12. LINC
TWELVE
LINC
Walking down the sidewalk, I pass another parking lot. That makes three lots I could have parked in that were closer to this place.
The Window.
I grunt, flicking the last of my cigarette, then puff out an exhale, and pop my neck. It’s been a long minute since I’ve made my way down to Hollywood, and the general liveliness is stacking on the anxiety already teetering in my spine.
My heart kicks up a notch as I reach the last building on the block—a big brick building.
I think this is it . . .
Glancing up, there’s a wrought iron balcony on the corner of the building about two stories up, overlooking the cross-streets. When my eyes drift back down, I see a heavy metal door I assume is not the front entrance to a high-end burlesque club.
Continuing around the corner, my thoughts are confirmed when I see a massive set of double doors in the center of the dusty bricks.
Walking closer, I notice that the doors are a deep cabernet color, with two rectangle cut outs on each, but they look too dark to be windows. They also have these intricate carvings on them —almost as if they’re made to look like detailed shutters on an oversized . . . window.
Hah. Nice touch.
But there’s also no handle or door knob, and my eyebrows slope.
“Marble,” a voice behind me says, and I twist. My fists tighten—one even rises on instinct—but I clench my forearm when I see a man standing on the other end of the sidewalk, closer to the street, smoking a cigarette.
My eyes squint, unsure if he’s talking to me, but no one else on the block seems to be within ear shot.
Why do people talk to strangers?
It’s like, the first rule you learn and then everyone fucking ignores it as an adult.
When I don’t say anything, he lifts his silver eyes to the doors behind me, and I flick a glance back.
“Heavy as fuck,” the man says.
Oh, he was saying the doors are marble. Heavy.
My throat works to swallow, my lungs searching for the air to get a few words out. Taking just a small step —a lean toward him— I blow out an exhale and ask, “D-Do you work here?”
Shaky on the lift off. Just keep breathing.
He nods, taking a drag of his cigarette, but it’s not until he flicks the ash that I register he’s built like a fucking wall.
I think he might be an inch or two shorter than me—and his graying buzz-cut suggests that he’s older, but that’s the only thing that gives away his age. His arms are massive, barely contained by his black T-shirt.
Tension bunches in my neck when I realize he’s staring back at me.
Right. We were talking. Kind of.
I tilt my chin, trying to crack my neck, but it doesn’t work and say, “I’m—I was hired for the security job.”
The man nods, eyeing me curiously and it adds the slightest lift to his gaze. “You’re Cook?”
I nod through the lie easily enough.
Norman Cook. My new alias—given to me by Ellis. When I asked why, he said that he liked that only the letter R separated it from, “No man cook,” but he said it like a caveman.
I pull my lips into my mouth to suppress a chuckle from the memory as the man says, “I’m Jackson. I’ll be training you.” He then picks up his phone and starts tapping his thumb on the screen, still nursing the cigarette in his other hand.
A deep inhale pulls through my nose, trying to feed the tension still steadily building through my limbs.
The air seems thicker here, though I can’t be sure if that’s a Hollywood thing or a me thing. I haven’t had to carry on any sort of prolonged conversation with someone I don’t know in a long time.
Since the man —Jackson— seems preoccupied at the moment, I turn back toward the doors. Shoving one of my hands in my pocket, I jingle the change, then pull out a penny and run my thumb along the ridges of the perimeter.
Focusing on the door again, my eyes drift to the left, seeing a gold plaque next to the entrance.
The Window
It’s such a small sign. But then I guess a place that needs an invitation to be admitted doesn’t need a big sign. Like swanky restaurants that don’t put prices on the menu.
Twisting my chin, I lift my neck just the slightest bit to peer in through the small dark cutouts in the doors.
They’re a rectangular shape, not much bigger than my face but they’re so dark, they look—
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes are met with what looks like . . . a video of—a woman.
A video. In the door. That looks like a window.
Okay, so this place is fucking weird.
My eyes blink, squinting. The woman is sitting on a stool with her back turned, gently swaying her shoulders and slowly rolling her neck.
Her long red hair cascades down her back—with no sign of a bra beneath. She suddenly twists her chin over her shoulder, glancing back before she lifts a “come hither” finger in my direction.
I jerk my face away, and a low chuckle surprises me, suddenly a bit closer, and a sharp inhale pulls through my chest.
Right. Jackson. His steel-colored eyes meet mine and my jaw ticks. Another beat passes, and his stance loosens as he says, “Yeah, the monitors for the peep show aren’t exactly light either. So, like I said, the doors are heavy as fuck. I’ll show you where the back entrance is—that’s where you’ll come in for your shift.”
With that, he turns, and I follow—relieved when he doesn’t reach out to shake my hand. That was another thing Ellis and I practiced over and fucking over again, just so I’d be ready for it.
Like Pinocchio learning to walk without his goddamn strings.
This place is fucking massive.
