Page 59 of Dance of Devils
“Yeah, she ain’t working tonight, buddy. One sec—” He glances past me and grins. “Laaaadies! How we doin’?”
I step aside for the extremely loud, extremelydrunkgroup of women, including one wearing a sash proclaiming “BRIDE TO BE!” and a tiara made of pink dildos.
A bachelorette party. Great.
The fucker on the door is, of course, eye-fucking the lot of them and trying to be his version of charming. But pretty quickly, as the women give him shit about checking their IDs, inquire about a VIP table while simultaneously complaining about the cover charge, and finally ask ifhewill be “taking his thing out”, his charm drops to zero.
I know his type. Women, or indeed anyone he deems beneath him, are only there for his enjoyment or entertainment. The second theyaren’tentertaining or enjoyable, he goes right back to not giving a shit about them.
Eventually, scowling, he ushers them inside and kicks the door shut behind them. I seize my opportunity.
“Fucking women,” I groan. “Am I right?”
The guy shakes his head darkly. “Forreal, brother.” He turns and spits on the ground. “Sometimes you just gotta lay hands, know what I'm sayin’?”
He grins at me. I don’t grin back.
I bite back the desire to break his face as I stick out a hand. “Kevin.”
“Zak,” he grunts, shaking my hand. “Bro, just quickly…” He leans close. “Can I tell you something about that chick you're looking for?”
My jaw clenches. “By all means,” I mutter.
“Total whore, brother. Bitch has been leading me on for months. You know the type. Well, she gets mouthy the other night…” He sucks his teeth and leans back on his heels, folding his arms smugly over his chest. “Let’s just say, she knows her place and the right way to speak to a man now. Know what I’m sayin’?”
That I do, motherfucker.
I don’t trust myself to say anything. Not yet. Instead, I grin, hand Zak the twenty-dollar cover charge, and step into the club.
The rage from before resurfaces when I sweep my eyes over the dimly lit interior. More pink and turquoise neon illuminates a stage with three poles and a catwalk that runs out between the small, round tables. Barstools rim the stage, with surly men guzzling beer leering at and cat-calling a brunette on stage swaying her hips.
The fucking place smells like cigars, beer, and broken dreams.
“Excuse me, baby.”
I turn, letting a waitress with a tray of beers walk by me and toward a table of rowdy men.
She’s wearing a thong bikini bottom and stiletto boots. Nothing else.
“I just waitress there.”
My vision blurs with rage and I have to remind myself to breathe.
Brooklyn willnotbe coming back to this fucking cesspit.
I force myself to concentrate on what I came here to do. I scan the interior and spot only three security cameras: one pointed atthe bar, another at the stage, and a third aimed down the hallway toward the VIP rooms. That’s it.
There are two other bouncers in here besides Fuckhead out front. But they’re barely paying attention to anything but the tits on stage. One of them is even having a beer, for fuck’s sake.
This will be almost too easy.
Just the same, I stumble by them one at a time, pretending I’m drunk and using my slurred “Whoa, sorry, man” to get close enough to cut the wires from their radios to their earpieces with my knife.
I clear the restroom next, then head back outside and clap Zak on the shoulder.
“Couple of guys fighting in the men’s room.” I shrug. “Figured you might want to know.”
He swears under his breath before he thumbs his radio. “Sean! Terence! We got a problem in the men’s room. Deal with it.”
