21. Chapter Twenty-One Cam
Chapter Twenty-One: Cam
Lakes wanted to work again tonight, and I couldn't refuse.
The money she made per night was astronomical and it seemed to help level her, so here we were.
Again. In this shitty strip club with men the pope's age, sitting around with their tiny dicks in their hands.
I lounged in my usual spot, nursing a whiskey and watching the crowd.
Lakey was in rare form tonight, her hot pink wig bright as fuck as she gyrated in the cage with another dancer.
The nipple tassels were a nice touch. I smirked, knowing the poor schmucks drooling over her had no idea what she really was.
My gaze drifted, scanning faces the way I always did. That's when I spotted him. A guy in the back corner who stuck out like a sore thumb. Crisp suit, ramrod straight posture, eyes darting nervously. Everything about him screamed "I don't belong here."
I leaned forward. "Well, that’s new. What do we have here?"
Another man slid into the booth across from Mr. Out-of-Place.
Something about him pulled at a thread in my brain, but I couldn't grab it.
He was a big guy, bald. Filled out his suit to the point of the seams straining where they joined.
Goddamn, I knew him. Why couldn't I place him? Fuck, that was gonna bug me all night.
The newcomer's body language was all wrong too. Tense, alert. These guys weren't here for the tits and ass. No, they were up to something.
I drained my glass. Where the hell did I know that second guy from? An old mark? Someone from juvie? The face was right there, but the name wouldn't come.
"Looks like we've got some party crashers," I said to myself. "Question is, what are they after?"
I checked on Lakey, still putting on one hell of a show, then stood and stretched, making my way towards their table. Walking by some dancers and ignoring the way they stared at me, I stopped just before hitting their booth, leaning against the wall, pretending to watch Lakey's performance.
"Hey. Scram, mutt." A large meathead materialized in front of me, sizing me up.
I yawned and pulled myself to full height. I had at least two inches on this prick, but he far outweighed me in the all-brawn club.
"I'm just standing here, watching my girl, you know how it is," I said.
"Yeah, well, watch her somewhere else." He crossed his arms, waiting.
As I scanned his body, I noticed a piece bulging under his jacket.
Ah, yes. Rules for thee, but not for me.
Must be something big happening here. I patted his face before breaking out in a smile at his responding scowl.
The guy looked ready to combust, but he didn't swing.
Interesting. Whoever his bosses were, they'd told him not to make a scene.
Which meant they didn't want attention. Which meant they were hiding.
"Alright, chief. Have a good night."
Grabbing my phone, I carefully took a video of the club, lingering on the two assholes in their power suits and the guard who acted like a chihuahua on meth. Skeeter's laptop might have photos I could cross-reference. The thing was, I knew that one greasy fuck. But from where?
The bald one shifted in his seat and the light caught the side of his face. A scar. Running from his temple to his jaw, thick and old. And just like that, the thread pulled free.
Cloak.
Not "looked similar to." Not "reminded me of." That was Cloak, just without hair. The man who'd run the underground fighting ring. The man who'd paid me to destroy noobs in his basement arena. The man I'd walked away from when shit got sketchy, and who'd stolen thousands from me.
And the other one. The ramrod posture, the nervous eyes. Now that I had Cloak placed, the second face resolved too. That was the warden. Not from juvie. From Ashcroft. The man who'd signed my release papers. The man whose facility had a room with no cameras on the fourteenth month.
Two men who should have had zero reason to know each other, sitting in a strip club booth with an armed guard, watching my girl dance.
My blood went cold. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind. The kind where your body temperature actually drops and your fingers go numb and your brain starts running calculations it doesn't want to finish.
You were released.
Skeeter's words, and now here was Cloak, sitting with the warden of the prison where a guard had assaulted me in a room with no cameras, in a club where Lakey took her clothes off three nights a week.
They're always watching.
When Lakey came over after her set, I grabbed her arm and pulled her close.
"We need to talk," I said against her ear, keeping my voice low.
She giggled, all bubbly charm for the leering patrons. "Mmm, I wanna get some drinks first."
I squeezed her ass. "Two guys. Back booth. They don't fit. Something's off."
Her eyes went to the men, then back to me. Her smile never dropped, but I caught the slight narrowing.
"You're paranoid, babe," she said, shrugging off my hand. "They're probably just closet cases afraid to admit they like dick."
