16. LINC
SIXTEEN
LINC
“You’re kidding me! No nudity?! ” Ellis balks.
I snort, shrugging as I sag into the couch, and Ellis sits on the other side. He’s been busy pounding the pavement for The 5 since I started at The Window a couple of days ago, and our schedules finally allowed us to hang for a bit before my shift tonight.
Ellis flicks his lighter and holds it over the weed in his pipe , Blackfish. He’ll claim he named it that because it’s black and white, and he has a genuine love of orcas. And that’s all true but . . . he cried hard watching that documentary—didn’t get the pipe till after, so jury’s still out on that one.
Just as he exhales, he says, “You’re telling me these people—some that probably partied at Studio 54—are dropping thousands at an invite-only burlesque club with no tits ?”
My body shifts. Fidgets. I keep my hand out of my pocket, but I push the change around over the material of my black jeans. Clearing my throat, I tell him, “Well, I—uh—I think there’s topless acts. I-I just haven’t seen them. Plus, th-there’s a policy against looking.”
Ellis’s eyes widen, but his brows furrow. “Looking? Isn’t it like . . . your job? What if there’s a threat to one of the performers—”
“Watching—” I grit out. “I guess it’s a policy against w-watching the dancers. Jackson said that—uh . . .” I shake my head and take a second to gather my thoughts.
One thing I’ve noticed in my small time of interacting with actual people —aside from Ellis, of course— is that I’m capable of talking more.
My two nights at The Window are the only prolonged time I’ve spent with people I don’t know since I was at Lending Lanterns, and that was . . . different.
There have been a few times I’ve been signing something to Rio where it comes out no problem, or I just take a second and visualize the words before I say them out loud. Take my time.
If I speak slower, it helps get the words out.
In the past, I usually got too frustrated or impatient—or I’ve been with Ellis, who knows me well enough to understand what I mean most of the time anyway. I think somewhere along the way, I just stopped trying to work on it.
But last night, when Jackson asked me to explain the procedure of removing a potentially dangerous guest —something he’d explained to me the night before— at first, I got overwhelmed. But then I thought about how I’d sign it to Rio, and it helped me come up with keywords. And slowly — I mean, at a snail’s pace — I realized I could do it.
And now that I know I can, I find myself wanting to . . . try.
Ellis sits patiently, tending to Blackfish , as I clear my throat and organize my thoughts. I think about it with the preparation I give myself to sign something to Rio.
After another exhale, I slowly say, “Jackson takes the safety stuff seriously. And he says keeping our eyes on the floor is the best use of our reflexes. Plus, he said it’s the most respectful thing we can do for our coworkers. Th-They’re not dancing for us.” I take a deep breath, it almost feels like the words deplete my air supply. But . . . I got them out.
Ellis’s eyes widen, but crease at the corners with a smile and I try to capture the image in my brain. A “mind glint,” as I’ve taken to calling them.
It’s my own version of a “brief shining moment.” Like the wind blows a curtain and a little ray of light sneaks through.
Light. Easy. Like before.
Ellis says, “Are the people cool?”
I nod, telling him about how I’m getting to make good use of sign language with Rio, then add, “And the building is huge. A little confusing. Th-There are staff hallways and stairwells so it’s a little bit like a maze. I haven’t even been upstairs yet, but there’s a private party up there tonight.”
Ellis’s eyebrows lift. “Sounds cool, though.”
I nod. It is cool. If nothing else, there’s an other-worldly feel to the building. Like how I imagine it would feel stepping into the elephant at the Moulin Rouge.
Something does feel kind of off, but I still can’t tell if that’s just because I’m not used to being around people. Maybe I’m what’s off.
“I-I’ve been writing stuff down,” I tell him. “Documenting what I can, but, I’m still not really sure what I’m looking for . . .”
He sucks his lips into his mouth, and turns toward me. His emerald eyes peer up, a little glassy, and I can tell the weed has hit. But if there’s anyone that can handle their pot intake, it’s Ellis Casper.
After another second, he sighs. “I wouldn’t overthink it. If something devious really is happening there, it’ll make itself known, and you’ll be paying attention.”
I nod, absently. The words reverberate through my brain. He’s said something . . . Or someone has said something similar to me before, but I can’t place the memory.
My head shakes, and I blink, shoving my hand into my pocket and jingling the change to rattle the feeling away.
It was better before.
“Hey,” Ellis’s voice brings me back to now, and my eyes dart up. I take a breath as our stares hold, and he adds, “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I mean, if you’re enjoying it, then I think you should, but I just want to make sure you know you don’t have to .”
