Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Fallow
Iwas expecting something a lot shabbier than the building Colm pulls us up to. It’s in the middle of nowhere—that much matches the image I had in my head—but everything else is a surprise.
I’ve traveled around this godforsaken country enough to see plenty of truck stop strip clubs, and they tend to feel seedy from top to bottom. Just looking at them makes me feel sticky, and I’ve always refused to go inside. Just the thought of all those… textures. No. No thank you.
But this is a squat, unassuming building that looks well kept up, with a well-lit parking lot, plus only one sign over the door and a small billboard at the turn off advertising what’s inside. It’s giving gentlemen’s club vibes over girls girls girls.
I can’t lie, as a teenager, I was intrigued by strip clubs.
On television there’s an air of glamor and excess to them that I’ve always been drawn to.
It’s only the reality that has seemed a pervasive disappointment.
I want to see fabulous dancers and uninhibited sexuality; not poorly disguised human trafficking victims being assaulted on stage.
I’d always assumed the version you see in films was just that—total fiction.
As soon as we’re inside, I realize I might have been delightfully wrong. I generally don’t care for being wrong, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.
This is nice. Not opulent in a Saudi prince sort of way, but genuinely classy.
It’s all dark—including some gorgeous black wallpaper with a darker black rococo-style pattern that I have an overwhelming urge to touch—with small platinum accents dotted around.
Everything looks spotless, and the black marble floor makes a satisfying clip-clop sound as I walk across it.
Colm leads me wordlessly through a little foyer, nodding at the security guard as we pass, and then immediately into what looks like the main room.
It’s big, with multiple stages and a large bar running down one entire wall.
House lights are up, so I can see it in more detail than I would expect during open hours, but it still looks gorgeous.
The stripper poles are all glittery and unsmudged, there are discreet little curtains dotted around the edges that must be private rooms, and the seating is all spaced out so guests aren’t on top of each other.
If I’d known places like this existed in real life, I might have considered a different career than mafia assassin. Not that it’s stopped me from becoming a master of lap dances, but still. It’s always nice to get paid for something you excel at.
I’m so distracted by taking in my surroundings, it takes a minute before I notice someone talking to Colm.
It’s a beautiful woman, who could be aged anything between my age and her fifties, with one of those faces preserved by a combination of good genes and tasteful makeup.
And maybe filler, but it’s also tasteful if it’s in there.
I’ll never let someone get close enough to me to inject my face, but I can certainly understand the impulse, and sometimes I feel like I’m already in mourning for the day my looks start to fade.
They let me get away with so much. Thank fuck I still have my status as a psychopathic murderer to keep the people around me in line.
Colm is giving her his total attention, and it doesn’t take me long to realize my little torture victim isn’t playing 100% for team homo, the way I initially read him.
Interesting. I had him pegged—no pun intended—as someone rigidly repressed and closeted, totally gay and unwilling to admit it out loud.
Perhaps he’s more fluid than I first thought.
The subtle cues in how he’s holding himself toward her isn’t something you can learn, it’s inherent in most people.
My internal monologue flirts with the idea of getting jealous.
She’s beautiful, with a salacious figure, long, thick brown hair and the body language of a Domme.
But the flicker or jealousy is extinguished pretty quickly, when I remember that I don’t get fucking jealous, because that would require caring about other people.
And if I did get jealous, it still wouldn’t matter, because Colm’s been more fixated on me all day than a sight hound on a bird. He won’t admit it, but he’s absolutely terrible at hiding it, so it doesn’t matter.
The woman turns and gestures to follow, Colm trailing her and me trailing him. She hasn’t acknowledged my presence yet, but I don’t really care. I’m still drinking it all in.
We head through some corridors with another couple of security guards dotted around, taking a couple of turns until we end up in a spacious dressing room half full of dancers.
They all look like they’re getting ready, but with the absolute lack of haste that tells me opening shift on a random weekday isn’t exactly like performing for Cirque du Soleil.
Most of them glance up when we walk in, but don’t look surprised.
I guess if you work for a strip club run by the mafia, you’re used to random guys traipsing in and out of here.
Colm’s still focused on his conversation, completely ignoring the women around us, while I feel quite entranced, but not for the reason so many men would be.
It’s just all so sparkly. Bright but flattering lighting, big mirrors over dressing tables lining the walls with a classy, wooden version of a locker next to each. And between all the girls are racks of wigs, costumes, and bottles of things I couldn’t even begin to guess at, I feel utterly relaxed.
I want to pick up everything in here and look at it, but I’m vaguely aware that would be frowned upon.
“Fallow,” Colm says, possibly not for the first time. “Are you listening?”
“Not even a little bit. What can I do you for?”
I know I told him I would behave in front of other people and I swear I’m trying, but he’s too far under my skin. It’s difficult not to purr when I speak to him, just like it’s difficult not to notice the subtle flush that hits his cheeks.
“Are you okay to wait here for a minute? I need to talk to Kaitlyn in her office.”
The woman—Kaitlyn, I assume—is looking at me for the first time and gives me a thorough once over. A small smirk hits the corner of her mouth, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s a smirking at me vs smirking with me situation. I don’t really care.
“Sure thing, boss,” I say, leaning on the rack of clothing next to me. “I’m sure these lovely ladies wouldn’t mind keeping me company for a few minutes, right?”
