Page 3 of Into the Blue
It’s been a while.
Since I started noticing too manyslipsandcoincidencesin the business, I’ve been hesitant to let anybody get close to me.
Nothing is more important than the money. When the money is not doing what I want, nothing and no one can keep my attention.
“You like that?” Redd asks when I’m still standing there outside of the office.
Now that all the contracts are signed and Allen is on game, I’m ready for this work day to come to an end.
This sparkling woman striding across the room would be the best way to do just that.
I scrub a hand over my face and shake my head. “Fuck. I more than like it.”
She passes me by and I’m still standing here like a fucking lame with my hands in my fucking pants.
“I’ll talk to A.” Redd steps around me, but I put a hand on his arm. Redd is quick to act and second to think. If he sees it, he wants it and there is nothing, not a law or force, that could stand between him and getting what he wants. If I don’t stop him, he’ll do too much too soon. Though we’re moving in the right direction, I’m still not in the clear to give my attention to anyone else.
“Nah.” I shake my head, locs swinging around my face. I tie one around the rest to hold them back. “I’ll watch for now.”
Money machines rush like rain on a concrete pavement for the line of people trying to get one and five dollar bills cashed out to throw. Thethunk of a bucket full of green stacks sounds off next to us as we walk deeper into the club.
The platform splits the main floor in half as three poles are all occupied by dancers moving around or on them to the tempting rhythm of the song playing. A DJ encourages the men salivating at the edge of the stage to throw their cash on them and bills start falling all around the women.
I pass the stage all together to the booth we normally occupy. While me, Redd, and Vert make our way over, Benito is already selling what he has on him. Moments later, our usual drink orders are placed on the table. Thanking the waitress, I pick up the glass and take a sip. The Jack warms as it goes down but my thoughts are somewhere else instead of the win I should be feeling after signing for ownership of this place.
“She’s not out here,” Redd comments over the music.
“Who?” I play dumb even though I’ve been looking around for the woman I already said I didn’t have time for.
Setting his drink down, my friend gives me a look full of incredulity. “You think I’m blind or somethin’?” He makes a point of opening his eyes as big as they will go and blinking rapidly. He’s a clown. Like I said, always doing too much.
“Never said that,” I chuff and try to relax into the booth and stop looking for her.
“Yea, whatever.” He scratches his short red beard and acts nonchalant as he delivers his next line. “She went to the black door. Means she’s not workin’ the stage tonight.”
I look to my man, and he lifts his chin toward the hallway where the private rooms are.
No.
An acute pain starts behind my eyes as I think over what it means.
If she’s working private rooms, then anybody could have her for the night. Unlike many of the clubs in the state, if someone buys a private room here, they have the girl for the night—not the hour.
Off Topz is a titty bar to stay above board. No bottoms come off on stage or on the floor. It’s an easy way to get this place shut down if it did happen. The way Manel got around it was these private rooms—disguisedas living quarters for the dancers. The laws had to know that’s not what they were for but since these rooms were secure and no photographic evidence got out, they turned a blind eye.
From what I could understand, the club makes good money off those rooms. Whether I will continue that part of the club's dealings is undetermined. I never had any interest in all that, I’d just take a dancer to my place if I chose to. Rarely did. But I think back to the woman I saw for just a moment earlier and my brain short circuits.
The thought of someone else having her for the night is not a pleasant one. I slam the glass onto the table and step out of the booth, stalking over to the bar.
“Another?” The bartender, Chanel, asks. She used to be on the floor with the other dancers. Her pointy red nails clink on glasses she’s setting out for a drink order that matches her bright red hair that’s swooped to one side and then down her back. Before now, I probably would have tried it, but now she’s an employee and it’s not a good idea.
Ignoring her question, I ask my own. “Who’s the new girl?”
Chanel taps on the ordering system with her knuckle since her nails are too long to make contact with her finger tips. My patience is thinning, but I know this is also how they look up reservations for the dancers, as well as, bar tabs.
“Oh,” she smiles. “Talkin’ about Diamond.”Diamond. She looks up at me with her finger hovering over the screen. “You want her?”
Yes.
