11. Juliet
11
JULIET
M a-Ri eyes me warily as I change from leggings and the t-shirt I’d had on underneath my sweatshirt before I lent it to Mads and into a slinky, skin-tight dress with cutouts along the sides. This outfit hadn’t come from some bargain bin at the back of a thrift shop like most of my new clothes. Instead, it’s a loan from Margo, and considering that Margo is taller than me—almost by half a foot—it’s too long. I ruche up the hem until it collects just under my ass.
Putting the end of her cigarette holder between cherry red lips, Ma-Ri sucks back a lungful of cancer and then breathes it out into the filtered air. “You sure ‘bout this, girl?” she asks, not for the first time since I approached her at the beginning of the week and asked for it.
“I appreciate the worry,” I tell her, “but I’m as sure as I was when I first asked.”
Bending over, I wrinkle my nose against my reflection in the mirrors attached to the long wall opposite of the girls’ lockers. There’s a collection of makeup sitting on the counter in front of it and I reach for a tube of liquid eyeliner. It’s been a long time since I put any effort into my appearance. Picking it up is almost nostalgic—reminding me of a time when I was a different person, when the brand was far more expensive and I hadn’t even cared.
Ma-Ri blows out another cloud of smoke and snorts. “You never seemed the type to want to take on hosting,” she says. “I’m surprised is all.”
“It’s better money,” is all I offer in response.
“True.”
My mouth automatically opens, forming a round “O” as I stroke the black liner over my upper lid, dragging it out until it wings perfectly. The second eyelid is always harder, but after a few tries and scraping a mistake away with the edge of my thumbnail, I get it right. Ma-Ri hangs out the whole time—a sure sign she’s uneasy about this whole thing. Normally, she’d be back in her office going over paperwork and schedules.
“Friday nights are busy,” she says after a beat.
“Yup.” I pop the word out as I put the finishing touches on the rest of my makeup.
The wickedly winged eyeliner makes my eyes appear sultrier and almost cat-like. The light dusting of foundation covers any perceived imperfections and a rosy hue of blush rides high on my cheekbones, giving me a far more angular look than I normally have. But my lips … my lips are the pièce de résistance. Blood red and lined with a shade that’s so slightly darker than the rest of my mouth that it gives an illusion that my mouth is far fuller and plumper than it actually is—as if I just came from a hot and heavy make out session.
The entire time I complete the look, Ma-Ri watches me from her position by the door. Her small frame is propped against the wall, the cigarette dangling at the end of her holder growing smaller and smaller with each drag she sucks in. Ash drifts down to the floor and she grimaces, swiping it away with the sole of her heels.
“I’ll have to have Madison sweep back here,” she murmurs.
I stand and turn, observing the full look in my reflection. “Next time, just use an ashtray,” I tell her, adjusting the thin straps of my dress. They’re longer in deference to Margo’s body shape, but I don’t try to adjust them. Instead, I let the straps drape the already precariously low neckline even lower, until the upper curves of my breasts are all but spilling out.
If I’m right, then the next part of my plan will be taking place tonight. Though she abandoned me here to deal with the aftermath, I can’t say that my mother never taught me a thing. If there’s one thing Denise Donovan knew, it was that women have different weapons than men. Women work smarter, not harder.
“Doors are opening.” One of the other hosts says, popping her head into the back dressing room. “Ma-Ri?”
Ma-Ri seems to drag herself from her thoughts, her narrowed eyes lifting to rove over me. I step over to the side and slide into the pair of cheap black pumps I found in size in the basket of borrowed items at the back of the dressing room. They’re well worn, but whoever they belong to has taken good care to keep them from looking scuffed.
Ma-Ri points her cigarette holder at me. “Don’t make me regret this, girl,” she orders.
“I won’t.” My voice is less sarcastic than it was earlier, more genuine. Ma-Ri has been too good to me to fuck her or her establishment over. She gave me a job when no one else would, and if anyone’s forcing me to take a step further into the gutter, it’s me—not her.
The other host—a redhead whose name I can’t remember—ducks back into the hallway and the sound of her own heels clip-clopping back towards the front room echo back to us. With a muttered word in a language I don’t understand, she disappears out into the hallway. When I step out myself thirty seconds later, she’s already gone.
Every so often, Ma-Ri gets an idea to have a themed night at the Dionysus Lounge and tonight happens to be one of those nights. Gauzy curtains with paintings of Greek pillars have been strung up throughout the club. Deep instrumental music pumps out of invisible speakers.
Mads along with a few other waitresses are waiting with the drink of the night—Goddess’ Ambrosia as they’ve named the bartender's own concoction—perched on their trays and complimentary shots that accompany them. I scan the darkened room with its red lights highlighting the floor pathways and the changes that have been done to the inside to make it appear like a Greek garden. Tonight, the “guests” are humans who’ve stumbled into this realm of the Gods, and we’re to make them feel as if they never want to leave.