This gets addressed to the room as a whole.
And while my natural speaking voice isn’t exactly dripping with heteronormativity, I make sure to crank up the ‘gay voice’ to its maximum setting, so the girls don’t read me as a threat.
I probably need to befriend them if I want to explore this room and all its treasures with impunity.
The collective response from them is some variation of a cock of the head, like I’m not what they expected, and some of them saying “sure” or “no problem”.
Colm looks around them nervously for a second, although I can’t tell if he’s scared I’m going to be violent with them or try to fuck one of them.
Joke’s on you, rabbit, it’s neither.
I raise an eyebrow at him, but he can’t seem to give voice to whatever worries him, so he turns to go without saying anything.
Once he’s disappeared through a door at the other end of the room, I look away to notice every single person in that room staring at me like a novelty.
“Alright, who’s going to let me borrow some makeup while I’m waiting?”
It didn’t take long to go from cautious strangers to friends.
At first, a couple of the girls lit up at the idea of doing my makeup.
Some people will always get excited for a new toy, even if the rest mostly carried on as they were.
I explained that I don’t like people touching me, but I would love to sit with them and share their goodies, and the reception I got was better than expected.
Now I’m sharing a bench with Madison, and I’m not quite finished but I already look phenomenal, if I do say so myself. There’s a contented sort of chatter going on around me, and even though I’m generally solitary, this is the kind of company I occasionally appreciate.
It’s probably my favorite thing about groups of women. All you have to do is convince them that you’re not a threat for sexual assault, and they’ll generally welcome you in with open arms. The bar is in hell, guys. I’m literally a murderer.
“Do you guys like working here?” I ask, for no reason in particular.
“It’s alright,” Madison says. “Not exactly what I dreamed of my whole life, but the money’s good and security does their fucking job, unlike some places I’ve worked.”
“Speak for yourself,” someone—Destinee?—interrupts. “All I wanted to grow up to be was a stripper. I might not have understood all the ins and outs when I was little, but it’s still the dream. I get to dance for a living; that’s a shit ton better than most of the options around here.”
“Fair,” Madison says, and some of the other girls echo a response.
No one has asked me anything about myself, which tells me they’re used to having strangers in and out and know better than to get involved with Colm’s business. Which I can respect.
I’m just applying the finishing touches when I hear the office door open, and Colm and Kaitlyn walk back into the room.
“You alright?” he asks, as if I was going to be mauled and harassed by the lovely dancers.
I stand up and turn around before I answer him, which means I get to see in glorious, technicolor detail his expression shift as he takes in the sight of my face.
Oh, he likes this.
There was always a chance it would gross him out, which wouldn’t have stopped me obviously, but would have been less fun. But no. I’m pretty sure they could see the man’s pupils dilate from space.
“I’m perfect. Did you finish your very important secret business?”
There’s a pause while I can see him struggling to get his face under control, and then he clears his throat. The snigger I hear from the other corner of the room tells me absolutely everyone here is picking up on his vibes.
For a criminal, he really is horrifically un-stealthy.
“It wasn’t secret, just private. There’s a difference,” he says. “But yes, we’re done. Although I think I have more problems now, not less.”
Kaitlyn has been watching me closely during this conversation and I can see some kind of comment on the tip of her tongue, but she’s cut off when Colm continues to speak to me.
“I’ll explain in the car, but Kaitlyn has a theory that the weird situation she’s been tracking has nothing to do with the Aryans, and there’s an entirely new player in tow. And if her contact is right, this is a very big, very trans-continental deal and we might need to get your father involved.”
I wrinkle my face unconsciously. The last thing I need is that man traipsing through here, spoiling all my fun.
“Sorry, I can’t help. I’m here for my own reasons and your business is not my business, despite what my father might insist. I’m not getting sucked into something Earth-shatteringly boring just because of hearsay.”
Kaitlyn’s face darkens, and I can see I’ve touched a nerve. She’s very put together, but for the first time since walking in here, I get the feeling it’s completely and utterly a front.
I mean; I guess you have to be pretty crazy to work at a place like this voluntarily. The mafia aspect, not the sex-work aspect, obviously. Sex work is the single most sensible thing a person can do, in my opinion.
“Ellery wouldn’t lie about this. They’re fucking sharp, if they say someone else is involved, then someone else is involved.”
For a split second, my heart stops. Then I make a conscious effort to smooth all my outsides into something impenetrable, so no one can see how those words just rocked me.
“And where is this contact?” I ask, my voice even.
“Colm can explain. We’re late to open, and someone has to keep this place fucking running. I appreciate the promotion, Colm, but you could have given me less of a shithole to work with.”
Colm rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because what you were doing before was so glamorous, all those late-night drug runs with Eamon, the creepiest fucking man in organized crime. I’m sure that experience was classy as fuck.”
His tone is snarky, but he’s watching me as he speaks, not her. I don’t give a fuck about what he’s saying, but I do not fucking care for the way he’s looking at me.
It’s too… penetrating. My internal thoughts are closed to visitors right now, but he’s still looking at me like he wants to get in. Unacceptable.
I barely notice when Kaitlyn stomps off in a huff, and neither does he. Around us, the dancers all go back to business as usual after studiously pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.
“Let’s go,” Colm says, reaching for my elbow and then aborting the movement at the last possible second.
At least he’s learning.