Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
RATTLER
The problem in Room Two turns out to be nothing that’s too heavy to handle.
Asshole misunderstood the rules, thought that as the Royals had a reputation for allowing full-on penetration, that it could be carried out in any of the private rooms, and with any girl he felt like taking.
That’s not how this shit works. We’ve got a separate area out back for that very reason, and whether the individual girls offer that service is completely up to them. No pressure from us, no expectation.
It was those arrangements this fucker didn’t understand. At least he wasn’t trying to use physical persuasion. He was still using his words when I entered to find Angel standing her ground, being berated. One threat was that she’d lose her job if she didn’t put out.
I might not be one of the most intimidating brothers in the club, I’m fit, yeah, but unlike Freak, Tempest and Short, who tower above me, I’m only five foot ten and don’t have muscles for days.
My build leans toward athletic. But the cut I wear is more than enough to make the asshole step back when I enter, and his belligerence takes a back seat.
He holds out his hand to me. I don’t shake it. It’s a fucking strip club. I don’t know where it’s been, or more to the point, what might be on it. Prick could have rubbed one out in the bathroom stalls and got his own jizz all over it. He looks like someone who might not wash his hands.
Undeterred, he launches into his self-righteous demands. “Man, I’m pleased to see you. This b…” he hastily corrects himself, “woman, refuses to service me. I paid good money to come back here, and all she wants to do is give me a lap dance.”
“And that’s the service you purchased.” I fold my arms while casting a glance Angel’s way, noting she’s unhurt and, if anything, looks slightly amused.
“A lap dance? Fuck.” He shakes his head, then sneers. “No way. I paid one hundred fifty dollars for fifteen minutes.”
“For a lap dance,” I repeat.
His shoulders draw back. “Royals is known for being an ‘anything goes’ club. I want my money’s worth. And a fucking lap dance doesn’t cut it. It’s not what I paid for.”
Another glance at Angel shows she’s examining her nails. Her complete indifference makes me want to laugh, but I refrain. Don’t want to risk my pretty face getting damaged tonight.
Lazily, I point to the only piece of furniture in the room. “What’s that?”
His brow creases as he follows my finger. “A chair?”
“It is, indeed, a chair,” I confirm with a smirk. “For lap dances.”
He takes a step toward me.
At Royals, we do indeed offer a full-service package, but in Arizona it’s illegal.
And the Kings don’t want to be accused of running a brothel, so it’s obvious we don’t advertise it as an option and certainly don’t have it plastered all over the posters out front.
A number of trusted regulars who understand what would happen to them if they ever gave away our secret know what we offer.
Or the girls can make their own judgement call if they’re hard on cash and want to earn more, with our vetting and agreement, of course.
This fucker obviously came in hopeful on a rumour. Or someone’s opened their mouth.
“I don’t know what you expected from Royals,” I tell him, trying to stay patient, which is not one of my strengths. “But we run a gentleman’s club and stick to the rules set by the state of Arizona. I don’t understand what you’re inferring.”
“I’m fucking telling you I want full-on sex with her.” He waves his hand in Angel’s direction.
I reel back as though shocked. “You’ve come to the wrong establishment. I think you want a whorehouse, not a strip club.”
His mouth gapes, and for the first time, he looks uncertain. “You mean, you don’t offer…”
I shake my head adamantly. Not to the likes of him anyway.
“Fuck,” he exhales. “Then I want my money back.”
“No.” There can be no mistaking my refusal. “You’ve taken up fifteen minutes…” I glance at the clock on the wall. “In fact, more than that. You owe Angel for the extra minutes you’ve kept her in here. Oh, and you can add on more for wasting management’s time as well.”
He looks from me to Angel and then back. He rushes to the chair where he left his jacket, then makes a bolt for the door while tossing over his shoulder, “You can keep the money.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
“Come ‘ere.” I hold my hands out to Angel. When she comes closer, I pull her into my arms and give her a brief hug. Then, with my hands on her biceps, move her away. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, he didn’t touch me.”
Angel’s one of the girls who likes to earn extra and appreciates being able to do that under the watchful eye of the Kings. Unlike pimps running street girls, our share of the take is much more reasonable. “You could have taken him on back if you wanted,” I remind her.
Shaking her head vigorously, she confides, “He fucking smells. Didn’t you get a waft of his body odour?” She tosses back her long hair. “I’ve got standards.”
“Sure you have, girl,” I tell her with a grin.
No, I hadn’t smelled anything, but then my sense of smell has faded since Freak damn near busted my nose when I’d dared to touch his woman, now wife, Trixie.
I mean, fuck, it takes a man a minute to understand new rules—she’d been a club girl since before I’d joined the Kings.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I address Angel, “Get out of here. We’re taking up room that should be earning dollars. ”
“Thanks, Rattler.” She sounds earnest.
“No problem, doll.” I wave her off.
When she exits, I follow her out.
It’s gone two a.m., I notice, only an hour before we close. I walk to the bar and catch Joe’s attention. “Has she come out?”
He doesn’t have to ask me who I mean. He shakes his head. “No. Got Gary to check. The door’s still locked. Rat, I know you’ve been busy, but don’t you think we should get her out soon? Fuck knows what she might be doing to herself in there.”
Nothing, I expect. And if she’s decided to top herself, though we might not have a cleaner like the New Mexico Kings have in Jester, we do know how to clean up after ourselves, and Words has a pretty damn convenient cremator.
As the senior, well, only King here tonight, I make an executive decision. “Let’s wait her out. She’ll emerge when she’s ready, probably at closing. Oh, and make sure her pay is docked for tonight. She didn’t earn it.”
Joe’s eyes narrow. “You’re a cold-hearted son of a bitch, Rattler.”
