Amp set aside the vacuum and went to answer the door. Standing on the other side of the screen were Mr. Barrett and the same officers who’d taken Melvin away.
“I need you to step away from the door, Mr. Anthony,” Mr. Barrett barked before Amp could even fix his mouth to greet them.
Amp backed up quickly, with a blanket of confusion on his face. The next thing he knew, the officers were storming into the house. They headed straight toward Amp, one taking out his handcuffs.
“What’s going on here?” Paul asked, rushing into the living room.
Mr. Barrett, straightening his pants at the waist with his thumbs, was glad to tell him. “Well, the drug test for Mr. Anthony here shows alcohol in his system, which is a direct violation of his parole.”
“That’s bullshit!” Amp interjected. “I haven’t had a drink in years.”
“The test doesn’t lie,” Mr. Barrett said arrogantly. He had a straight face, but his eyes were smiling. Amp sensed that this guy was enjoying the moment.
One officer held Amp, while the other handcuffed him. Amp didn’t put up a fight, although the bulging veins on the sides of his forehead clearly displayed his desire to take some heads off.
“Amp, be cool.” Paul gestured with a flat hand for Amp to bring his temper down a notch. “I’ll handle this.” He turned to Mr. Barrett. “Let me talk to you real quick. It’ll only take a second.” Without even waiting for Mr. Barrett’s consent, Paul walked a few steps away from where the two officers had Amp hemmed up.
Mr. Barrett followed, shooting Amp a dirty look as he passed by. Amp didn’t back down, staring right in his eyes. He knew he had done nothing wrong. The problem was, he also knew the reputation the LAPD had when it came to their treatment of young black men, so Amp was nervous. He said a quick prayer, asking God not to let him go back to jail, and not to let all the progress he’d made be in vain. He hadn’t prayed in a long time, but he hoped that God still recognized his voice.
Opening his eyes after the prayer, Amp looked toward Mr. Barrett and Paul, who both had scowls on their faces. In the small living room, he was able to hear their conversation, and he couldn’t believe what was being said.
“Paul, I really don’t have time for this,” Barrett started. “I know you take a liking to these boys, but they ain’t nothing but animals and street thugs that need to stay locked up.”
Paul got straight to his point, ignoring Mr. Barrett’s prejudiced assessment of the men in the house. “I tested Amp five minutes after you left,” Paul informed him. “I ran it through the county screening center and it came back clean.”
A crimson flush took over Mr. Barrett’s usually pale complexion. “Well, they must have made a mistake,” he said, sounding flustered.
Across the room, Amp’s heart started pounding. Maybe God had heard his voice after all.
“No. You made a mistake—or at least you’re about to make the biggest one of your life,” Paul warned him. “Tampering with federal drug tests . . . Forget about losing your job, benefits, and pension. Do you know how much time in jail you could get for that?” Paul returned the same dirty look to Mr. Barrett that Mr. Barrett had given Amp.
Mr. Barrett was silent, but his facial expression said it all: Oh, shit!
Paul leaned in a little closer to Mr. Barrett, but Amp could still hear his matter-of-fact tone as he said, “From here on out, I will test these guys in this house, and you will happily sign off on my results. Otherwise, I will turn my test and yours over to the D.A. and let them toss you in there with some of the same ‘animals’ you had locked up. You got me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Barrett replied at a level that was almost inaudible.
“Good. Now feel free to get your goofy ass out of here.” Paul motioned to the door.
Practically tripping over his feet in embarrassment, Mr. Barrett turned around. He said to the officers, “There’s been some kind of mix-up. This young man is clean. Let’s go.” Without even waiting for the officers to free Amp, Mr. Barrett exited the house.
Amp knew that if he was able to hear the conversation, then the officers had heard it too, but they didn’t react. They simply un-cuffed Amp and followed Mr. Barrett out the door, giving no apologies. Amp wondered if they had been in on the scam all along.
Rubbing his wrists in the spot where the cuffs had been squeezing them, Amp said to Paul, “Wow, he tried to set me up?”
This explained why Paul had insisted that Amp do the second urine sample after Mr. Barrett already took one. Paul must have had his suspicions about the parole officer. The whole situation was shocking. Amp had always suspected that Mr. Barrett didn’t like the men who kept him employed, but he never would have imagined that Barrett would jeopardize his job by setting up false test results.
Unfortunately, Amp was no stranger to that level of hatred and prejudice. He knew all too well that whether imprisoned or free, men of color could never truly escape the ugly effects of racism in America.
Glaring out the door as he watched the police car leaving, Paul replied, “I knew there was something off about him.” He shook his head and pointed at Amp. “You just make sure you keep your nose clean. I’m putting my job on the line here. You make me out to be an idiot and I’m dragging you back to prison my damn self. Understood?”
Amp exhaled. “Loud and clear.”
Paul walked into the kitchen, and Amp finished putting away the vacuum. The day had just begun, but he hoped like hell that this was the most dramatic thing that would happen all day.
Later on that night, it was closing time at Club Eden and the last few customers were filing out of the club. It was amateur night, and once again Amp had put on one hell of a show. Madam could call it amateur night all she wanted to, but there was nothing amateur about Amp’s performance.
