Page 11 of Wild Heart
“This the place?” Marcus squints at the flashing neon sign that promises ‘Girls Girls Girls.’ He looks as dubious as I feel, and I check the address on my phone.
“Yup.”
The Fuzzy Peach strip club is tucked down a winding alleyway off the inner city streets of Charlotte.
It’s late afternoon, not yet dusk, as a group of men weave drunkenly past us. One stops to take a piss in a doorway that leads to a vape store.
“If that piss trickles down to my bike…” Marcus shakes his head slowly, not needing to finish his sentence. I know exactly what he’ll do if piss gets on his bike, and it won’t be pretty.
“Stay here with the bikes.”
I’m not leaving my baby in a place like this. Not where there are drunk men with obviously no respect for themselves or personal property.
“Why don’t I get to see the titties, Prez?”
His grin makes it obvious he’s joking. We both know if he wanted to go to a titty bar, it wouldn’t be a rough joint like this.There are much classier establishments if you know where to find them.
“Trust me, I wish we were meeting somewhere else. Anywhere else but here,” I mutter as I watch the doorman shove a customer onto the street. The man stumbles and falls, cursing loudly. The doorman stays staunch, and the man gets to his feet and drifts off.
“Any trouble just holler,” I say to Marcus.
“You got it, Prez.”
He relaxes against his bike, the causal stance hiding the alertness that he’s trained for. Marcus was an Army Ranger. His specialty was reconnaissance. He’s six foot three and as solid as the logs his family mills. His road name is Wood, and not just because of the fact that his family have run the Wild Sawmill for generations. He’s also good with his hands, crafting little animal sculptures and ornaments out of any bit of wood he finds.
As I leave, his hands go to his pocket and he pulls out a hunk of wood and a small knife. The wing of an owl is half carved as he chips away at the piece, his knife making a skimming sound with every stroke.
I smile to myself as I walk away. There’s nothing as casually menacing as an ex-military mountain man slowly carving a chunk of wood while leaning against a badass Harley and wearing an MC patch.
The doorman eyes me up and down as I approach, then steps aside to let me pass. It’s a sign of how rough this establishment is that they let me in with my cut on.
Through the door is a short corridor, and a plastic curtain leads to the main bar. Music thumps through the floor, and it stinks like sweat and desperation.
Girls twirl on the stage looking board as rowdy customers wave dollar bills at them. One of the girls on the stage stepsaway from her pole and bends down slowly to collect the money, letting one lucky customer slide it into the waist of her thong.
She looks bored and tired, and I wonder if she needs the money to feed her kids. I’d like to buy her a decent meal and find her a better job.
But it’s not the women I’m here to save.
I walk around the end of the stage and to the far side of the room, scanning the faces of the men I pass.
He’s not with the groups gathered at the side of the stage or sitting at the tables nearest the stage, which is what I expected. On the other side of the room are booths where the light doesn’t quite reach.
It’s the glint of metal that I see first, I wheelchair tucked under the end of a table. The man in the chair is slumped with his hand resting on his elbows watching the girls dance. There’re three empty beer bottles sitting on the table, and he watches the stage with glassy eyes.
“Jesus.”
The kid’s as bad as his parents told me he was. I approach the table and slide into the chair opposite him.
“Strangest place I’ve ever conducted a job interview.”
The kid lifts his dark eyes to me while never moving.
“I don’t want the job.”
His eyes move lazily back to the stage. They’re expressionless as he watches a girl swing her legs around a pole and hang upside down.
I scratch the side of my beard, taking my time. If he’s trying to shock me, it’s not going to work.
