Chapter One
And Everything
Marcus
Marcus Sloan stood at the window in Smithie’s office,
staring down at the floor of the strip club, a quarter share of which he owned,
but even so, he rarely came and he never did so when the business was in
operation.
He didn’t need to.
Smithie, who started the club, owned the rest of it and ran
it, knew his business. He was serious about it. He was also honest. And he had
the right reputation for the job—a man you didn’t fuck with, but a man that
took care of his business by taking care of his customers as well as his staff,
from cleaning ladies to bouncers to bartenders to talent.
That was the first time Marcus had been there in over a
year.
It was morning. Early. They didn’t open until one. There
were no windows to the building so the lights inside were on. Three women were
moving through the space, one wiping down tables, the other two mopping the
floor.
And two women were on the stage.
It appeared one was training the other.
The door behind him opened but Marcus didn’t look from the
window even as he heard Smithie walk in.
He kept his eyes on the stage.
“I hear you have a headliner,” Marcus noted to the window,
his attention aimed through it but locked on the blonde on that stage.
“Velvet rope, brother,” Smithie replied and Marcus felt him
move through the office.
He also felt him stop at Marcus’s side.
“She danced with the other girls for about a week,” Smithie
told him. “Before I put her out there, saw it during her audition. Still had no
idea how much of a stir she was gonna cause due to
her talent. Don’t need the bullshit it was gonna
bring, all the boys shovin’ their cash in Daisy’s
strings, the other girls get screwed since she’s outshinin’
’em by a mile. If I clear the stage for her, she
works the boys on her own, got no bitches workin’ my
nerves, whinin’ about their tips. Four sets, three
songs each, she gets her take and then some. The other girls get a good break
to re-oil or whatever and the boys are primed and motivated to keep the
goodness flowin’ after she leaves the stage.”
“Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus stated.
“Say what?” Smithie asked.
Marcus turned to the man.
He was black. Big. In his day he’d been fit, never lean, a
powerhouse. His body had gone somewhat soft with age, but Smithie hadn’t gone
soft. He was sharp, shrewd, educated, and street smart. His life had been
bumpy, not as bumpy as some, but bumpier than most. He’d stood strong through
it making smart decisions, wise alliances, and not many enemies.
“Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus repeated.
Smithie’s brows shot together as understanding came to him.
“Thought we had an agreement.”
They did.
Over a year ago, Smithie had hit some hard times with his
family, one of his four women’s brother finding trouble. He needed money to
help him out. He’d taken it out of his business and to keep that business
functioning, he needed a partner but would only take one who was silent, left
the running of the club to Smithie, was open to a buyout when Smithie was back
on his feet, kept his nose out of it, and simply took his cut every month.
The brother, with Smithie and his woman’s help, found his
way back to the straight and narrow.
And Marcus was more than likely going to be offered a buyout
sometime soon.
But now, he was in.
“We did,” he confirmed.
“Then, respect, Marcus, but I’m not sure where you’re comin’ from with that shit,” Smithie remarked.
“An additional set and an additional song keeps the other
girls off the stage,” Marcus pointed out.
“Daisy’s been headlining for five months, and so far, they
got no problem with it.”
“They’d have less of a problem if they had twelve more
minutes on the stage to get tips.”
“Sure they would but then Daisy’d
be out and she’d be out a whack, man. Gotta have three bouncers go out right
after she leaves the stage because a lot of ’em don’t
bother with shoving it in her string. They’re in such a tizzy, they just throw
those bills right on the stage.”
“And the lap dances?” Marcus asked.
“It’s double to get Daisy and they’re only private. She
doesn’t work in the room.”
“You got eyes on that?”
“Fuck yeah, Sloan,” Smithie bit out, losing patience and not
the kind of man who had trouble showing it, even to the kind of man Marcus was.
“You’ve seen my setup. Got cameras everywhere. No one fucks with my girls.”
“I don’t want her doing lap dances.”
“Man, a bad night, she could bring in five hundred, a
thousand bucks on private dances. A good night, she’s goin’
home with two G’s cash in her purse from lap dances alone.”
Marcus looked back to the window, a feeling on the back of
his neck like it was stinging just at the thought of that woman gyrating in
some stranger’s lap.
“You wanna explain this interest
to me?” Smithie requested.
Marcus studied the headlining stripper at Smithie’s.
Platinum hair and a lot of it. Petite frame, her ribs and
waist trim to the point they were delicate, she also had slim hips and a narrow
ass.