“You are a natural at this,” Madam told Amp after his set. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”
A few women in the audience had asked Amp the same question. The way Amp moved, he had to have been born with that talent. There was no way his performance was the result of a couple of YouTube videos and a crash course session with Babyface. But it was.
“So it’s official. You’re starting full-time tomorrow night, right?” Madam asked Amp as the two stood in her office.
Amp stuffed a knot of bills into his pocket. “Yes, ma’am.” There were no ifs, ands, or buts, and absolutely no indecisiveness this time around. With the money Amp had made tonight, which was at least three hundred more than he’d made last week, his mind was made up. Good-bye, security, and hello, full-time dancer . . . and the hell with looking for a second job. This was plenty. Gone was the feeling of being embarrassed. Since when was making good money a cause for shame?
“Good,” Madam said happily. “Let’s handle this business.”
“Now, you said for me to be a little creative with my routines. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll probably come in early tomorrow and the rest of the week to work on stuff. Is that cool?” When Amp decided to do something, he went all in to make it happen. If he was going to be a stripper, then he was going to be the best stripper he could be. Amp wanted Madam to know that he was a man who took his job seriously, no matter what it was.
He was now fully committed, which put a smile on Madam’s face. “Of course. Any time after two p.m. someone will be here.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow.” Amp turned to leave.
“I’m going your way if you want a ride.”
“No, thanks. I don’t mind. It’s a short walk,” Amp said over his shoulder.
“Okay. Good night.”
Amp headed out of the club. As he crossed the parking lot, he saw Dime loading some of her equipment into her car.
“You need a hand?” Amp asked.
Dime looked up, struggling to put a mixer in her car. “I got it, thanks,” she said, although the strain of lifting the equipment was evident in the way she was breathing.
Amp watched her for a few more seconds. He w
as reminded of how his mother used to struggle trying to carry in all the grocery bags after a week’s worth of shopping. “You go on and finish playing with your friends,” she told Amp one time when he’d tried to help her. He obliged her at first, until a dozen eggs ended up cracked on the walkway. He learned from that to go with his instincts and help her anyway.
Following those instincts, Amp walked over to help Dime. “Here, let me do that for you.” He lifted the mixer out of her hands and noticed Dime checking him out as he bent over to place it in her car. As for him, he couldn’t help but notice how amazing she smelled.
“I said I got it.” Dime sounded slightly perturbed as she tried to pull it away from Amp even though he already had it halfway in the car.
“Look,” he said, “you’re a lady with a bunch of expensive equipment out here at two-thirty in the morning.” Amp wanted to her to understand that he was helping not to insult her, but to keep her safe. No woman needed to be caught off guard in the middle of the night with her hands full so she couldn’t defend herself.
Clearly Dime hadn’t thought about all that. She looked at her Numark Mixdeck Quad, laptop, headphones, and mics spread on the ground around her. All that expensive equipment might in fact make her a pretty tempting target. “When you put it that way . . .” she relented, letting him put away the mixer and all the other equipment too. Amp liked being her knight in shining armor.
“That should do it,” he said as he repositioned the last piece of equipment.
“Thanks,” she said, closing the trunk.
“No problem. Oh, before I forget—I’m going to write down a couple cues for the lights and the music for my set tomorrow night. I’ll get them to you before we open.”
“Okay, but . . .” She paused.
“What?”
“Well, you’re gonna need a better name than Amp.”
Amp raised his eyebrows, wondering if he should be offended.
“I’m just saying. I mean, Babyface, El Fuego, Dr. Feelgood, Casanova . . . Amp.” It sounded so flat when she said it, so ordinary next to the others. “You need a stage name like everybody else, don’t you think?”
“Good point,” he said. “Any suggestions?”
“Well, not that I’m watching you,” she said with a smirk, “but I see the way you put the women under some kind of spell. Like it’s magic or something. So . . . maybe Black Magic.”
Amp didn’t look convinced at first, but after saying it a couple of times in his head, he had to admit it had a kind of ring to it. “Black Magic. I guess that’s cool.”
“Black Magic. That works.” Of course Dime agreed, since she was the one who came up with it in the first place. “So you’re really going to do this dancing thing full time, huh?”
“I’m trying to get this money.” Amp was owning his career move. No excuses.
“That’s too bad.” She shook her head and looked down.
“Why?”
“’Cause I don’t date dancers,” she stated flatly, giving Amp a look like it was his loss and then walking over to the driver’s side door.
“That’s okay,” Amp said quickly. “I don’t date DJs.”
They both shared a laugh that started off jovial but faded off into an awkward pause with each of them wondering how serious the other one was.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Amp said, cutting through the silence.
Dime nodded her farewell and watched Amp walk away. Even though he never looked back to acknowledge it, he knew she was watching. He had to admit that it felt good knowing a woman was watching him . . . while he was still fully dressed.
He thought about her eyes the whole way home. She was gonna be trouble. Good trouble.
Chapter 17
The lights at Club Eden began to dim upon the patrons who were buzzing with anticipation for what was to come. They knew exactly what the lowering of the lights meant: It was show time, and things were about to get hot and crazy up in there.
