by L. J. Stock
The year moved along quickly. There was always something to be done, but I thrived on it. It kept me busy and was the only thing that pushed away the constant craving that still had the ability to boil my blood. There were also perks to being one of the more popular and talked about clubs, too. Scott, Dean, and I had been invited to visit some of the vineyards in Italy. The distributors were trying to convince us that wine was still a good club drink, and quite frankly, who the fuck was I to say no to a free trip to Italy?
I was picking up a decent suit for Dean for our trip when I saw Blondie again. I was having one of those ridiculously expensive coffees - in the middle of Manchester - and watching the world pass by when she waltzed straight past me. It was obvious she was absolutely lost in her own head, and as she spun on her heel and walked smack into the guy behind her, I pushed to my feet instinctively. He grabbed the tops of her arms possessively, his smile warm and hungry as he looked down at her. As much as I didn’t like it, the flicker of recognition in her face told me she knew him, and she wasn’t happy to see him.
I don’t know why I stuck around as long as I did, but I had long since finished my coffee before I made the decision to move on, and even then, it was only because she’d finally relaxed in his company as the people filtered around them in their quest for shopping.
Who was I kidding? The intimacy of the moment between them started getting under my skin the moment the whispering and touching started. I wasn’t a particularly proud man. Hell, I’d filled the yawning need for drugs with booze and birds. It was just that woman that got under my skin and made me feel something more. She continued to ignite a spark in an otherwise dead and numb existence.
Paris had only mentioned her a few times when she spoke about her past, but those were the moments when sobriety was close to the surface, and the sadness that washed over her had been enough for me to not push any harder. As much as I hated to admit it, Paris and I had something in common. We didn’t feel as though we were worthy of this completely absentminded, but astute woman. It’s the only reason I hadn’t mentioned the connection, or even used that knowledge to speak with Blondie. Paris didn’t want the world of Tommy, Daggs, and drugs anywhere near her, and that was something I silently agreed with, so I left it alone.
As it turned out, Italy was just what I needed.
Spending time with the boys and drinking our way across Tuscany was amazing, and Italian women had a bit of a reputation for a reason. They were snooty at times, resistant to even Scott’s charms, and it was only when one of them thought Dean had a learning disability that he got any attention at all, but fuck me was it worth it when we managed to get to the payoff. The yoga chick I met was bragging about tantric sex for most of the night. The more she drank, the more she tried to convince me I would love it. She made me promise not to fall in love with her as we burst through my hotel room door. I thought she was full of shit, but eight hours later I was impressed as fuck. If I’d been the type to fall in love, I would have followed the bird around like a love-sick pup. Instead, I took it for what it was - a fucking great memory - and moved on.
In Verona, I was educated in Shakespeare when Dean got onto Juliet’s balcony and quoted her, with a twist of his own. He was chased off the thing and we got shit faced.
By the end of the trip, I still didn’t have a taste for vino, but due to the amount of people I saw drinking it, I set up a twelve month deal and a promise of a longer commitment if it did well. It was a good compromise, though I wasn’t entirely sure they would invite us back again. We’d left quite an impression on their farmers, especially Dean, who’d shagged one of their daughters.
As it turned out, wine was a huge hit with the ladies. As a lad, it’s not something you think of. In a club where girls work the poles half naked, you don’t think of the demographic largely being women, but it was surprising. The more information I kept on record for improving the place, the more I learned. Demographics are absolutely key in the industry, and the moment you forget that is the moment shit goes out the window. If it’s a lad’s world, women inevitably want a piece of the pie. It was Sapphire’s idea. She said it worked in those saloons in the States. The fact was, drunk people liked to interact with the staff and one another, and sometimes they needed things to make that connection for them. So why not let them make an arse of themselves? Agreeing with her, I had one of the poles dedicated solely to the punters that wanted to give it a shot, once they’d signed a disclaimer, of course.
I was going through the legalities of it when there was a hammering at my office door. There was only one person in the club I knew that knocked like that, and it generally brought with it bad news.
“Come in, Saph.”
“Hey, boss, we have a big fucking problem and you’re not gonna like it, doll.” With that tone, I already knew I wasn’t. Sapphire was a very capable wrangler. She knew how to keep the dancers in line, and most of the girls respected the absolute shit out of her. There were usually only two reasons she came to me. Paris or drugs, and these days the two were synonymous.
“What’s the problem?”
“Random locker checks.”
“Paris.”
“Ace in the hole,” she said sadly. Even though I hired Paris against Sapphire's better judgment, and kept her around when she was clearly a little high, Sapphire knew I was trying to help the girl out - that I was, in my own way, trying to save her. They generally got along well, but Sapphire always kept Paris at a distance, mainly because she didn’t like the drugs anywhere near her other girls. She would tolerate it as long as Paris never brought so much as a line into the place.
“Find Scott and meet me in the locker room, would you?”