My eyebrows pinch. The way he’s saying it feels heavier than what we’re actually talking about, but it’s like the meaning —whatever he means behind what he’s saying—is hidden. Like it’s behind a wall I can’t edge my vision far enough around to see.
I blink and shake my head again, then nod, jaggedly.
Jesus. “N-No, I know I don’t have t-to.” Slow down.
I take another breath, I think about the words, the signs. I see them. “It will make me feel good to h-help.” Almost.
Still, Ellis smiles. It’s a stoned goofy thing, but it makes me laugh. And I tuck the victory in my back pocket for my next low day.
“I’ll be, I’ll be
Waiting there for you
That’s what you don’t see
My love, I’m waiting for you
I’ll be, I’ll be”
“Cook!” someone barks, and I blink rapidly.
That’s me.
I’m at The Window.
On door duty.
Fuck.
My mind returns with the urgency of a fucking feather—loftily swaying, swaying, swaying, before pile-driving into my head.
My heart races as the broken melody still plays through my mind, but I give my head a quick shake. When my feet feel sturdy, it finally registers that two guys on the other door are working to close it, so I brace myself before lifting up, and then pulling, while another guard pushes from the front of the door.
Holy shit, Jackson wasn’t kidding.
The doors are fucking heavy.
My eyes peer up from the floor to see the other guy who’s working the door tonight . . . Collins, I think his name is.
“You wanna stay here while I do the sweep?” he asks, clearly doing his best to pretend closing that door didn’t just feel like moving a fucking school bus.
I nod, doing my best to pretend the same. I’m also certain that staying here is less fuck-up-able than doing a sweep, and he leaves with a simple nod.
With another heavy breath, my feet rock slightly, my toes wiggling in my boots. As I glance around, I notice a few people lingering in the lobby, taking pictures by the giant photowall of a mural painted in the foyer.
An LA landscape under a night sky, Capitol Records kissing the corner of the moon while stars dot distant mountain ranges.
The artist did a beautiful job. The colors are dark purples, blues, and blacks, highlighted with moonlit grays and stormy white swirls of clouds. All peering through big, cabernet-colored shutters. Like the behemoth door I just closed.
“Cook.” I hear a clipped voice that I recognize as Jackson’s, and my chin twists to see him walking back with Collins —I think. “Did you see this man come in?” He holds up his phone, and I see a guy with reddish hair—shorter, but muscular.
Fuck. I don’t know, maybe.
Don’t panic, take your time.
I look down at Jackson’s phone again, back at the man’s face, studying it a bit more. It’s kink night, so everyone’s dressed in an assortment of leather and mesh—but the man in this picture looks like he’s wearing a security uniform.
He does look kind of familiar, though —the hooked nose— I remember wondering if he broke it or if it was naturally like that. “Y-Yeah,” I say, my throat tightening. “He had an invitation. Came in with the first wave.”
“Shit,” Jackson mutters.
My eyebrows scrunch. “Why? What’s going on?”
I’m getting the idea that I fucked up by letting this guy in, but I scan my memory of the wall Jackson showed me a couple of days ago.
In the back room of the Saloon, there’s a picture wall of people banned from the club for various violations.
Jackson shakes his head. “His name is Seth. He was recently terminated and was asked not to return.”
Well, fuck me.
Jackson’s mouth flattens into a tight line. “There’s a private party in the Veranda tonight. We need to find him but not cause alarm. I’m gonna go to Beck’s office and take a look at the cameras.”
My weight shifts, and I shove my hand into my pocket, grabbing the first coin I can and letting it fall between my fingers, but I keep my hand in my pocket. I feel like I should apologize, but I can already feel my throat closing up.
Jackson looks at me. “I need you to check the staff hallways, and the stage stairwell up to the Veranda. Collins, you take the front building guest rooms. Dev can take the others. If anyone sees Rio, let her know.”
My chest stutters through an inhale, wiggling my jaw. I wish I had some water so I could fucking say something, but Jackson is in go-mode, only adding to my anxiety before he adds, “He was never violent. I don’t expect it will come to that for any reason, so if you find him, just bring him to Beck’s office and tell him I’d like to speak with him. Walkie me immediately.”
Day three on the job and I’ve already caused a fucking security breach. And just because this Seth guy wasn’t violent while he was at work doesn’t mean he isn’t.
I mean, he was asked not to return, so he must have done something shitty.
“The complexity of people is life’s meanest joke.”
The thought makes me cringe, but I finally say, “I-If he doesn’t come willingly?”
Jackson hands me a nightstick and some handcuffs. “Fists first, though.”