Chapter 4 - Bolton
BOLTON
We spent the next few days staking out the Kitty House.
Cal hired a private security firm he owned through multiple shell corporations to install hidden cameras around the building so we could see who was coming and going.
We noticed whenever a woman entered the building; she didn’t leave.
At least not while we were watching. And one of us was usually watching.
We also noticed armed men coming and going throughout the day, staying a half hour to an hour, then leaving. Some of them brought boxes of takeout, while others emptied buckets into the dumpster behind the building. One brought in bags of women’s clothing with him.
Cal and I both agree—there are women trapped somewhere in the building. They’re in a dangerous situation, and the sooner we take Melton out, the better.
“Repeat the plan to me,” Cal demands while I pick out my outfit for the night. I need to look nice enough to attract the strippers, but not nice enough that we don’t belong there.
“We aren’t husbands. You’re my boss, and we’re there to meet other powerful, slick investors to do shady business together. I’m not allowed to hurt anyone until we find proof the women are there against their will.”
I go with a Versace watch and a plain dark grey designer suit from a few seasons ago, adding in a little color with a blue shirt and a lighter blue tie. Office chic.
He sighs, his jaw tightening in frustration. “No, Bolton, you’re not allowed to hurt anyone, period. The plan is to gather proof they’re being trafficked. Once we have it, we leave and devise a plan to get them out safely. Then we’ll capture Melton and make him wish he was never born.”
I nod. “Devise? Word of the day, Daddy.”
He pinches my ass, and it fucking hurts. I yelp, lightly slapping his arm.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time right before we leave!”
His jaw tightens. “Take this seriously, Bolton. Don’t make me regret taking you with me.
His words sour my mood. I’d never purposely ruin our plan or embarrass him.
Does he think I’m incompetent?
There’s no reason for him to talk to me like I’m an errant child.
I’m quiet the whole way to the Kitty House, giving him an occasional nod here and there.
Most of the time I scroll through my social media feeds just to avoid him.
He parks the car we rented a block over, then engages the child locks.
His sigh irks me. It means he’s about to say some dumb comment that’ll piss me off.
“Please drop your mood before we go in. We need to be on our A-game here. These people are dangerous criminals, and they won’t hesitate to shoot first and ask questions later to protect their operations.”
“Don’t worry, Callum.” He flinches at my use of his full name. “I won’t make you regret taking me with you.”
Yeah, I threw his words right back in his face. Call me petty fucking spaghetti, because I’m feeling saucy.
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t the right thing to say.” His apology sounds like unrehearsed lines he read off a B-rated movie script.
“Yeah, but you said it. Let’s go in, it’s getting cold out here.”
He unlocks the car, coming around to open my side. I get out of the car before he even makes it past the hood.
“You need to get in character, boss. We need to be on our A-game, remember? How many bosses open doors for their male employees?”
Why does it feel so good to be an asshole sometimes? The age-old question I’m in no hurry to find an answer to.
“True,” he agrees as he turns toward the club. I walk behind him with my head slightly down.
Before I started writing full-time, I mostly worked as a bartender or a tutor.
The concept of having a stereotypical office boss is foreign to me, but I assume most people probably don’t like their boss.
They’d probably try to keep a modicum of space and act with some kind of deference.
Cal’s bullshit is making it easy to keep some space between us.
I’ve never visited a gentlemen’s club, and I could have gone my whole life without being in one.
It reeks of alcohol, smoke, and desperation.
I’m not sure what’s more pathetic—the tacky velvet decor and 80s music playing for tonight’s theme, or the guys drooling over women who wouldn’t give them time of day if they weren’t being forced to be here.
Seriously, some of these guys look like wannabe mobsters who weren’t quite greasy enough to make the cut.
I don’t think it helps that I’m gay as fuck.
Women are beautiful inside and out, but I’m not physically attracted to them.
Seeing boobs doesn’t get my engine going the same way seeing a perfectly sculpted pair of pectoral muscles does, especially when they belong to someone who’s showing them against their will.
I catch my reflection in one of the stage mirrors and frown at how stiff and awkward my posture is.
