Page 26 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

Micah

Now

“You’re late,” Frankie singsongs as I enter the dancers’ lounge in Mischief, and his sparkly silver lips twist up in a knowing smirk when he spies the barely contained grin on my face. “And you’re all moon-eyed. You’ve been back almost a week without a word—there’s no way you’re still in vacation cruise bliss.”

My cheeks heat as his words garner some attention from the other dancers lingering between sets. I make my way to my locker and begin shimmying out of my sweats and pullover to reveal my first costume of the night, a pretty blue negligee over matching lace that happens to be the same shade as my freshly dyed hair. “No, actually. The cruise ended with a massive fight between Zeke and me,” I confess in a tone several volumes softer than his.

A few dancers give me welcome smiles and nods of greeting as they go about their business, but Karma actually trots over to give me a friendly hug. He’s our newest addition at the club, and a few of us more seasoned dancers have taken him under our wings. The pumpkin spice scent that lingers on his untanned skin, for instance, is courtesy of Ollie. The sequined top that scrapes my arms as I return his hug is one I loaned him months ago, though I never put a time limit on when he has to return it. He looks better in it than I do, so there’s no reason for me to ask for it back. When he releases me, drawing away to fiddle shyly with the hem of the sequined top, I note that the choker around his neck looks an awful lot like one Frankie has had for years.

“Hi, Mickey,” Karma murmurs in his gentle voice, low enough that I feel the urge to step closer to hear him better. “We missed you. When you didn’t come back the day you said you would, and then not the next day either . . . Well, I was worried you weren’t coming back at all.”

“Oh, Karma. I’d never leave you high and dry like that. Don’t you have my number? You could have texted me. I was just busy catching up on my day job. My boss decided to throw me a big project during my vacation for who-knows-why, so I had to get that settled before I could come back here.”

Karma’s big, tawny eyes flick downward as he gnaws the lipstick off his lower lip. “My phone broke, and I haven’t been able to aff—to make it to the store to get a new one yet. Sorry you had to work during your vacation.”

“It’s all good,” I assure him before reaching out to ruffle his messy blond hair. “Thank you, though. It sucks your phone is broken. Do you think you’ll be getting a new one soon?”

“Um . . .” He hesitates. “Maybe?” Then, as if just remembering something, he takes a step backward toward the door, thumb gesturing over his shoulder. “Actually, I have a dance waiting for me. I’ll see you in a bit.” Stumbling over his own heels, Karma hightails it out of the room and takes a left turn out the door. The direction of the private dance rooms.

I frown to myself. “Since when has he been taking private dances?”

Behind me, Frankie huffs half-heartedly. “You and your aversion to private dances. It’s good money, and he clearly needs it.”

“You know what can happen back there. I’m just worried about him. He’s so . . . innocent.” Personally, I don’t offer private dances. First because I mostly enjoy performing in front of a crowd, not an audience of one. Second because, yes, our security guards are fantastic, but they can only step in once something has happened to raise an alarm. That’s my concern for Karma. Something bad has to happen before he gets help. None of us enjoy handsy or pushy customers, but Karma is already skittish enough as it is. I don’t want to see him get hurt.

A glance over reveals an unconcerned Frankie boredly picking at his cuticles while leaning against his locker adjacent to mine. “Aren’t you the poster boy for letting people make their own decisions?”

“Well, yes, but . . .”

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he accuses, aiming a narrowed glare in my direction. “Nuh-uh. Tell me about this so-called fight you and Zeke had that led to you smiling from ear to ear when you walked in today.”

“Actually—” I begin, but an obnoxiously loud voice covers me.

“ Super rich, you know what I mean? Guy practically lets me take his wallet out of his pocket and pay myself. I’m pretty sure he’s a celebrity, too. Just haven’t figured out who exactly.” Dream isn’t paying attention as he sashays through the room in a whirlwind of vanilla perfume and—probably fake—diamonds, and his shoulder nearly slams into mine when he executes a rather dramatic hair flip. Of course, he’s talking about another customer he’s stiff-armed. It’s no secret that Dream is a shopaholic, and he makes up for the big spending by monopolizing clients and bullying them into only getting dances from him. As far as I know, none of the customers have complained, exactly, but several dancers have been put out because of him. Just the other week, Karma told us how Dream stopped him mid-dance and told him to move on without being paid because he’d already staked some type of claim on that particular client. Ridiculous.

And unfortunately, I’m pretty sure I know which celebrity Dream is bragging about.

Taking Frankie’s elbow, I drag him into an empty corner of the room so we’re more secluded, especially from Dream. “Our fight was about you,” I level with Frankie.

“ Moi ?” He places an appalled hand over his heart. “Whatever for?”

I shoot a pointed look in Dream’s direction, tipping my head. “That client he’s going on and on about? It’s Zeke. My Zeke. He’s been coming here for weeks now. It’s honestly pure luck that Dream swiped him up—you know how territorial he can be, which is probably why Zeke and I have never crossed paths here, thank fuck. But I guess Zeke saw you before we went on the cruise. He recognized you and got it in his head that you needed help getting out of here or something along those lines. Said he’d help pay if you had debt or needed money or whatever. Basically, he made it sound like you’re here because you’re desperate and have no other options. Which, as you can imagine, pissed me off. So, I blew up on him.”

Frankie’s eyes go wide in shock. “You told him you work here, too?” Of course, he isn’t concerned that someone he knows has found out he works here. He’s not ashamed and doesn’t try to hide from the outside world. He is worried about me, though. He knows how I’ve struggled with coming clean about working here.

“No, but I definitely overreacted for someone who doesn’t work here. Poor Zeke had no idea what to do when I yelled at him.”