Words can’t hurt me. If they could, I’d be dead by now. I shrug. “If it’s an angry ex in the club, maybe it’s the best option for her to wait him out. We’ve fuck all idea who he is or what we’re dealing with. I’ll go get her when the club’s cleared.”
His features relax slightly. “Guess we should have chased for her and Satin’s documents earlier.”
So, they hadn’t come through with their credentials. What had Freak been thinking? I give a tight-lipped reply. “Sure fuckin’ should. We shouldn’t be blindsided.”
It’s why we insist on ID when we employ someone.
We don’t give a fuck who they are or what they’ve done.
But stripping isn’t an ambition for most people.
Mostly it’s the option they turn to when they’ve got nothing else.
Or if they want to be paid under the table to leave no trace to betray where they are.
We’re happy to pay cash, but we insist on using the information to do a deep dive so we know what they might be running from.
Had we known tonight, her sister’s ex, working on the assumption that that’s who it was, wouldn’t have made it through the door.
And Satin would have been here doing the job we pay her for.
I suspect her cramps were just an excuse.
Maybe she knew he was going to turn up? But if so, why hadn’t she warned her sister?
Fuck Freak. Why hadn’t he remembered to chase for their ID?
Because he was dealing with his son’s kidnapping and the asshole who damn near killed his old lady.
Oh, and then arranging the wedding and reception, to which our attendance was mandatory.
Fucking waste of time. Well, it is now, as I’m not there to enjoy it.
I’m not stupid enough to go head-to-head with him and read him his rights. But you can bet your last dollar that I will let him know that, by neglecting his duties, he was responsible for whatever’s gone down here tonight.
Ah, Missy’s on stage. She always gives a good show. Asking Joe for a beer, I take it with me when I go to sit at the table reserved for any attending Kings. Kicking my legs out, I settle in.
Royals treats its girls well, and for that, we get good talent. It’s no hardship to sit here enjoying the acts on stage while sporting the predictable boner. I can enjoy the show in peace, no brothers to yank my chain, as they’re all back at the compound continuing the celebrations.
Convincing myself I’m working by checking the responsiveness of the servers, I beckon them over from time to time and drink the beers they bring across.
By the time the lights go down on the stage, I’m pleasantly buzzed and in no hurry to move as the club empties out around me.
Wasn’t there a reason I stayed until closing? I’ll be fucked if I can remember.
This sofa’s quite comfortable. Maybe I’ll stay here a bit longer. The music’s been shut off. Even the voices seem to fade as everyone leaves the building. I close my eyes…
“What the fuck?” I reach down to rub my leg and glare at Joe, who’s obviously just kicked me.
He states tersely, “She still hasn’t come out. Bitch must be deaf, or dead, not to hear the music shut down.”
What the hell is he talking about? As I shake my head, my senses come back to me.
Oh, yeah. That useless bitch, Ames, has locked herself into the storeroom, and that’s why I’m here, and not partying back at the club, or, more probably, be balls deep in Star’s pussy.
Idly, I wonder who’s experiencing that pleasure now that it’s not me.
“The dancers have all been shown to their cars, and all the staff have gone. I’m the last, and I’m fucking leaving now. You gonna get her out of there?” From his expression, his unspoken words imply that I’m to deal with any mess that needs cleaning up.
“Yeah,” I murmur, wondering whether I can ask for another beer or a shot, then realise from the death glare he’s shooting my way that I’m better off not making that request. I’m just a club member, not an officer, as he well knows.
Freak, Stalker, and Paint all outrank me and would have my ass were I not to sort what I’d been summoned here for.
Pulling myself to my, admittedly unsteady, feet, I wave him off. “You go. I got this.”
He waits for a moment. Then, as I straighten, he throws up his hands and spins on his heels. As he walks off, I swear I can hear him muttering, “I’m going to regret this.” Followed by, “I don’t give a damn that Freak’s on his honeymoon. He’s going to hear about what’s gone on tonight.”
Fuck. That threat is like a bucket of cold water thrown over me. Freak will fucking kill me if Joe reports I’d done fuck all when he’d called me for help.
“Don’t forget to lock up,” is Joe’s last parting comment as he leaves. He also switches off the main lights. The only one left on is the one in the hallway where Ames has secreted herself away.
Sitting in a dark, empty strip club is a bit like being alone in a haunted house.
It feels unreal, unnatural. As if something’s lurking in the depths I can’t see.
No longer feeling relaxed or at ease, I fumble my way toward the only light I can see, bumping into tables, bashing my shins.
Like a blind man, I proceed, ultra carefully, with my hands held out in front of me.
Finally, my way is illuminated. Luckily, there’s a bathroom close by.
I go there first to empty my full bladder, then head back to where I’m supposed to be.
I bang on the door to the storeroom. “Open up, Ames. The club’s closed. All the bogeymen have gone.” Or at least I hope so, as I give a furtive look into the darkness behind me. How many beers did I drink tonight? Obviously, too many.
My lock-picking kit is still in my pocket. I take it out. My hands are so unsteady that it takes an age to get the picks into the lock. Then I drop them and have to start over once more. Fuck knows how long it takes before I have that fucking lock open.
I push the door with a flourish and step inside, righteous anger burning as I spy the woman who’s caused all this trouble tonight, hovering by the shelves covering the back wall.
“Oh, thank…” she starts, then her face falls as I step inside. “Don’t shut the…”
I slam the door behind me.
I expected a crying, traumatised woman. Instead, I get a full-force burst of antagonism. “You fucking idiot.”
What?
I stand there, rocking back and forth, my head spinning as I try to make sense of the situation. There’s something in the way her eyes are focused, not at me, but behind me toward the door, that makes me turn. I try the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Well, fuck. Maybe now I’ve got the reason she hasn’t exited before. The damn lock’s buggered.