Cal looks confident despite our argument in the car. Maybe it’s because he’s bisexual and can at least appreciate the female form. Or maybe it’s because he’s gone to high-end gentlemen’s clubs for business in the past. Either way, I need to get into this role so I don’t blow our cover.
We take a seat at a table in the back, toward the right of the stage.
It’s the perfect vantage point, allowing us to see the entire room.
Every person and interaction is laid bare before us, ready to be dissected.
It doesn’t take long for one woman working the floor to come to our table.
Her red hair and tall stature make her stand out from the rest. I’d guess she’s almost Cal’s height in her six-inch heels.
She saunters over to Cal, running her hand along his shoulder.
I see red, but take a deep breath, reminding myself that we’re here to help.
“Hey boys. My name is Scarlet. Do you want some company?” she asks in a sultry voice that doesn’t match her face.
Her eyes are vacant with no spark, and her mouth is curved into a slight frown. She has this heavy energy, as if life beat her down little by little until she wasn’t able to bounce back anymore.
“Sure, sweetheart,” Cal says, his voice relaxed and playful. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”
I hold back my gag. This man is not my husband. My husband would never use such a tacky fucking line.
“Just trying to make a living,” she replies wistfully, her eyes somewhat glazed.
She and Cal talk, and I silently watch the room.
The men here are throwing bills on the stage, drinking, and raucously talking.
A few of them are way too drunk, acting like fools.
Some of them are throwing bills on the stage, while others openly leer.
There are men receiving lap dances at tables while some sit at the bar.
None of these losers seem like upstanding citizens.
They have an edge of invulnerability, like they think they can act this was because it’s behind a closed door. A major red flag.
None of the women working the room look enthused to be here.
There’ not a single smile on any of their faces.
I’ve never been to a strip club—excuse me, a gentlemen’s club—but I would assume they’d smile to get better tips, like bartenders do.
Instead, they all have similar distant expressions.
Some of them move slowly with watery eyes, like zombies.
I’d bet money they’re drugged. Even the women dancing on the stage at the front of the room seem off.
Their movements are slow and uncoordinated.
There’s movement in the corner of my eye.
One woman is leading a man through a door with a staff-only sign on it.
I try to get Bolton’s attention, but he’s in a deep conversation with Scarlett…
who’s sitting on his lap, admiring his watch.
The watch I got him for Christmas last year.
Her hands are literally touching his wrist. His skin.
I quietly leave the table. They won’t even realize I’m gone, anyway. I make my way to the back door, weaving through tables. A woman steps into my path when I’m about two-thirds of the way to the door.
“Hey handsome,” she greets me.
She’s dressed in a red lacy thing with a matching bra and clear platform pumps. There are red rose petals suspended in the heel and platform part. Stripper fashion at its finest. Her voice is scratchy, and I step in so I can hear her better.
“Hey. What’s going on back there?” I tilt my head toward the door, trying not to be obvious about it.
“That’s an expensive question.” She peers around the room, then leans in and whispers, “Five hundred dollars per half hour.”
I’d pay five thousand dollars if it will give me the proof I need to shut this place down and get rid of Melton. I pull out my wallet and give her three hundred dollars.
“You’ll get the rest at the end,” I say in the most douche-baggy tone I can muster.
She takes my hand, then walks me through the door.
There’s a bouncer on the other side, leaning against the wall.
I immediately clock the gun holstered to his hip.
Her face remains impassive, but she refuses to look at him, keeping her head down as she hands him the money and tells him I’ll pay the rest to him on my way out.
He doesn’t look happy about it, but waves her through.
“Room five is open at the end of the hall. Remember to clean it up when you’re done.”
Again, I hold back my gag. I don’t want to know the kinds of things that are done here that need to be cleaned up after.
She takes me into a small room with a twin-sized bed, a chair, and a small open cabinet. I see condoms, lube, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a roll of paper towel. None of which I plan on using.
“You get a half hour after I start the timer,” she informs me, gesturing to the little kitchen timer on top of the cabinet. “Use a condom, and anything you do that leaves a mark is an extra two hundred dollars on your way out.”