12. Libby
Libby
Never Get Married
“H ey, X.” I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder, kick my pantry door closed, and carry my sleeve of cookies toward the couch. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“It’s a busy night, Lib.” It’s noisy on his end of the call.
People shouting, doors slamming, chairs scraping along laminate floors.
“I’ve got every man out for different calls.
Jenny Doyle beat her man senseless, and Bubba’s daddy is currently manning his property with a shotgun.
The thing is, Bubba owns that place now, not old man Brown, so I’ve sent Oz over there to talk them down. ”
“Oz?” I drop onto my couch and frown. “He’s still on shift?” I toss my cookies aside and look to the clock. “It’s eight o’clock, X. I left at five.”
“I know. He was only twenty minutes behind you. We switched out for the day, he went home, sat down to dinner, and then I had to call him back in. I swear, most of the time we’re bored around here.
But sometimes, when the moon is full and the assholes wanna test us, every fucker in town wants to get themselves arrested.
Oz is back on till Bubba is settled in. I even called in a favor and had a couple guys from the next town come on over.
Banks and Leetch are working something for me. But now we’ve go–”
“Banks is here?” My eyes widen; with surprise, with humiliation from our last encounter. “Drake Banks?”
“Yeah. He’s a cool dude, said no worries, and drove on over with Leetch as soon as we hung up.
I was hoping you could clock in for an hour.
Tink called up and said she’s got a situation brewing at the club.
Her bouncers have been busy for hours already, and the fighters are away at some camp for the night.
I just need you there to show your badge.
Someone needs to take control of the situation while I’m here figuring that stupid-ass Doyle boy out. ”
“It’s cool.” Mourning my still unopened package of cookies, I climb off the couch and head to my room. “I’ll be there in ten. Can Tink hold them off for ten minutes?”
“Yeah. She said it’s not out of control yet, but some dude’s been drinking all day, his wife left him or something. Fuck knows, and despite the fact she stopped serving him two hours ago, he seems to be getting messier.”
“Maybe he’s on something else.” I set my phone on speaker, toss it onto my bed, and shove my sweats down. “Uniform, X? Or jeans.”
“Jeans are fine. I just need you to show up, sit down for a minute and do that thing you do with the hairy eyeball.”
“The hairy eyeball!” I laugh. “I do no such thing.”
“You’re my most intimidating cop, Lib. You’re shorter than my armpits, but you’re scary like a rabid dog.”
“You lie,” I huff. “I’m taller than your armpits. And I’m only scary to idiots.”
“Which is why jeans are fine. Head over, settle the guy down, maybe get him out the door if you can manage it. If you can’t, just sit and watch for a minute, and as soon as I’m done here, I’ll head on over. An hour max, then you can go home to your cookies.”
I pull my breath in on a dramatic gasp. “I don’t have cookies!”
He chuckles. “You lie. I heard the wrapping crinkle a minute ago. I know cookies, Tate. A man doesn’t reach my age and not know his favorite brand of cookie.”
“Whatever.” I shimmy into a pair of jeans and toss my sleep tank away. I cast a quick glance to the window, self-conscious, as though someone can see my half-naked body, but then I pull a bra on and replace my shirt. “I’m putting my shoes on now. I’ll check in when I get there.”
“You’re the best. Thank you. I’ll be there in a bit to relieve you.”
“No problem.” I hang up and plop down onto my bed to pull my sneakers on.
I’ve showered for the night and was settled in my pyjamas, which means I’m heading to the bar with half-wet hair and no makeup.
Maybe that’s the look Alex was going for .
Tying my laces and snatching up my phone, I move through my apartment to grab my keys, bag, badge, and on the way past the mirror at the door, a ballcap.
I shove it on and slam the door closed as I move into the hall.
I guess I’m going clubbing.
* * *
The music isn’t loud like you’d expect of a club this close to the weekend, but it’s not quiet either. The main lights are out, so party lights on the ceiling slide through the crowd and illuminate people in reds and purples.
Club 188 is eerily similar to the clubs I spent so much of my youth in; they were always warehouse-esque.
Utilitarian, with concrete floors, second levels, and metal stairs to connect the two.
The bars almost always run the length of the club, top and bottom, the staff are always beautiful, even the men.