“Ethan, honey, you don’t–”
I cut her off, my hand rising as my eyes met hers, a clear warning to be very careful about what she said next. As much as I respected the hell out of her and her morals, she’d never been a junkie. She’d been around plenty, she’d helped a few friends detox, too, but she had no idea what it was like to suffer the pain and humiliation of getting clean. Only another junkie could understand that. Only someone who’d lived through it could be of any use to her.
“Just get Scott and meet me down there, please, and don’t touch anything yet.”
This time, she nodded in response, offered me a sad smile and left me alone in my office to reflect on the new information. If it had been anyone else, it would have been an automatic dismissal. Any of the girls would have been out on their arses with some severance pay and advice to fix it before they regretted it. But this wasn’t just one of the girls. This was Paris, and I knew that even if she wanted help, she was in deeper than even she knew. Daggs would never let her go. He would never take her out of that atmosphere, and the club was the only place where she could buy a few hours reprieve. This begged only one question. What now?
Scott and Sapphire were exactly where I’d asked them to be. Scott looked pissed off and resigned, and Sapphire was like one of those people swinging lights around at the airport as she diverted the girls and put out fires everywhere. The locker was closed, but most girls had probably already keyed onto the fact that their lockers had been searched. They’d signed a piece of paper acknowledging the random searches, so most of the time all we’d find was work gear, which was exactly as it should have been. Having the three of us stood there staring at a locker as though it was a gateway to hell gave up the ghost a bit.
“E, mate, you know we have to set an example here.”
“Do we?” I asked, turning my head to look at him as I scratched my cheek and stared at the metal door.
I’d never given up much information on Paris’ connection to Daggs, not even to Scott. He knew she was a good lass in a bad situation. It was all he needed to know at the time, but standing there, I realised I hadn’t done him any favours. I hadn’t done myself any favours either, because he was going to be pissed as hell when I came clean, and that’s exactly what I had to do if I was going to let Pari
s stick around.
“Do me a solid. Flush that shit and meet me in my office. We need to chat.”
“Mate, I don’t see the need to fucking chat. It ain’t like there’s any dispute about this. We talked about this a thousand fucking times. P could come in here and work high, but the moment she carried, she was gone.”
“Like shit is ever that easy, Scott.”
“Well it ain’t fucking difficult, E. Cut and dry. You fucking swore it.”
“Shit changes.”
“No, mate, it fucking doesn’t. I don’t know why the fuck you keep making excuses for this bird–”
“No more excuses. Just the truth,” I said quietly, rubbing both my hands over my hair, and meeting his eyes. “You want to know the story? I will give you everything you need to know about this girl and why I’m so fucking determined to help her. I just need you to flush that shit first. I need it out of here.”
Scott held my stare, his eyes narrowed as he tried to read what I was saying. Almost twenty-two years of friendship, and with one look, he knew I was being straight with him. He knew that there would be no more omission of pertinent information.
“Fine. I want you gone before I open this fucker.”
Lifting my hands in surrender, I nodded in response. I was in complete control. I had no inclination to touch that shit, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to tempt fate, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be dealing with that pain in the arse itch all night.
“And me?” Sapphire asked, throwing a glare at some of the girls as they congregated at the end of the row of lockers. I hated that I’d put her in this situation at all. She ran a tight ship, and I was compromising that. It didn’t mean she needed to know the details, and there was no way in hell she would ever hear Daggs’ name from my lips. If he was to ever walk in the club, I didn’t want anyone to react. He’d know. He always fucking knew, and if he didn’t, Tommy sure as fuck did. That left me with only one choice.
“Do what you do best, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her cheek and slapping her arse. “Look after our girls.”
Scott wasn’t impressed when I explained Daggs and his whole sordid operation to him. He was even less impressed when I explained Paris’ connection with him, but the real kick in the nuts was Scott reminding me exactly who Daggs was to me. I, more than anyone, remembered that he and Tommy had tried to kill me. I didn’t need my nose rubbing in it.
An hour of grumbles and he finally understood why I couldn’t just kick her arse out and be done with it. It didn’t mean he was happy with it, though. He was pissed about the connection to the club, much as I was, and what it could mean if they found out she was here and that I owned the place. When I gave him my plan of action, he agreed, under duress, and stormed out of my office. It wasn’t often that he got that pissed with me, but he would inevitably get the hell over it and move on. I just needed to give him some time to let it bounce around in that head of his first.
I didn’t have many options to offer Paris when it came to calling her on the drugs. I did a bit of research before her shift started and found a rehab place that would literally lock her away from the world. It was more cushy than the bare to the bones, government funded operation my dad had dropped me in. As strong as Paris was, I wouldn't have subjected her to that shit, because I'd barely made it through myself. If I was going to even attempt to sell this to her, there had to be some benefit. If she asked, I wasn't gonna lie.
