Page 11 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter seven

Stevie

“You’re late, Ms. Waters,” Atticus snaps.

Rolling my eyes, I walk through the lobby of Le Papillon. “I’m five minutes early, Mr. Lennon. ”

He spears me with a cold stare, one that lets me know he’s very much unimpressed by my timeliness.

Jackass. “You’ll be meeting with my wife, Mae,” he directs, pointing towards a set of ornate French doors.

“Go up the stairs, to the second floor. Do not , under any circumstance, enter the third floor.”

“Second floor, got it,” I snark as I brush past the shady fucker.

Neon blue and violet lowlights stream through the gallery while people, who I can only assume are employees given their attire, chatter amongst one another.

Select few turn their stares, unabashedly gawking at me.

My lips curl into a teasing smirk as I waggle my fingers in a cheeky wave.

I don’t blame them for looking—I’m fuckin’ hot.

And no, I don’t have an overinflated ego.

It’s simply a fact, a fact that Teegan instilled in me over the years.

My glittery, pink stilettos click against the freshly waxed tile as I approach a dimly lit staircase.

Gripping the rail, I steady myself before walking up the steps.

Thoughts of what kind of woman marries an asshole like Atticus Lennon filter through my mind.

Given my first impression of the man, he doesn’t strike me as someone who would choose a woman who could stand toe to toe with him.

No, that doesn’t feel quite right, either.

I’d bet he picked someone who could , but he broke her before she stood a chance like the shitty narcissistic asshole he is.

“Hello,” a soft, feminine voice says, breaking me from my train of thought.

Standing at the top of the staircase is a breathtaking woman who can’t be much older than myself, if at all.

Christ, she’s more than breathtaking—she is soul stealing.

I have never, in my twenty-four years, met anyone with such beautiful, yet haunting eyes.

I could get lost in them, in the story that they hold if it wasn’t considered rude to stare at someone.

Her brunette hair falls in puffy waves to her shoulders, displaying her soft facial structure.

My eyes roam down her frame, taking in her short, black, form-fitting dress.

She has curves, not nearly as much as myself, but she’s plush in all the desirable places, with hips that definitely make grown men cry.

A small giggle bubbles in my throat as I’m drawn to her choice of footwear—a pair of dark Western boots with a gorgeous floral stitching design. They’re cute, but certainly not something I would think the wife of the owner would wear.

“You must be Stevie,” she says.

“Yup,” I pop. “I take it you’re Mae?”

“You’d be right.” She flashes me a Vogue worthy smile.

On the surface it’s perfect, meticulously crafted.

I imagine it’s the smile she dons for photo opportunities with her husband, like some Real Housewives shit.

As radiant as her smile is, it doesn’t reach her eyes.

If anything…it dulled them. “If you could follow me, I’ll show you around and assign you a locker. ”

Climbing the remaining stairs, I fall in step behind her.

Curiosity draws me in towards the back of her thighs where a peek of deep red and purple bruising is revealed with each step she takes.

“Ouch,” I hiss. I’m no stranger to bruising—especially on nights we go harder than usual on the pole.

But I haven’t seen something that bad since a girl took a tumble off the stage while I was in Florida. “That looks rough.”

Her steps briefly falter before she can recover. Cautiously, she pulls down the hem of her dress, concealing the markings. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Mae Lennon is a terrible liar. If she were anyone else, I’d call her out on it. But since she is who she is, I let it slide. Besides, a bad liar is a liar who tells more truths than they realize.

“If you say so,” I dismiss, opting to take in the vast space of this floor.

“This over here is the main stage.” She points ahead.

Eyes wide, I stare at the sheening sea of black that covers the elongated platform.

Opera. Curtains. Of fucking course a pretentious asshole like Atticus Lennon would have piles of black silk as gaudy performative curtains.

Shaking my head, I focus on the only thing that really matters.

Several alternating colored poles, black, silver, medium teal blue, are spread evenly across the stage.

Unsurprisingly, fitting the color theme of the entire establishment.

Damnit . I hate, and I mean, truly hate to admit it—but it’s classy as hell. This place is the upgrade of all upgrades given the clientele that comes here per bougie Atticus’ contract.