The stairs easily hosed, and the booths for privacy.
The offices upstairs are always large and luxurious, and oftentimes contain windows to look out among the partygoers.
This club was one of the clubs I walked through as a child, but it doesn’t belong to that world anymore. Dirty money ran this place for a little while, but it’s clean now, and has been for a long time.
I walk through the front doors and pass the bouncer with a soft fist bump.
I’m just a woman, a short one at that, but they know me around here, and they know the police are now on premises.
I pass through a short hallway and emerge into a dance space three-quarters filled with people drinking and grinding on each other.
The smell of alcohol permeates the air, so strong and thick in my nostrils, it’s almost like a living beast. As part of my participation in my Narcotics Anonymous meetings, I abstain from drinking.
I’ve been clean from my cocaine addiction for more than a decade, and along with that, I’ve also avoided alcohol and nicotine, because if I start with one, the rest will follow.
It’s like a set of dominoes standing in a row, just waiting for that first wobble. So I stay far away and avoid temptation.
I slide through bodies and remove hands from my hips as I pass those on the dance floor. Perhaps I should have worn my uniform. I approach the bar, lean against the sticky countertop, and wait for one of the bar staff to notice me.
“Hey!” A woman in a tiny skirt and platinum blonde hair with soft pink highlights makes her way toward me with a kind smile. She’s been working here for as long as I’ve lived here. Stopping right in front of me, she wipes her hands on a towel and lifts a small glass. “Water?”
“Yup, thanks. And throw in some ice too. Makes it look like I’m drinking just like everyone else.”
Laughing, she tosses a few cubes in and begins filling the glass.
“I heard you’re having a little trouble?” I prompt.
This woman’s name is Lacey, and her smile is infectious as she points upwards.
“Dude is on the top level, and I think he’s gonna fall asleep at the bar soon.
I was rostered for top level tonight, but Tink shooed me down here, and she’s taking point up there.
Mostly he’s crying a lot, wants his mommy or something.
His wife is leaving him, his brother is fucking her or some shit.
I don’t know the details, but he’s not happy, and now Tink is in momma bear mode, making sure the staff stay clear.
Maybe take your drink.” She plops the glass in front of my arm and winks.
“It looks like vodka on the rocks. Want an umbrella?”
I scoff and snatch the glass up before she gets the chance. “Do I look like I want an umbrella in my drink?”
She snickers. “Worth a try. Take your water and head on up. It’s not quite as noisy up there, so you can ask T what’s up. Maybe she already knocked him out and put him in a cab. I haven’t seen them pass through, though.”
“It’s alright, I got it.” I tuck my clutch under my arm and adjust my hat to shield my eyes from the glaring lights above. I know wearing a hat makes me conspicuous in this dark place, but it’s too late now.
I move along the length of the bar and find the stairs on the far wall. My shoes slap against the metal steps as I move past more servers, and when I get to the top and look back over the club below me, a sense of déjà vu and dread swirl in my stomach.
As a child, I never went into any club during business hours.
It would be bad business to have a child wandering among drunk people cruising on cocaine.
But this still feels like déjà vu, still makes me remember standing at the top of a different set of stairs while men shouted and tears blinded me.
That was a long time ago, and I need to move the hell on.
Turning away on a heavy exhale of air, I face the bar on this level and zero in on the very person I need to talk to.
Tink is the chick from the gym that I hate.
Five feet two inches of perfect tits and sass, she’s every man’s wet dream, except maybe the height thing, though she knows how to wear heels like so few can.
Her husband is co-owner of the gym and tries to force her to work out with the rest of them, but mostly she eats bad food and heckles those who have to train to stay skinny.
It comes naturally to her, and the only satisfaction I can take from the genetics we were each given is that, should the zombie apocalypse arrive, or if a team of wild bears were to roam Main Street, she would be one of the first to go.
Skinny doesn’t mean fit, and I know she abhors running.
Yes, I’m an asshole.
No, I’m not sorry.
I walk toward the bar and take note of the people surrounding me. The wall to my left is lined with booths for privacy, as couples sit close and talk without having to shout. Those tables are for the VIPs, come with a minimum spend, and are booked months in advance.
The man I’ve come in search of tonight is not in one of those booths, but sits with his head slumped at the bar.