Not a hole-in-the-wall strip joint, I think. Though I guess the peekaboo doors at the front of the building should have told me that.
Jackson gave me a tour, and . . . this place should come with a map.
It’s like the building was constructed for The Borrowers. Every room has hidden, back hallways for the staff in addition to the main halls that the guests use while moving between one of the four rooms.
Five rooms if you include the Veranda upstairs.
Currently, I’m in the Great Room, setting the extra tables and chairs we pulled from storage. A job Jackson entrusted me with while he ran to take care of something else.
I think he told me, but I can’t remember. Most of my energy is going into just trying to act fucking normal and listen. I figure the more at ease I am doing whatever I’m expected to do, the more I can focus on what I’m actually here to do.
Which to be honest, I’m still a little unclear about. I know I’m supposed to document everything for right now, until I have a meeting with the owner, Desmond’s friend Beck, I guess—but he’s in New York till this weekend.
Desmond had said discretion is key, so maybe being clueless will help me appear to be inconspicuous.
I don’t know. Either that, or I’ll totally fuck it up and it’ll be enough proof for both Casper men that I’m better off kept away from people—hidden away in the hills.
I place one of the small tables in a space just outside the performance area. This room reminds me of some kind of luxurious circus. Tall ceilings, red velvet booths, and matching curtains surrounding a large, open space in the middle of the room.
I guess they’re anticipating the club to fill to capacity tonight—hence the extra seating.
As I pull two chairs over to the table I just set, I hear a heavy door open and close, seeing Jackson walk back through the room with a woman beside him.
She rivals Jackson in height, tall and statuesque, wearing a long, robe-looking thing, and her hair is tied up in an intricate bun on top of her head.
As they get a bit closer, I can see her eyes are brown—lighter than the rich, dark color of her skin.
Jackson gives a casual glance around, silently noting I’ve put out the remaining tables and then turns to the woman, saying, “Rio, this is Cook,” but I notice that he signs it too.
Her warm brown eyes pull back over to me, and I clear my throat, then awkwardly sign, “Nice to meet you.”
I’m by no means fluent in sign language, but I taught myself as much as I could when . . . when I could barely talk at all.
I sniff in an attempt to clear the thought away, especially while Rio’s eyes are still studying me.
Not in a bad way, necessarily, but I’m paranoid—given that I have ulterior motives for being here.
You don’t know what that is either. Just . . . be a person.
Also hard.
“Nice to meet you too, Cook,” she signs. “You know sign language?”
Oh, wow. Watching her sign is . . . well, I don’t know. It looks so natural, but there’s a fluidity to it that’s so captivating.
Suddenly, I’m aware I’m literally just standing and staring at her like a weirdo. With a shake of my head, I quickly sign, “Kind of—a little.”
Her mouth tilts up, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She trails the ink down my arms, following it all the way to my knuckles, and then back up to my face. “Do you have a name sign?”
My eyebrows pinch, then I shake my head again. I read about them when I was teaching myself ASL. But name signs can only be given to you by a Deaf individual and they’re usually some kind of physical feature or personality trait.
“I’ll work on that,” Rio signs. With a tilt to her head, in Jackson’s direction, she adds, “I gave him G.I. J—insert whatever J word you deem appropriate. Mine is usually ‘jackass.’”
I pull my lips into my mouth, fighting the chuckle stirring in my chest as Jackson shakes his head. “Nice,” he mutters, but his gray eyes meet hers with the smallest flit of affection. It’s so quick that it’s gone between a blink. And I think it was only noticeable because even Jackson’s resting face seems to be hard. Tense.
This time, Rio uses her voice to say, “He’ll give you the rundown, but you’ll stay on my good side as long as you keep your hands and eyes off my dancers.” There’s a fierce glint to her stare that makes her eyes almost bronze, glittering with caution.
I nod emphatically, my back stiffening—unsure if I did something in this small exchange that warranted such a warning.
The thought crawls from the depths of something rotten inside me, something that rolls my stomach and constricts my throat.
My face cools, telling me I’ve lost some color, just as Rio asks, “Are you okay, honey? I don’t usually scare big burly men so much right away,” she breathes a nervous laugh, but her eyes are still watching me, concern lifting her brows.
And I shake it off with a roll of my shoulders.
Operation Don’t-Look-Like-A-Fucking-Freak is failing.
Finally I manage to shrug off the relentless pull of shit through my brain, and my hands move slowly, signing, “I’m fine. Sorry. Migraine.” All lies, but I knew all the signs for them.
There’s still unease holding her eyes, while Jackson’s stern face looks more curious than anything—but I want to reassure them.
I’m not dangerous.
I won’t touch or look at the dancers.
I clear my throat, preparing to sign to the best of my ability. “And no worries about that,” I sign to Rio, awkwardly. Then I wiggle my jaw, loosening the clenched muscles so that she can read my lips. I don’t know the sign, but I tell her, “I’m gay.”