When I find a man in gray slacks and a black button-down shirt over a bulky frame and tattoos peeking out of the neck of his collar, I decide to make the first move. I step down into the main part of the club and shove my shoulders back. When Mads turns and spies me, her lips part and her jaw practically slams into her tray.
My smile is more real than it has been in days as I slowly make my way towards her, not stopping until we’re mere feet apart. “Y-you’re hosting tonight?” She blinks at me.
I take one of the shots on her tray and sling it back and she winces. “Jules!” she hisses before darting a quick look around. “Even if Ma-Ri lets you host, you can’t be seen drinking. What if a cop comes in?”
“Liquid courage,” I say as warmth spreads through my throat and down into my chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good for the rest of the night.”
“I don’t know that you should?—”
Without giving her a chance to finish, I grab two of the Ambrosias in frosted glasses. “I’m table three,” I tell her. “You can go ahead and charge the shot to my guest.”
“G-guest?” She stutters out the word. “You already have a?—”
“Sorry, Mads,” I say, cutting her off as I spy the redhead from earlier heading in the man’s direction. “Gotta go.”
Keeping my back straight, I carry the drink across the black tiled floor of the club and turn my back on the redhead as I stop beside the man in gray and black. His eyes widen when I offer one of the glasses.
“Welcome to the Dionysus Lounge,” I say, offering him a smile. “Is this your first time here?”
His lips quirk in amusement, but he takes the drink from me. “No, it’s not,” he admits. “But it’s been a while, and I don’t ever remember seeing you here.”
Letting my hand drift down the bulk of his bicep, I lean towards him conspiratorially. “It’s actually my first night hosting,” I whisper as if it’s a confession rather than the truth. “Have pity on me and join me at my table?”
His smile is all straight white teeth. “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I denied a beautiful young woman that,” he says, still holding the drink. His eyes flick to it. “But I’m afraid I’m not much for … what is this?”
“Goddess’ Ambrosia,” I answer. “And you don’t know until you try it, but if you prefer, I can order you something else.” I let my gaze rove the tall, broad length of him before returning to his face. “You strike me as a whiskey guy.”
The man’s eyebrows arch up. “You’d be correct.” He hands me back the glass, and I slip it as well as the second one I’d grabbed for myself onto the tray of a passing waitress before asking her to deliver a bottle of Jane Black.
The waitress doesn’t even wait to hear if my guest will argue and flits away to do the work. “Jane Black?” he asks. “That’s bourbon.”
“It’s a blend of bourbon and whiskey,” I correct him, and it’s in the range of a couple hundred. Expensive but not too insane. Judging by the fabric of his clothes, though, and the Rolex on his wrist that is a damn good imitation if it’s not real, he can more than afford it. Growing up around people with money has its perks, I guess.
Still smirking, the man gestures to the rounded booths where several other hosts are already seated, chatting with their own guests. He’s handsome enough that I wonder why he’d even bother to come to a host club. He’s got one of those faces that would have been popular in movies—strong, square cut jaw and high cheekbones. The gray at his temples and streaks of silver through his closely shaven beard do nothing to detract from his hotness.
“I like the way you think,” he murmurs. “Please, lead the way.”
So, I do. I lead the man down into the club and to table five which is more like a low glass coffee table surrounded by comfortable black leather lounges. The leather creaks beneath my ass as I take a seat and he does as well.
“Ma-Ri has moved up in the world if she’s able to hire girls like you,” he comments, “but I worry that she might be robbing the cradle if she’s in need of a host so young.”
I stiffen before remembering the advice Margo had given me when she lent me the dress. Never let them see you uncomfortable. Always act intrigued by anything they say. Forcing my shoulders to relax, I toss him a confused smile.
“What do you mean by that?”
Dark eyes trail over my blue hair and down to the top of my breasts. To my utter surprise, though, they don’t flare with heat or attraction. He doesn’t shift in his seat as if he’s turned on by all of the skin I’m showing. Instead, he merely crosses one leg over the other and lifts a hand as the waitress returns with the bottle I requested and the glasses, though she gives me a bit of the stink eye as if to tell me not to press my luck and that the second is just for show.
“Thank you,” he murmurs to the girl. I sit forward, grabbing the bottle before he can reach for it. I uncap it and pour him a hefty two fingered dose. His eyes lock on me. “You were serious about this being your first night as a host,” he comments as the waitress leaves and attends to the next table—a group of rowdy businessmen in loosened ties and white shirts.
“Did you think I would lie about it?” I ask, curious.
He takes the blend of bourbon and whiskey as I offer it to him and shrugs. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had. It’s a marketing tactic for women in this industry.”
