“What’s happenin’ is, bitches are quiet. My bitches are never quiet. None of ‘em. Waitresses. Dancers. Even the one female bartender I got bends my ear so much it’s a wonder it ain’t torn clean off. They got boyfriend problems. They got car problems. They got childcare issues. They’re on the rag. They didn’t get their rag—”
I rolled a hand at him and said, “I get it. Move it on, Smithie.”
“Right. Now?’ He shook his head. “None ‘a that shit. Not one thing,” he stated.
“You got an idea why?” I asked as Shirleen slid mugs in front of Smithie and me.
“Got a bouncer. Hired him, good guy, checked out. I think he snowed me ‘cause my girls… they’re scared of him.”
The skin at the back of my neck prickled.
“Usually,” he went on, “that kinda shit happens, it’s because he’s creepin’ and I just fire the ass**le. But he wasn’t creepin’, not that I could see.”
I nodded.
Smithie kept talking. “But I fired him anyway. When I did, he told me he was filing a wrongful termination suit. I have no idea what that shit is. I just know I don’t want that kind of bullshit hassle. So I kept him on, kept my eye on him and set Lenny on him. Lenny’s close to graduating from DU so he’s got other shit on, but it don’t matter. Neither of us is findin’ anything. We need a girl in there to keep her eye on shit and either give me a valid reason to can his ass or give me reason to beat his ass until he’s close to not breathing. I prefer number two. But I could live with the number one, long’s it happens fast.”
“So you need me to waitress,” I tried.
And failed.
“I need you to dance.”
Oh shit.
“Uh, Smithie—”
He cut me off. “The waitresses don’t often go backstage. Whatever’s happening is happening back there. Bouncers will go back, provide presence, protection or so they can walk the girls to their cars. I usually ask another one to do that shit, but he comes up on rotation ‘cause I gotta be careful not to single him out and give him shit that he can give me shit about.”
“I don’t dance,” I told him.
“Daisy’ll teach you.”
She would. She’d taught Lottie, Jet’s sister, Smithie’s headliner, and the premier stripper in the western half of the United States (not kidding).
Shit!
“We have another problem, and that is that I’m a regular there so your guy has probably seen me. He’ll know my name, particularly my last one, and he might figure out what’s going on,” I shared.
“I already got that covered, seein’ as I been hearin’ about what you do from Darius and I been thinkin’ about talkin’ to you,” Smithie replied. “So I set it around that you got your apartment exploded and lost your job. You need money, and it ain’t like you got judgment on the girls for what they do since twice a month your ass is at a table by the stage cheerin’ them on. All ‘a them are where they are ‘cause they got in tight places. No doubt about it, you’re in a tight place. Not one a’ them will blink, your ass hits my stage.”
He had it all covered.
Crap.
I drew in a breath, sat back and grabbed my mug to take a sip, my eyes on Smithie, my mind whirling.
On the one hand, this sounded like a juicy case the likes I would not hesitate sinking my teeth into (if it did not require me taking my clothes off in front of an audience). On that same hand, Smithie was in the posse; he meant something to me and he cared about his girls. He wanted them protected, he was worried about them, was powerless, and I knew this was likely striking deep. So I wanted to help him.
On the other hand, this job required me taking my clothes off in front of an audience.
Well, at least this gave me one good reason that I ended things with Ren the day before. If we were together and he heard about this, he would lock me in his bedroom and not let me out until I was his pregnant love slave.
That might seem overkill, but trust me, with this, it wasn’t. Love slave wouldn’t be enough. Pregnant wouldn’t be enough. Both of these would mean I was tied to him in a way I couldn’t come untied, and therefore both would be the only acceptable requirements for release.
Then he’d probably ask a priest to marry us there, standing by his bed with its wine-colored sheets, me wearing a cream nightie.
Then he’d let me out.