Page 6

Samantha

Death looms over me in the form of a man so enormous he looks like the statue of liberty’s big brother. There’s blood on his knuckles, blood on his face, and a bloody bandage clinging to his forearm. Amidst the overwhelming fear at being manhandled by a blood-covered thug, I feel a small sliver of satisfaction in seeing the wounds on him and thinking about Diesel fighting back and wounding this cretin. Carefully, I swallow the scream in my throat, realizing that, for the second time in maybe five minutes, I’ve nearly howled my lungs out in pure terror and I really need to figure things out in my life, because this just isn’t healthy.

“I’m going to ask you this once, and then I’m going to hurt you in ways you will never heal from: what the fuck are you doing back here?”

His scarred face is so close to mine that I can smell he’s been drinking bourbon and eating anchovies, which is a combination that further cements the fact that I need to tread carefully because this man is off his rocker and also makes me scrunch my nose to shut my nostrils against the olfactory assault.

A bruising squeeze of my arm brings me back to the offensively scented reality. If I don’t come up with an answer, or this monster will handcuff and torture me right next to Diesel. While my brain spins its wheels faster than it ever has before, I notice the man’s eyes flicker from staring dead into mine to looking somewhere a little lower than my face.

It hits me: he doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m just some stripper. To him, I’m not a person with thoughts, feelings, and motivations; I’m just a collection of breasts, legs, and ass for him to stare at. I ever-so-slightly press my elbows together, accentuating my breasts in this ridiculous gold bikini top that passes for a server’s uniform here at Club Sin.

“Oh my god, I am so glad you found me,” I say, raising my voice a half-pitch and forgetting about elocution.

“You’re glad?”

“I am, like, so lost back here, you don’t even know.”

“You’re lost?”

I accentuate my breasts some more, then do a full-body nod that makes them bounce like a pair of toddlers that have had too much sugar. “So lost. You wouldn’t even believe it,” I say, knowing that if he thought about anything other than my breast and stereotypes, he literally wouldn’t believe me. “I’m new. Like, just started, and I really want to do good at this job, because my last job, at this other bar, they fired me… which is what happened to me at my job before that, too, which was at this dumb coffee shop… and so I really, really can’t afford to lose this job. Anyway, they gave me this bucket of ice and this champagne and told me to take it to the champagne room. But I can’t find it. Can you help me?”

“You can’t find the champagne room?”

“They told me it was in back. But I went in back, and then out back, through that door down there,” I say, gesturing down the darkened hall. “But all that I found back there was an alley.”

“Holy shit, are you dumb?”

“I’m Samantha,” I say. “Can you tell me where the champagne room is so I don’t lose my job?”

He rubs his temples and lets out a sigh. “Go back the way you came. Go back into the strip club. There’s a different hallway with a sign above it that says ‘VIP’ on it. Go down that hall and you’ll find the champagne room.”

I nod enthusiastically, making sure to keep my chest bouncing. "Oh my gosh, thank you so much. You're, like, totally my hero." I flash him my brightest, dumbest smile. "I'm gonna go right now and find that VIP sign."

As I turn to leave, his meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder. My heart leaps into my throat, but I force myself to keep the vapid grin plastered on my face as I look back at him.

"Hold on a second, sweetheart," he says, his eyes narrowing. "How'd you get all the way back here with no one stopping you?"

I blink at him, trying to look as confused and airheaded as possible. "Um, I don't know? I just kept walking and looking for the champagne room like they told me to. Was I not supposed to come back here?"

He studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see the rusty gears turning in his head. I hold my breath, praying he'll buy my ditzy stripper act.

Finally, he grunts and releases my shoulder. "Alright, get outta here. And don't come wandering back here again, you hear me?"

"Totally. I promise I won't get lost again. Thanks so much for your help," I say, then turn and sashay down the hallway, putting an extra swish in my hips.

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it, but I maintain my ditzy facade until I round the corner. Once I'm out of sight, I lean against the wall and let out a shaky breath. That was too close.