I tilt my head to the side. From where I’m sitting, I can see the entrance to the club, but this stranger is distracting me from my purpose, and there’s no sight of the Scorpion Kings yet.
“You expected me to lie,” I guess, redirecting my attention to the man. He’s seated closer to my side, with his back to a wall, but all of the club in his sights. “Why?”
The man takes a sip of his drink and sighs, the sound one of pleasure rather than disappointment. “Because you seemed far too confident in yourself at first for this to be your first time,” he finally answers me, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “Then we sat down and I called you out on your age.”
“Age is just a number, or is that not what men like to say?” Twisting on my seat to face him more fully, I drape one leg over the opposite and lean forward.
His eyes don’t even bother lowering to my breasts which I know are practically on full display. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve watched Margo and the others do this a thousand times by now and all they have to do is twirl their hair, do a little giggle, and shake their tits in a man’s face to have him panting and throwing down their black Amex cards. Am I cursed or something?
“Honey, if I was all that concerned with age, then I wouldn’t be married.”
My lips part, but no words escape. I shouldn’t be surprised by the admission. No doubt, most of the men here probably have wives at home. Bored, lonely housewives with their little pink vibrators to keep them company when their husbands are out dropping hundreds on expensive hookers or hosts. But something about the easy way he says the words has me leaning back once more, straightening my spine so the neckline of my dress doesn’t hang as low anymore.
“My wife is younger than me,” he continues, taking another sip of his drink, “but she keeps me on my toes.” The words are spoken without the annoyance that I’m used to from men. All of my dad’s friends, when talking about their wives, had taken on a tone of irritation that they collectively appeared to commiserate in. Not this man. This man almost seems… in love.
“If your wife is so interesting,” I murmur, aware that I’m probably about to make a taboo as a host, but unable to help myself nonetheless. “What are you doing here?”
Gray eyes flick back up to meet mine, reminding me of Lex’s for some reason. “I’m here to meet someone,” he hedges. “I hear he visits this place regularly, though he lives in Silverwood.”
Silverwood. I swallow roughly. Despite the fact that the Dionysus Lounge is a good half-hour drive from Silverwood when not taking the bus, it’s no surprise that someone would want to meet here versus one of the watering holes there. The types of places that businessmen meet at on the northside all cater to a higher clientele. Whereas the Dionysus Lounge offers a darker setting for men of various backgrounds. In essence—the Dionysus Lounge caters to well-dressed criminals.
“Have I stunned you into silence, little one?” I blink when the man’s question drags me out of my head.
“What—I mean, no.” I shake the cobwebs of my thoughts away. “No, of course not. I’m surprised you’re from Silverwood . So am I.” Am I supposed to admit that? I don’t think so, but it’s too late now. “I’ve never seen you around.”
“I didn’t say I was from Silverwood.” Despite his words, his grin widens. “But you’re right, I am, and like I said earlier, it’s been a while.”
“And you’re back to meet someone…” I let the curiosity roll off my tongue as I examine him more closely now. The man sets his glass down and unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling up the fabric to reveal more tattoos beneath. They cover him from wrist to elbow and disappear further beneath the clothes.
“I am,” he agrees.
“Why?”
He picks his drink back up. “Some recent information has been given to me and I thought I’d come down and check it out.”
“You didn’t bring your wife?”
My question sparks a laugh from him. “Unfortunately, she seems to be the only person able to keep our daughter from world domination,” he answers, chuckling, the wry amusement carving his features, deepening the lines of his face. “As much as I’d love her to be with me at all times, trying to pry her away from our kid is like trying to drag steak out of a wolf’s mouth. She'd cut me up alive if I suggested leaving our baby girl behind.”
A fair point. At that moment, three figures appear in the entranceway of the club, drawing my gaze. I suck in a breath and straighten. They’re here.
The man seems to realize my sudden preoccupation and turns to spy the newcomers. Mads sees them as well and casts me an “oh, shit” look before she tries to make her way over to them, hurrying as fast as her short legs can carry her. She manages to step in front of them before they can step down into the main part of the club and with her back to us, she starts to talk.
I can’t hear what she says with the distance between us, but I know by the shadowed looks in their eyes that it’s not working.
“Friends of yours?” the man at my side asks.
Glancing back to him, I freeze. His glass has been lowered back to the table and his previously relaxed posture has been replaced with the stance of a man expecting a fight. I open my mouth to excuse myself to deal with them, but it’s too late. A shadow falls over the table and the man’s head tilts back as all three of the Scorpion Kings come to stand at the edge of our little booth.
“Mind if we join you?” Nolan’s expression is shuttered and he doesn’t wait for an answer as he slides onto the lounge next to me, forcing me to scoot away.