Her breasts were huge, however. Obviously augmented,
nevertheless, she’d clearly had them seen to by a genius. They somehow fit her
frame, worked with the rest of her, drawing attention away from her height and
her slight build, which could be seen as vulnerabilities, and giving her
presence, potency, power.
But her face.
Her face was stunning. Wide smile. White teeth and a good
deal of them. Big eyes. Elegant nose. Soft cheekbones. All of this she
highlighted with the expert use of makeup from what was clearly a gift of
superior genes into something that shone like a Hollywood starlet.
A starlet of a stripper who looked a good deal like Dolly
Parton, who also likely got home the night before, earliest, three in the
morning, and was right then, only hours later, back on the stage helping
another girl by teaching her some moves.
“Marcus, brother,” Smithie’s voice came at him. “You got a
problem with the way I do business, and I give you reason to have that problem,
then we have a talk. I don’t give you that reason, we don’t have conversations
like this one. That’s our deal.”
Marcus listened to him while he watched Daisy talking to the
other girl and then she ran across the stage, doing it gracefully in platform
sandals, her stone-washed jeans tight on her ass and hips and all the way down
her legs. Still, after she ran the four steps, she launched herself high,
grabbing on to the pole at least three feet higher than she was, her body
swinging around by just her hands.
When the swing ended, she climbed up the pole, hand over
hand. Doing this quickly, taking herself up another four feet, she flipped her
bottom half over, wrapping her skinny legs around the pole. She dropped back,
her hair flowing down, and with her only hold on the pole being her legs, she
arched her back and slid down slowly, somehow circling the pole as she did it.
She ended this doing a layout with her hands on the floor,
her legs in slow and controlled movements coming over her head one after the
other. Her hands pushing off, she was up.
Standing straight with perfect posture.
And smiling like she hadn’t moved an inch, much less just
accomplished a feat of gymnastics—in a pair of tight jeans—that had to take a
good deal of strength and effort.
Fuck.
That face.
That smile.
Fuck.
“I’m thinkin’, watchin’
that,” Smithie kept at him, “you got a clue that every asshole who runs a club
in Denver, Jefferson, Arapahoe, and Adams counties has been breathin’
heavy down that girl’s neck in hopes of recruitin’
her. You think to take her off private dances and give her less time on the
stage, she likes me. She likes the class of Smithie’s most those other clubs
don’t have. She likes the other girls. She likes the velvet rope. She likes the
Porsche she bought herself last month. What she ain’t
gonna like is that.”
Marcus said nothing, watching her spot the other girl as she
tried to do the same maneuver Daisy had.
And watching as the girl failed.
“And the other girls don’t care, Marcus,” Smithie kept at
him. “She packs the place. Every night, gotta send
men home from the line without them even getting in the door because the joint
is jumping. That’s cash in the cash register for you and me, brother. Cover is
higher to get in with Daisy headlining. Bottles behind the bar getting empty
and quick. My weekly order of booze has doubled. But it’s also cash in the
pocket not only of the dancers, but the bartenders and the waitresses. Everyone
is happy.”
Marcus turned his attention from Daisy to Smithie.
“Cut her back a set and a song each set and no private
dances, Smithie.”
Smithie became angry. “Been in this game seven years, Sloan.
And those seven years, been waitin’ for a talent just
like Daisy to take Smithie’s, and all the souls I got workin’
for me who depend on it, to the next level.”
“Increase her salary by half a million, give her four weeks’
paid vacation, and cut her back a set and a song and no private dances,
Smithie.”
Smithie’s eyes grew large.
“Half a mil?” he choked.
“I’ll cover that.”
Smithie’s face got hard but his mouth moved.
“The other part of the deal is that I work to buy you out as
soon as I can. I’m about two months from doin’ that,
now Daisy’s here. I don’t need you deeper, and no disrespect, I don’t want
you deeper. You knew that from the beginning too. I needed you and you stepped
in for me and you got my gratitude for that. You got it from the heart,” he
thumped his chest, “and in the bank. But this is my club,
brother, and I want it back.”
“I’m not buying deeper in, Smithie, I’m covering the
adjustment to Daisy’s salary.”
“And when I buy you out? Who covers Daisy then? I don’t take
a percentage of tips. Those are the girls’. I take a shave off the price of a
lap dance of all the girls, but Daisy’s elevated pricing goes to her. How do I