“I’m here to see your boss,” I tell him, flicking my wrist, waving him away. “Run along and get him for me. Make it quick.”
He stands there, raising his eyebrows, and hesitates a moment, delaying so long I’m close to losing my temper. Music is thumping wildly not far from my head, some eighties hair-band song, pouring sugar on a cherry pie or some equally metaphorical food-inspired bullshit.
“I think you ought to leave,” the man says. “Amello doesn’t entertain folks that don’t have appointments.”
“He’ll make an exception for me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because he isn’t going to like what happens if he doesn’t.”
It must sound like a threat, because the guy reacts as such, uncrossing his bulging arms as he takes a step toward me, like he expects me to balk. I raise an eyebrow, just daring him to lay a finger on me, when a voice cuts through the tension, shouting over the music. “Darrell, its fine. I’ll see him.”
Ah, ol’ Mello Yello, the yellow-bellied motherfucker. I turn, seeing him standing in the doorway to an office beneath the DJ booth. He eyes me warily, probably wondering why I came here.
I waltz past him, right inside. Amello clears his throat, saying, “leave us,” to a pair of guys. They vacate the office and Amello shuts the door, hesitating there, like he’s nervous to be alone with me. Probably ought to be.
“Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,” I mutter, strolling across the office, around his desk. There’s a wall full of monitors broadcasting live, showing every nook and cranny of the club, women performing acts not meant for innocent eyes. “Kissed the girls and made them cry.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting down behind his desk, ignoring my teasing. Smart.
“Why? Am I not welcome?”
“Didn’t say that. I was just wondering what brought you here tonight.”
“Good question,” I say, my gaze scanning the monitors, stalling on one near the top, a view of a dim hallway. A woman saunters through it, leading a man toward an isolated back room. I can’t see her face, but I recognize the rest of her.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you want, Scar?”
I kind of want to kill him. Not even going to lie. But at the moment I just want him to shut the fuck up so I can watch her in silence. That’s not going to happen, though. No, he’s too nervous. He fidgets and huffs and shifts around in his chair, waiting for an explanation for my presence.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot, Georgie,” I say, watching as Scarlet leads the man out of the hallway. I scan the other screens until I find her again.
It’s a perfectly square room, a small platform in the center, a pole jutting out of it and connecting to the ceiling. A deep leather lounging couch takes up the back as mirrors line the walls surrounding it. Besides that, a few wayward leather chairs are shoved aside, and a small bar runs along the left, red lighting consuming the room.
Scarlet glows... well... scarlet. There’s no other way to describe how the color tints her skin. She’s stunning, bathed in red, just like I knew she would be.
A smile lifts my lips as I turn to Amello. He’s lucky, so damn lucky, and the son of a bitch doesn’t even know it.
“I don’t take well to being called names,” I say. “Nor do I appreciate having my reputation called into question. I didn’t rob you. Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. So you can take your ten percent and shove it up your ass, because I’ve got no use for your measly pennies. But I like to think I’m a reasonable man, so I’ve decided to let it go this time, because I figure, you know, maybe you just don’t know any better, but you’ll learn, if you know what’s good for you, and it won’t happen again. You got me?”
He glares at me. He isn’t happy, that’s for damn sure, but he’s got me. He’s not a complete idiot.
“What would you think,” he asks, “if you were me?”
“I’d think I had something somebody wanted,” I say, my gaze flickering back to the surveillance monitor. How true that is… but it’s not his money I’m after.
I find myself wanting the beautiful bendy brunette that’s working in this shithole.
“We can be friends, you and I... but that’s a choice only you can make,” I tell him. “If you don’t want to be my friend, you don’t have to be. But I learned long ago there are only two kinds of people in this world, so if you’re not my friend, Georgie? I guess I’ll have to count you among my enemies.”
I walk out, saying nothing else. He glares at me, having no rebuttal. What’s there to say, anyway? Nothing.
The club is loud, the music still thumping, some techno bass bullshit without any words now. Blinding disco lights flash, the girl on the main stage swinging around a pole, wearing reflective material, like a cracked-out gymnast.
I’ve got nothing against strippers. Really, I don’t.
I’ve got nothing against prostitutes, either. You do you.
But I do have something against people who can’t even function without shooting something into a vein, without snorting something up their nostril. I spent the first half of my life under the care of someone more cocaine than woman. The agitation, the erratic behavior, the nosebleeds. My mother blew out her septum when I was just a kid, had plastic surgery more than once to try to hide the evidence. I can spot an addict a mile away thanks to her, and the woman on the stage? Cracked-out, without a doubt.
I avert my eyes as I stroll through the club. Instead of heading for the exit, where the bouncer still lurks, watching me, I veer toward the back of the place. Halfway down the hall, my footsteps falter, and I pause in an open doorway, the soft glow of red lights spilling out all around me.
I’m not supposed to be back here. The glares women give me as they strut past, leading guys to and from these rooms, tells me so. No sex in the champagne room. We’ve all heard it. They say it doesn’t happen, but I know, in some places, in some situations, sex is negotiable.
Flash enough cash and pussy can be yours.
I know it happens here.
But Scarlet? She’s not even naked.
Not right now, at least.
She’s dancing. She looks so utterly bored. Does nobody else notice? Although she smiles, there’s no fire in her eyes, her stare damn near vacant. I’ll give her credit, though—she’s got rhythm. Her hips sway perfectly in tune with the music, like her body is feeling it even if she’s not.
The little red, lacy see-through get-up she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, even less as she slowly unfastens her top, teasing the guy as the straps fall down her arms.
She pulls it off after a moment, tossing it aside, exposing the most stunning set of tits I’ve ever laid my eyes on. They’re small, barely a handful, but fuck if they’re not perfect—perky, and natural, with the kind of nipples that beg to be tasted.
The man reaches for her when she turns toward him, his hands moving on their own, like it’s instinct around a set of tits that beautiful, but she grabs his wrists without missing a beat, stopping him as she shakes her head. No touching.
He obliges, dropping his hands to his side, shoulders slumping with disappointment. Can’t say I blame the guy. She teases him for a moment, shoving them in his face as she dances, straddling his lap and pushing him until he’s lying on the lounge couch. His eyes drift closed, his hands linking together behind his head, as Scarlet turns around.
Her expression glazes over.
Bored. Bored. So fucking bored.
Her eyes are fixed to the ceiling, to the lights shining down on her, as she half-heartedly grinds her ass against his crotch. I watch her for a moment before taking a step into the room. She’s quick to sense my movement. Her head lowers, and a hint of panic sparking in her eyes. Alarmed. Her gaze meets mine, the guy not noticing a difference, but I can sense it. I see the way her posture changes, her breathing labored, shaky exhales escaping her lungs as she watches me. I slowly approach, my footsteps undetectable over the sound of the music.
If she’s truly bothered by my presence, she doesn’t let it show, not missing a beat as she dry humps the guy. It’s not like in her apartment, not like when I had her pinned to the door, thrusting against her, driving her to the brink.