"This isn't a joke, Lakey. One of them is Cloak."
That got her attention. Her body went still for half a second before the performance kicked back in. "You sure?"
"Positive. And the other one is the warden from Ashcroft."
She processed that for a beat, her leg bouncing, her brain doing that thing where it latched onto information and wouldn't let go. "Why would they be here?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out. But Lakes, think about it. Cloak ran fights. The warden ran a prison. Both connected to us. Both here. Watching you dance."
She rolled her eyes. "Lots of people watch me dance, Cam."
"Not people who are connected to Chimera."
Her leg stopped bouncing and she huffed. "Fine. But I'm finishing my shift. I made four hundred in the last hour and I'm not leaving money on the table." She pulled away. "We'll deal with it after."
She headed back to the stage. She was right about the money. She was wrong about the urgency. But pushing Lakey when she was in work mode was pointless. She'd finish her shift, and then we'd talk.
I went back to my seat and nursed another whiskey, keeping one eye on the booth. They stayed for another forty minutes, then left through a side exit I hadn't known existed. I went outside for a smoke and watched the direction they went. South, toward the industrial district. Toward the old mill.
Of course.
We left the club an hour later, the chill air a welcome relief to the stifling heat inside. The ride home was quiet, Lakey humming tunelessly while I ran through every connection in my head, building a map I didn't want to look at.
The moment we stepped into our apartment, Lakey's mood cracked. The smell was overpowering.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she said, storming towards the bathroom. "We seriously left him in the tub?"
I followed, wincing at the sight of Skeeter's pale, bloated corpse. "We've been busy," I offered.
Lakey whirled on me. "Busy? We've had two days! Now he's all... soggy."
I couldn't help but snort at her indignant tone. "Sorry the murder victim's inconveniencing you, princess."
She huffed, grabbing her gym bag. "I can't deal with this right now. I'm going to shower at the gym. You..." She gestured vaguely at the tub. "Handle this."
"Wait, what about—" The door slammed behind her. "—those guys at the club," I finished to the empty room.
I sighed, eyeing Skeeter's corpse. "Looks like it's just you and me, buddy. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
I rolled up my sleeves. "Time to get down and dirty, Skeeter. Hope you don't mind a little dismemberment."
Grabbing our trusty bone saw from under the sink, I got to work. The squelch and crack of flesh and bone filled the bathroom, but I hardly noticed. This wasn't my first rodeo, after all.
"You know," I said, hacking through a particularly stubborn joint, "if you'd just played nice, we could've avoided all this mess. But no, you had to go and be difficult."
As I worked, my mind drifted to Lakey. God, I loved that crazy bitch.
When she got like this, all stubborn and irate, it ground on my gears.
She almost always, without fail, left me to clean the messes she made.
Unironically, this mess was mine, but the sentiment remained.
Still, the way she looked at me when I had my fun, it almost made up for the fact that I had issues when it came to cleaning.
She'd be fine living in relative mess, but I wasn't. Sure, I had an advantage because of my obsessive need for things to be clean, but still, she could at least offer to help chunk him with me.
An hour later, I'd reduced Skeeter to a pile of manageable pieces. I bagged them up, making a mental note to dispose of them in a couple hours, just before the garbage truck grabbed the big apartment bins. Now for the real fun. Bleach time.
"Sorry, buddy," I said, dousing the tub in industrial-strength cleaner. "Gotta erase your final resting place. No hard feelings, right?"
As I scrubbed, I thought about his role in all of this. It was clear he was some kind of information holder, but to what degree was anyone's guess. His laptop would have answers. But first, I needed his fingerprint.
Fishing out his dismembered hand from the bag, I carefully pressed his thumb onto a piece of tape.
Later I'd do a silicon mold if needed, but turning off the password would work once I was in.
"There we go. Your final contribution to society, pal.
" I chuckled. "At least this might replace the memory of you jacking off on granny.
Probably not, but it is a nice thought, isn't it, friend? "
Just as I finished my deep clean, I heard the front door open. Lakey's voice rang out, "Honey, I'm home! Did you take care of our little problem?"
I surveyed the spotless bathroom. "Baby, you have no idea. I'll push him down the garbage chute just before dawn." Rummaging around in the freezer, I grabbed a pie and set it in the fridge. Didn't know what kind it was, but food was food.