chance to make things right. When you’re young and haven’t fucked your life up so bad it can’t be fixed yet, you think there’s always a next time. Well, there isn’t always. Read me?”

  He stares at me for a few uncomfortable seconds. I shift my feet and sigh. I have to force myself not to wring my hands under his steadfast gaze.

  “You read me?”

  I nod, feeling unexpectedly chastised, even though I did get what I wanted when I came up here.

  “OK,” he says. “So fine. You’re the new morning manager. Go ahead and get to work.”

  I turn and walk to the door. This time I make it all the way out, half-hoping that I’ll wake up and discover it’s all a dream. But I don’t. Because it isn’t. Dreams are for people who still have hope.

  I head downstairs, everything he said to me echoing in my head, and go into the dressing room to change.

  Is it pathetic or ironic that my new costume is a devil?

  I can’t decide. So I just put it on. At least I don’t have to wear a wig anymore. My flaming-red hair is quite perfect for this ensemble.

  Candy comes into the dressing room, huffing air like she just ran a marathon. “Jesus Christ,” she says. “I hustled hard out there just now, Scarlett. You saw me, right? And I made forty dollars! Forty! I can’t even pay my sitter with this!”

  I don’t know what to say to that. It’s sad. I’m sad.

  So I just pull up my tacky red thigh-highs and attach them to my new black garter belt, and accept my life for what it is.

  A goddamned disappointment.

  There’s no DJ in the mornings, just a music track, and I hear the intro music that signals the next act—which is me. So I slip my feet into the six-inch stripper shoes, force my eyes to meet my gaze in the mirror, and say, “Fuck it.”

  “Hey,” Jerry says. He’s the day bouncer until Drake gets in later.

  “I’m late for the stage,” I say, picking up my pitchfork as I slip past him in the doorway. I got it last week at Tractor Supply. It’s real and everything. I painted it red. Usually I do this sexy little dance around it while I’m on stage. But right now I feel like stabbing someone with it.

  “I just—” Jerry calls.

  But I wave him off and walk towards the stage just as my song starts to play.

  “He’s here!” Jerry whisper-yells from behind me.

  “Who?” I ask over the music. There’s like, one guy in the front row, sitting near the backstage entrance. Not that guy who was halfheartedly waving singles at Candy when I walked in, but—

  “Shit.”

  “Time to pay up, Scarlett,” Logan says, standing up, still sipping his drink. “Three weeks is half of six. And that means you owe us half the money right now. Ninety-three thousand. Where is it?”

  Logan says all this like it’s reasonable to expect me, a stripper, and not a very good one at that, to actually have this ridiculous sum of money. On me. In a strip club. In cash.

  “It’s ninety-two and a half,” I say, controlling my eye roll. “Not ninety-three. And when the hell did we say I had to get you half now?”

  Logan steps in far too close for my liking, pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, which makes me cringe, and whispers. “Fair enough. I’ll tell you the truth. Carlos didn’t send me this time. I’ve been watching you.” He’s been watching me? What the fuck? “And I know you’re here in the mornings, and as I was heading home from taking care of a few things last night, suddenly it occurred to me that you and I haven’t really had a chance to… talk
.”

  I don’t like where this is going. Not at all.

  “Carlos is right to feel… intrigued by you, Madison Clayton.” Oh, Jesus, I think I’m going to fucking puke. “You are an absolute puzzle waiting to be solved.”

  My jaw tightens as he twists my hair around his fingers and says, “Remember when you showed me your pussy, Maddie? When you spread your legs and let me see that sexy snatch you’ve got? Shit. I’ll be honest, I was so sad that you’re shaved down there.” He reaches one hand far too close to my thighs. “Because I imagine that fiery red cunt of yours is just as beautiful as all this.” And he takes a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back just a tiny bit.

  And at that instant… for whatever reason, Ricky Ramirez, tequila salesman from Acapulco, comes to my mind. Ese es tu problema. Tienes mal genio. And that just pisses me off.

  In fact, everything right now pisses me off.

  And so I decide… That’s it.

  I’m fucking done.

  I crash my pitchfork into Logan’s head, kick him in the balls so hard my stripper shoe goes flying across the room, and then give him an uppercut to his jaw just as he looks up at me with rage and pain in his eyes.

  You were wrong, Ricky Ramirez.

  My goddamned temper is not my problem.

  My goddamned temper is all I have left.

  Chapter Eight - Tyler & Maddie

  TYLER

  Well, that’s some shit you don’t see every day.

  A devil in a strip club, at eight in the morning, beating the fuck out of the bag man for a Mexican drug lord with a pitchfork.

  Huh.

  One of her shoes has come off, so she’s sorta limping toward him, swinging her pitchfork, as he scrambles backwards to get away. Everything else in the club has come to a dead stop, save for the song still playing. Maddie’s song. The one that plays when she does her stage dance. The song I had Shazam identify for me as Angel by Massive Attack, and then downloaded and put on a playlist called “Maddie,” which currently consists of just the one song that I play over and over, so, y’know, it’s an easy track for me to recognize.

  It’s funny to watch a dude get his ass kicked to a soundtrack.