23. Going Undercover #2
Rosalie cheers from the side of the stage as Angel glides down the pole in only clear heels and the will to defy gravity.
I asked about her protections as a gig worker, which was met with a blank stare before a promise to speak to Renata.
Between the drinks Rosalie and I serve to a private party and the DJ switching to Black American hip-hop and R&B, we are having a time.
My hips corkscrew to Rihanna and Bryson Tiller’s “Wild Thoughts,” my thighs minutes from fighting for their lives.
Blue and fuchsia LED lights sweep over the semi-private VIP in streams. The customers in our section are well-liquored and thoroughly entertained.
Every eye is on Angel, all except one person’s.
I climb off the illuminated platform, careful not to break any bones or bust my ass. “Need anything else, Mr. Messina?” I ask in Italian, leaning into his personal space so he can hear me over the music piping through the speaker.
He stares at my cleavage before his eyes lift to mine. “You.”
Ser Criston Cole wants to be fresh.
He’s cute, I’ll give him that. Deep-set eyes. Trimmed brows. Wavy brown hair tapered to his neck. His build fills out the white polo and black ankle pants relaxed against the leather sofa. He leans into it like a throne.
I haven’t gone into any of the back rooms since I’ve been here.
One peek at someone’s ass in the air and my nosy self will watch the entire show with a snack and no shame.
One-night stands aren’t a common practice for me.
I tried it once—twice, if the man who came in his hand after taking off his pants counts. A wasted trip uptown. I almost sued.
Benny is the only man I’ve spread my legs for without going through my list of red flags and nonstarters. Granted, my focus had been on my exit strategy after his goons had snatched me in broad daylight, but I felt safe in his luxury crypt with the ceiling mirror.
Now that I know he’s community property, I’ll pass. I’m also not turning on the “open” light of my pussy for anyone who wants to play in it.
“Not on the menu,” I say with a smile.
He holds my wrist. “If not here, where?”
I don’t mind making a man wild, but something about this one sets off an alarm. To run or knock him out, the choice remains unknown.
Light and shadows dance across the stubble lining his jaw and his bow-shaped lips. “What’s your name?”
“Call me B.” I remove his fingers from my pulse point. He hasn’t been touchy since he arrived with the three guys whispering to women in dark corners. “You are?”
“Call me Gus.”
“Gus?” I snort. “You don’t look like a Gus.”
“And you aren’t Italian.” His arms spread across the back of the sofa. “How long have you worked here?” The question comes in English.
I grab the empty glasses on the table. “Not long.”
“Which is?”
“Is this an interview, Gus?”
His tongue sweeps across his lips. “I don’t forget faces. Did Renata hire you?”
Goosebumps spread across my forearms. Benny said he has men here watching me. He never told me what they look like, which could be a problem if I lay Gus out in front of his people.
I steady my voice and push away the alarm from earlier, now nagging me to run. “What’s your interest in my employment?”
I choose my words carefully to quell Gus’s curiosity playing out in his dark gaze. I’m not the only Black woman here, but his hyperfixation is giving stalker.
His stare lingers before he says, “I have an interest in the club.”
He’s a killer.
Or the feds.
No one asks this many questions unless they already know the answer—and want to bait someone—or are sniffing around for the person they want to put on the back of a milk carton.
Do they still do that?
Doesn’t matter.
The point is, I’m not going on any missing posters or somebody’s airbrushed T-shirt.
What if he’s part of that rival mafia?
My eyes dart toward his arms. He’s not covered in tattoos like Benny, but he has gold rings on his pinky fingers. I won’t assume he’s in the mafia because of his jewelry. Vince wears two the size of Super Bowl rings and he’s not in the mob. I still have my eyes open and my head on a swivel.
Gus is sus.
A figure appears behind the VIP’s sheer privacy curtain. Strobe lights from the main floor spill over a middle-aged man with a Christian Bale American Psycho haircut. He studies me hard, gray eyes sweeping my face. His lips thin before he angles his cleft chin at Gus.
“Time to go,” he says in Italian.
Gus considers the man towering over the couch. He carries himself with an air of self-confidence through broad shoulders and a lean physique tailored in a navy suit.
“I’ll see you around, B.” He stands. “I look forward to it.”
“I see you met Gus,” Rosalie says next to me. “He’s harmless but intense.”
“Does he come here often?” I pick up empty glasses and place them on the cart she brings.
“Mostly when Renata is here. He comes to see the dancers. We should be good in this section. These three will probably move to a private room.” She lifts her chin at the orgy pregame underway.
One man is sprawled on a couch with his tongue chasing a woman’s tonsils. The other two are side-by-side on a couch, taking turns sucking the woman in their laps’ nipples between kisses.
My eyes bulge. “People get down like that here?”
Rosalie giggles. “You’ll get used to it.”
Another man steps into our alcove. “You’ve been requested in VIP,” he says in Italian.
Rosalie nods. “I’ll find you later.”
“Not you. Her.”
I follow the line of his stubby finger aimed at me and turn around. He must be talking to one of the dry-humping ladies with their titties out.
“Me?” My eyes roll at his grunt.
He thumbs toward a red door carved in panels. “That way.”
“Relax.” Rosalie laughs. She lowers her voice. “I was scared my first time too. All you have to do is serve. Playing is optional.”
My head snaps back. “Playing? They got a basketball court back there?”
She laughs harder, pats my shoulder, and leaves me with The Hulk, who nods at the door.
You fucking owe me, Benny.
I suck in a deep breath and follow my escort while running through what other cars in my captor’s garage I’ll crash next on principle. Who knows what’s behind this big-ass door?
People peeing on each other.
Bodies attached to the wall by their scrotums.
Coke bottles rammed into asses.
The Hulk reaches for the brass handle and steps aside like I’m about to see the Wiz. I wish I could click these heels together to go back to Baltimore.
“Straight through there?” I point toward the hallway, a haze of blood-red and gold chains dangling from the ceiling.
Hulk grunts again. “Last room on the left,” he says and shuts the door, leaving me and my fate alone.
Music from the dance floor is a low vibration against velvet panels between wood molding.
A tufted sofa stretches under a low lighting fixture.
To the right is a bar decorated in gold and polished wood.
Light from lattice panels skates across the smooth surface, catching top-shelf bottles on display in its reflection.
Where are the bartender and the people? No one is in the open room with a chair facing a leather bed.
“Last door on the left,” I mumble. “Wasn’t that a horror movie?”
Someone might as well jump out of one of these rooms to get on with it. Rosalie said people pay top dollar to release tension and bodily fluids here.
The freaks come out at night but are missing in action.
I reach the red door at the end of an unnecessarily long hallway. It has the same ornate paneling as the one I first entered and a long brass handle daring me to see what’s on the other side.
“Serve your drinks and get out,” I tell myself in a pep talk. “I’ll have someone call Benny to come and get me.”
Where his lying ass is, only GPS knows. He’s yet to show up tonight. Unless he’s on call or works the night shift, nothing legal came up for him to leave me here.
Maybe he’s with another woman.
Then why let me come to this club he has no intention of visiting?
You know what?
On the strength of my patience—thinner than the strip of leather between my coochie lips—I pull the door open.
Euros and dollar bills create a path over black carpet to a stage lit in low red lights. Black seating reflects in a wall of mirrors sheathed in a dark glow. Chandeliers fade as the slow grind of a flute riffs through hidden speakers.
I smell him before I see him.
My knees tremble and my pulse kicks at Benny’s slow approach in sweatpants and a black tee. The gold of his chain blinks in the light as he pulls the cigar in his mouth.
“You owe me a favor, Trouble. Time to pay.”