Smoke began to fill the stage, and when there was smoke up in Club Eden, there was surely fire to follow. DJ Dime’s sultry voice came through the speakers, letting them know that the moment they had been waiting for—all week, for some of them—was only seconds away.
“Ladies, hold on to your seats. It’s about to get hot in here.” Dime began to fan herself for effect, even though none of the women were watching her in the DJ booth. The same way the dancers took on a persona, she was fulfilling her role as well. “Welcome to the stage, Black Magic!”
The song “How Does It Feel?” by D’Angelo started as the curtain rose slowly, eventually revealing Amp’s silhouette hanging upside down in the shadowy darkness. The back of his knees rested on the bar, and his arms were folded across his chest. That was enough to get a couple women on their feet, eager to see just what kind of tricks ol’ Black Magic was about to perform.
Amp slowly lowered himself down, facing away from the crowd full of women who were hungry for whatever they were about to be fed. Judging from the level of excitement in the room, they were willing to try anything on the menu, because they knew that Club Eden only served Grade-A Choice, top of the line. With a routine actually lined up, instead of just freestyling like he’d done on amateur night, Amp had never felt more confident in what he was about to supply to his demanding patrons.
Even the darkness and the smoke couldn’t hide Amp’s cut shoulder blades and back muscles. All at once the song changed, the lights came up a little, and Amp turned to face the audience. The women went crazy.
There he stood, sheer perfection in their eyes, right down to his wicked smile accented by a strong, defined jaw. Amp figured it didn’t take much for the ladies to fantasize about whether those jaw bones could do what every other bone in his body was doing to them: making them wet with wonder.
Only a beat here and there of the music could be heard. The artist’s voice had been long drowned out by the women creating their own lyrics of chants and cheers. Not even if she wanted to could Dime be the voice of reason in this insane riot as underwear and money flew to the stage.
Amp made his way onto the floor and grabbed one of the lucky ladies to come and partake in his magic. He gradually led her to the stage, gyrating around her the whole time. He could feel all eyes on him, so he deliberately took his time. Then, in one quick action, he picked the lady up and laid her on the floor.
He got up and began to walk around her in a circle, teasing her and the crowd with the movements of his body. Standing right above her head, he started to roll his hips as he slowly lowered himself until he was in her face. She grabbed his ass with both hands, and he continued to pump in and out as if he were making love to her face. Then in one motion he flipped her over onto her stomach, crawling up her body while he kept rolling his hips in a circle.
He whispered in her ear, “Do you like it?” as his bulge lightly caressed her ass. She was literally screaming at this point. Drawers, money, and even credit cards showered Amp and the woman on stage. Amp couldn’t help but wonder if the women really carried extra panties in their purses and threw them on the stage for show, or if that many women were really going home minus an undergarment.
For three songs straight, Amp gave them a performance they would never forget. He had taken Madam’s advice and incorporated some of his workout moves on the bar and yoga positions on the floor, on the tables, and on the chairs. Amp then worked his way around the room, dancing, disrobing, and leaving the women spellbound.
Only those bold enough, or horny enough, took the liberty of copping a feel of Amp’s manhood. Manicured nails slightly grazed his chest. Soft, feminine hands were squeezing his arms and smacking his ass. Women were doing everything but screaming out, “Pick me! Choose me!” in order to get a moment of special and exclusive attention from him.
At the end of the final song, his body was dripping with sweat and wet desire. Amp gathered his money and put it in a bag he had placed on the side of the stage before the show. He grabbed the outfit
he had shed and headed for the locker room, feeling confident that he’d left all of the ladies feeling satisfied. The overstuffed bag made him sure he had made more money than both amateur nights put together.
He was anxious to go count it, but just before he made it to the locker room, Madam stopped him.
“Black Magic, huh?” she said, a smile flirting with the corners of her mouth. “I like it.”
“Thanks.” He appreciated Madam’s approval, kind of the same way he appreciated Paul’s no-nonsense but still respectful attitude. Without his own mother and father in his life, Amp felt this was the closest he was going to get to parental figures.
“I need you back on the floor quick. Got several ladies that want private dances.”
Here she was talking about private dances again, Amp thought. They must have been real moneymakers. She had piqued his curiosity. “What exactly goes on in these private dances?”
“Just dancing,” Madam informed him. She shrugged, as if to say, “What else do you think goes on?”
Amp gave Madam an unsure look. When the roles were reversed and the strippers were women, private dances usually meant a whole lot more than just a dance. Could it really be true that some women would pay for a private dance if there was no sex involved? It was hard to believe, but at the same time, Madam knew Amp’s situation, and he didn’t think she’d set him up for something that could send him back to jail. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay,” he said. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be back out on the floor.”
Before going on into the locker room, Amp headed over to the DJ booth.
“Was that what you wanted?” Dime asked Amp, removing her Beats by Dre headphones and resting them around her neck.
“Perfect, thank you.”
Dime nodded her head to the beat of the song that was playing in between sets. “You looked good up there.”
“I thought you weren’t watching.”
Dime didn’t reply, just fiddled around with her equipment.
Ladies Night Page 12