Rehab was hell, but getting clean was even worse. There was no escaping that perdition. It was fire and brimstone in your veins while your brain imploded. Just when you thought the worst had passed, you got fucked by the devil, making the purgatory you thought you were suffering through seem like a fucking walk in the clouds. It took you to the brink of insanity and forced you to toe the line and sing out a challenge, only to be pushed over the edge so you drowned. It eventually came to an end, but the pain? The need? That driving force that sent the blood through your veins never let you forget.
These were all the things I would have to say if she asked, because I wished someone had prepared me for the cataclysm rehab had been for me.
Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? If it brought me to where I was in this moment, yes. I just had to find Paris' motivator - the one thing in the world that would get her attention and hold it. The one thing she wanted more than the drugs. A reason for her to grasp onto life and really fucking live it.
When Paris showed up for work, I was fully prepared to tell her all of that, but I never got to it.
As it turned out, I didn't get much further than a small speech and a suggestion about rehab.
I should have known better than to try and talk to her in any capacity during pre or post club hours, because there was always bloody something. A fire that needed putting out, or a catfight, the night before, over a handsy punter that wasn't ancient and creepy. What called me away from my chat with Paris, however, was some arsehole hooking the wrong barrel to the wrong tap. It was a wonder some of those fuckers could tie their fucking shoelaces every morning. Of course, I was the only one who could fix it. Scott was nowhere to be found because he was pissed at me.
It wasn't a complete loss of my time and resources to prep for the meeting. Even though Paris was practically out the door by the time I got back, with a few clicks of the mouse, I knew exactly where she was headed. The thing with the internet is, if you know what you're doing, the information is right at your fingertips, and opening the browser history when someone hasn't signed out completely means you end up finding yourself in the middle of someone else's email.
Namely Paris'.
I skipped an interesting email about erectile dysfunction in favour of the only email in the whole fucking thing that had been read in the last God knew how long.
I probably should have stopped there. After all, there was nothing wrong with her checking her emails on my computer. I'd practically invited her to do it when I left her with a browser window open. You didn't have to be a genius to know that Daggs would never have let her near one; there were too many chances for her to get away from him. His possessiveness was ingrained in him. For Christ’s sake, there were evenings I found myself lurking in the shadows of my own club, because the bastard had sent someone to check up on her, to make sure she wasn't flirting. The girl was in deeper than even she knew. Though the placement of some of those bruises suggested she was beginning to get a preview. Love only got you so far, drugs only hid so much, and you could only lie to yourself for so long before you had to call yourself out on it.
I'd like to think I followed her to that address to see if she was seeking help, but, again, you know what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions. I wanted to see if this chick was Blondie, I wanted to know why Paris hadn't shown up for work for a few days and, God help me, I wanted to make sure trouble didn't follow Paris around like it had with Jessica. These men didn't fuck around. If they wanted you out of the picture, you turned up dead with a needle in your arm - one that leaked drugs that had probably been boasted as the best shit you'd ever hit, still half in the vein as it swallowed your life whole. I was alive only because Jessica had been greedy and skimped on my share. I was still sucking in breath only because I'd made it a point to stay out of their way.
So why the fuck did I go to that address looking for her two days later? Why the hell was I slinking in the shadows like some creepy stalker, watching as Blondie sprinted past me in a complete tizz, screaming Paris' name as she stopped short and almost got run over by a bus? It was because I was invested in them - in getting Paris clean and clear out of Daggs' loop, and making sure that Blondie, whose name I didn't think to memorise, would never be touched by the filth that Daggs and Tommy carried around with them.
I'd lost my damn mind, my sense and self-preservation following closely on its heels.
The sentiment of Paris sacrificing her friendship to keep Blondie safe was even more prevalent when I found myself fascinated with the
absolute frustration this girl exuded at missing Paris. If I'd had any doubt whatsoever that she cared about her friend, it was wiped away the moment the bus trundled past and left nothing but empty pavement on the other side of the street. Her palms hit her temples with so much force that when she pulled them back over her head, she forced her eyes to narrow, while her knees bent and her whole body tensed in preparation for the chase. Distraught and utterly broken barely described the devastation that crumpled Blondie's face.
She was beautiful in her misery, but the pain that surrounded her was more evident than anything else. The juxtaposition brought with it a very complicated choice for me. Did I leave her to her misery and simply hope that Paris was smart enough to get herself out of this shit? Or did I open a can of worms and hope for the best?
One last look at Blondie and there was no question. I already knew. As she gave chase to a ghost, I dug into my pocket and dialed a number I never thought I would ever dial of my own free will: a tip line for Manchester's finest. Welcome to the age of being a rat, Walker.
"This is Shirley."
"Yeah, I wanna give an anonymous tip…"
The thing about the police is that they don’t follow leads when they already raided the place two days earlier. Funny that. At least it answered the question as to where Paris had been and why she hadn’t been at work. Admittedly, it hadn’t been my best idea. It was borne from good intentions; I’d simply wanted to protect Paris and Blondie, but as Scott pointed out when I finally admitted to him what I'd done, it was none of my business.