“Most of the attraction is here, and it’s where you’ll be,” Mae continues.

“Clients know the rules, but for your sake, I’ll explain them briefly.

Le Papillon is far more than a gentleman’s club.

While entertainment on this floor is untouchable, the clients are encouraged to mingle with each other.

You will see just about anything while on stage.

Your job is simple: ignore them and keep dancing. ”

Swallowing, I fight to keep my nerves under control. It’s one thing to read that an establishment is a sex club, but to hear it and know that there’s a risk someone could mistake me as an available service is…uncomfortable.

“What if—”

“There are no what ifs here. Not anymore,” she interrupts. “Atticus has made many changes recently to benefit the people in his employ.”

There’s no mistaking the grating change in her tone, as if it pained her to say her husband’s name and benefit in the same sentence.

I tuck that bit of information in the back of my mind as we reach a narrow spiral staircase that overlooks the entire floor.

She leads me towards a dimly lit secluded area, blocked by a thick, velvet rope.

Mae unclips the hook without a second thought, maintaining her previously set pace.

Quickly, she pushes the doors open, releasing an overwhelming scent of perfume from the room.

“Jesus, that’s toxic.” I cough, wafting my hand in front of my face.

“You get used to it,” she says as her finger brushes over a light switch. “You can pick whichever one doesn’t have a lock on it.”

I walk past the threshold and find the locker room much bigger than I anticipated.

Rows of sleek, black lockers line the walls, while a dozen vanities sit in the center of the room.

They practically sparkle with how clean they are—which is both impressive and somehow unnerving.

Looking over my shoulder, I lift my brow at Mae. “Where’s your locker?”

“At the end of the back wall.” She shrugs with an air of nonchalance. “I like the privacy back there.”

“Is there an open locker next to yours?” I ask.

The sound of boots scuffing across the floor catches my attention as she walks further into the room.

Taking that as an invitation to join her, I follow her lead until we reach what I assume is her locker.

The space back here doesn’t smell as strong as the entrance. Thank fuck. My nostrils needed a break.

“It looks like it’s your lucky day.” She pats her hand over the brass placard with a number fourteen on it. “This one is available.”

“I’ll take it.” I smile. “Where are we headed next?”

Her shoulders slump a fraction. It was barely enough to notice, and yet I caught it. “Atticus told me to bring you to his office after you’ve picked your locker.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lift an eyebrow at her response. “I’d rather sit in here and talk with you than see him.”

Fear. Her haunted eyes have the ability to light, but not with humor or joy. Unadulterated fear. “We should—”

“Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Lennon,” I interrupt.

I know that I shouldn’t push her. But, I need to know if this woman is trustworthy—or if she’s just a pretty snake like her husband.

Her hand touches just below her collarbone, where a sliver of blue and black ink is visible.

“There’s not much to know about me.” She sighs, dropping the fake smile from her face.

“I started working here five and a half years ago and married Atticus six months later. I have a—” Tears gather along the inner corners of her eyes, cutting what she had planned to say short.

My heart struggles to keep its pace as a weight settles over my chest. Whatever is on her mind must be heavy for her mask to crack like this. Fuck me. “Ah, hell.” Gently, I wrap my arms around her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just being a nosy bitch.”

She snorts, breaking the tension between us. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Pulling away, I flash her a genuine smile. “I would, because it’s true. I, Stevie Waters, am a nosy bitch with zero shame.”

“You’re quite honest, aren’t you?” she asks .

I nod. I’d rather people know what they’re getting into with the real me than pretend to be someone I’m not. Granted, I’m well aware that it’s a luxury that many are not allowed. However, I am. And I will absolutely make the most of it any chance I get.

“It’s refreshing.” She sighs. “The other dancers don’t like me much. I hear them talking behind my back every night.” I raise my brows, enticed by the gossip. I’m just a girl, after all. Rolling her colorful eyes, she fills me in. “They claim I stole Atticus from them. I didn’t steal anyone.”

“Petty girls don’t stand a chance against a woman.” I prop my hands on my hip and pin her with a firm stare. “Let them try and say that around me. I bite—hard.”