But I can't relax yet. Diesel is still in danger, and I need to help him.

His face stays locked in my thoughts as I gather myself and head back to the bar area, and then to the champagne room. I drop off the bucket, smile, bounce my boobs and apologize for the late delivery, earning a frustrated look from the stripper and a leering smile from the customer.

I make my way back to the main floor, my mind racing. I need to find a way to help Diesel, but I can't risk going back there again. The big guy will not buy my act a second time. But any thoughts of a plan soon get lost in the act of my unwanted second job: fetching drinks, weaving through the crowds, dodging — as much as possible — the grabby hands and leering gazes that follow me wherever I go. Minutes turn into hours turn into the end of my shift and I still haven’t figured out how to help Diesel and Hunter.

All I’ve concluded is that I’m in so deep that it’s a wonder I’m not surrounded by mermaids, and that I can’t just walk away from what I saw. Diesel and his friend need my help. Desperately.

But how can I help them?

I can’t just Rambo my way back there and extract them like I’m performing some military mission.

And Grub’s threats about what will happen to my life if I mess up still ring in my ears. Could I really bring the Boise PD into this situation, knowing it might mean I go to jail, too? And that’s assuming they’re even able to investigate. There’s this sick feeling growing in my stomach that the criminals who run Club Sin are more connected and powerful than just a couple of sleazy guys who make money from women showing off their butts and boobs.

My eyes swim with visions of a grim future as I end my shift and walk out to the parking lot. Keys jingle in my hands as I approach my car. Then a grating voice brings me to a stop.

“Leaving?”

I turn to see Grub lounging against his black BMW, a gun held in a casual grip at his side. My grip on my keys becomes so tight that the key to my apartment door draws a prick of blood from my palm and I focus on the pain to keep from screaming.

“My shift’s over,” I say, voice plain, steady. “So I’m going home.”

“Dominic told me you got lost earlier. That you were in a part of the club where you don’t belong. And that he had to show you how to do your own job.”

Show me how to do my job? For a moment, the image of that giant man wearing my work uniform, showing me how to literally do my job, crosses my mind and I have to fight for all I’m worth to keep from smiling.

“He was helpful, yes.”

The fleshy man strides to me, gun still at his side, his eyes shining with a light that does nothing but make the world seem darker.

“Since you got lost once, I’m worried about you, Samantha. Worried you might get lost going home, too. Would you like help? I could take you back to your place. It’s at 1318 Oakvale Court, apartment C3, right?”

My skin goes cold and a chilly sweat breaks out across my back. I shiver.

“How do you know…?”

“Where you live? Oh, Samantha, I don’t just know your address. I’ve been there. Why, I was there just the other day. I went with a few of my guys, looked right up at your bedroom window, and my boys and I talked about how easy it would be to get up there.” He smiles in a way that makes me never want to see another smile like that for the rest of my life. “You know, if we needed to. Say, if you needed help, or if you gave us a reason to worry about you. Now, if this whole ‘getting lost’ thing of yours doesn’t become a habit, I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about, do you?”

My throat constricts, and I struggle to breathe. The image of Grub and his thugs outside my apartment, eyeing my bedroom window, watching me, makes me want to vomit. I force myself to stay calm, to not show how terrified I am.

"No," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "There's nothing to worry about. I won’t get lost anymore."

Grub's smile widens, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim parking lot light. "Good girl. I'm glad we understand each other." He takes a step closer. "Now, are you sure you don't want a ride home?"

"No, thank you. I know my way home."

He studies me for a long moment, his eyes roving over my body in a way that makes me feel profoundly ill. Finally, he nods. "Alright then. Drive safe, Samantha. We'll see you tomorrow night."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and turn back to my car. My hands shake so severely that it takes me three tries to get the key in the lock. The moment I'm inside, I lock the doors, start the engine, and throw the car in reverse to speed out of the parking lot. As I drive away, I look in my rearview mirror and see Grub watching me, that awful smile still on his face.