“Not at all,” the man states, but to my shock he rises from his seat and pulls out a wallet from his back pocket. Slipping out several hundred-dollar bills—more than enough to cover the cost of the bottle I’d ordered for him—he drops them onto the tabletop. “I was just leaving.”
“Smart decision,” Nolan agrees.
“Wait!” I jerk to my feet, stopping only when Gio steps up next to the table and Nolan’s hand curves around my wrist. “I thought you were here to meet someone?”
The man stares at the three guys, scanning them like he’s trained to see beyond their angry looks and jeans and t-shirts. When he gets to Lex, who stands in the area just outside of the table’s section, he pauses.
“Yes,” the stranger murmurs, “and thanks to you, sweetheart, I have.”
“What—”
No sooner has the one word left my lips than the man moves around the table and holds out a hand to Lex. “Alexio Medicci?”
Lex doesn’t take his hand, but instead scowls at the man. “Who are you?” he demands.
The stranger keeps his arm up for a moment longer, but when it becomes clear that Lex has no intention of conforming to the social norm, he finally drops it and rubs a tattooed hand over his short-shaven head of dark hair.
“My name is Mitchell Vikson,” he says, watching Lex as if he half expects him to leap at him. All around us I can feel the hosts’ and their own guests’ eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is not good. I promised Ma-Ri that I wouldn’t make her regret letting me take a hosting shift.
Lex doesn’t look at me as he steps forward until he and the man—Mitchell Vikson—are nearly chest to chest. Now that they’re so close, I’m starting to see the similarities between them. Though the stranger’s hair is cut short and Lex’s is longer, cut beneath his ears, the hair color is the same. So, too, are their builds—stocky, broad, and built like the linebacker that Lex is on Silverwood High’s team.
“Tell me something, Vikson ,” Lex murmurs, spitting the man’s last name like a curse. He drops his tone even further, so that none of our onlookers can hear him, but I do. I hear him and a shiver of unease skates down my spine at the dangerous note to his words. “How the fuck do you know my name and what are you doing here with my girl?”
Mitchell Vikson’s eyes widen and he glances back at me, seeming surprised by this information. Then his mouth curves upward. “That’s…” he begins. “Rather ironic.”
“What is?” Gio steps up next to Lex, glaring daggers at the man.
“I had no clue she was your girlfriend,” Vikson states, “but if you’re worried about if I would’ve touched her, you don’t need to. She’s far too young for me, and I’m married.” He holds up his hand with the glint of a silver band around his ring finger shining under the lowlights of the club.
“Doesn’t stop most men,” Nolan says from where he’s still sitting. His fingers remain a tight shackle around my wrist, keeping me bound to him.
“I’m not most men.” Vikson lowers his hand and then cracks his neck to the side. “As for how I know your name,” he directs his next words back to Lex. “It’s because I received a file on you last week. Alexio Medicci, son of Sancho Medicci.”
“So?” Lex’s upper lip curls back away from his teeth. “If you’re looking for my old man, he’s dead. Been dead for years.”
“I know,” Vikson replies. “I never said I was looking for him.” His hand moves back and all three of the Scorpion Kings tense. Vikson pauses and then sighs. “I’m not packing a gun,” he states as he, once again, withdraws his wallet. Instead, he pulls out a white and black business card and holds it out. “At least, not today.”
Lex looks down at the business card, but doesn’t take it. Gio grunts and leans forward, swiping it from Vikson’s grip. When no other words are exchanged, Nolan reclines against the lounge at his back and kicks up a leg to cross an ankle over his knee. He tugs at my wrist, pulling me off balance until I’m forced to sit or fall on top of him.
“You can go now,” Nolan says.
“Don’t expect a call,” Lex snipes.
Vikson sighs. “I’m not here to cause issues, Alexio.”
I watch, a frown turning my lips as each time Vikson says his full name, Lex’s whole body tightens.
“Good,” Lex cuts him off. “Then leave.”
“Door is that way,” Gio offers helpfully, gesturing.
By now, the hosts aren’t the only ones watching. Turning my head, I note that all of the employees have stopped working and are staring at the group of us and the performance we’re unintentionally putting on.
A low growl enters my voice as I yank my hand out of Nolan’s grasp. “Stop making a fucking scene,” I order the three of them. My well-crafted plan is flying right out the damn window.
Vikson looks down at me and then deftly pulls another card free. He leans down and instead of handing it over, he sets it atop the pile of money he dropped earlier. “I have a feeling that these three are going to shred that card to pieces before they can use it,” he tells me. “Do me a favor and keep this for them, yeah? I don’t want to cause you any more problems on your first shift, sweetheart. So, I’ll go for now.” His eyes lift back to collide with Lex’s as he all but ignores Gio and Nolan. “I’ll be in touch, Alexio. Of that, you can be sure.”