“And that’s why you’re happy?” He cocks his head in confusion.

“No, I . . .” Just thinking about it brings a stupid, dopey smile to my face, and I stare off over Frankie’s shoulder as I recall the morning on the cruise where Zeke promised to make up for littering in the ocean and shredding my favorite skirt. “It’s the way he’s been apologizing. All week, it’s been nothing but ocean cleanup fundraiser posts and packages delivered to my apartment. I’m talking hundreds of packages filled with skirts. Literally, avant garde and couture designer skirts that cost more than my monthly rent— a piece .”

“Um, you lost me,” Frankie confesses, nose crinkling and eyes squinting as he tries to make sense of my words.

Quickly, I tell him the gist of it. The ice cream cone tossed carelessly into the unsuspecting and undeserving ocean. The skirt shredded with the promise of replacements as Zeke literally couldn’t keep his hands off me. It probably all sounds stupid and trivial to him, but God, does it mean the world to me. I knew every fundraiser post was an apologetic hug, and every new skirt delivered to my doorstep was a kiss to make it better.

And call me a sucker because I fell ass over tits for each and every penitent.

“Huh,” he says once I’ve finished gushing. “You two are . . . actually kind of adorable. That’s not good, Mickey. You’re supposed to be friends with benefits only. This feels like a lot more.”

“I—” Thankfully, before I can stammer my way through an attempted denial, my name is called from the other side of the room. Both Frankie and I look up at the familiar voice, pleasantly surprised to see who has just walked into the room. In fact, it’s such a surprise that the entire room falls silent. “Mr. Santiago. Hi.”

A chorus of greetings sounds from the rest of the dancers present, and our boss gives everyone a polite smile and small wave as he makes his way toward me and the secluded corner I’ve claimed with Frankie. Benjamin Santiago carries himself like the professional businessman he is, complete with an Armani suit, perfectly groomed face, and dark eyes that take in every minute detail of his surroundings. I’ve had a few non-lingering conversations with him in the past, but I didn’t think it was enough for him to remember my name or face. There is no doubt, however, as he heads directly to me with all the confidence of a man who owns this building and everyone inside it, that he is intent on speaking with me.

Dream shoots daggers in my direction with his harsh glare as our boss stops in front of me.

“I’m glad to see you here, Mickey,” Ben—he’s told all of us to call him Ben rather than Mr. Santiago—says once we’ve secured a bubble of seclusion around us in this far corner of the room. It’s clear he has Hispanic heritage, what with his bronze skin and dark features. He’s probably in his thirties, but he doesn’t seem weathered or aged in the least, only mature. If I wasn’t so head over heels for one man, I’d probably be drooling at the mouth like many of the other dancers not-so-subtly gawking at him. “Marcy mentioned you would be gone for a week, but I was surprised when you didn’t show up the day you were expected to return.”

Over Ben’s shoulder, I catch a wide-eyed Frankie shrinking down, shoulders and back against the lockers, before making a hastily crawled escape.

Traitor.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize despite the fact that Ben has never, not once, demanded any of the dancers at Mischief adhere to a particular schedule. We aren’t required to work a certain amount of days, shifts, or hours, and no one has ever had to answer for an extended absence other than Macy’s standard health and wellness interrogation. I technically have nothing to be sorry for, but something about Benjamin Santiago makes me want to put my best foot forward. To not disappoint him in any way. He has, after all, been nothing but generous and accepting, even going as far as to allow me to make several artworks for Mischief and a few of his other clubs. “I have a day job, and it got in the way a bit, I’m afraid.”

A wrinkle forms between his dark brows as they draw nearer. He studies my face with those interrogative eyes. “Is your work here not enough to sustain your living expenses? It’s my understanding you put in well over thirty-five hours a week here, and your rates are competitive to the other dancers. You’re one of our most requested onstage. I know you don’t partake in private dances, but those have only shown to add an additional twenty percent to the average dancer’s income. Is all well at home? If you need a loan, I hope you know you can come to me for anything. You can call or text, day or night.”

“Yes, sir,” I assure him, using an honorific I don’t usually partake in, hating to assume anything about anyone’s identity. For some reason, it just seems necessary for him. “I know. It’s . . . It’s not that.” Sighing, I lower myself onto the bench in front of my locker. I’m grateful Ben sits as well, otherwise I would have been stuck at eye level with his perfectly tailored crotch, which seems a tad awkward considering he is my employer. It should also feel awkward being dressed in lingerie while talking to my boss, but I’m used to being underdressed. Years working in a strip club will do that.

“I’m here to listen, Mickey. Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll see what we can do about it. If the job is stressing you, feel free to take more time off. Or if it’s in your best interest to retire from dancing, I can try to find you something else within my empire.”

Within his empire . God, how is this man even speaking to me right now? He’s a millionaire—possibly billionaire—who attends red-carpet events and owns nearly all the nightlife within Los Angeles. Why is he slumming it with a stripper? A stripper he knows by name, at that.

I offer him a shaky smile. “Thank you, but it isn’t that either. It’s actually . . . Well, this was never supposed to be a long-term thing. After I graduated college, I was struggling to find work, barely getting by with my own small graphic design business. I met Frankie in a pole dancing class I took for shits and giggles. He was already working here and offered to train me so I could join the club and make some money on the side to cover my expenses until the graphic art stuff kicked off. By the time I landed a decent job in the industry I wanted, I already loved dancing here too much to give it up like I intended. Also, I make over double here what I make designing artwork for the NFL network, so I haven’t felt the desire to leave Mischief. I was only gone longer than planned last week because my boss is a retaliating asshole who didn’t like who I chose to vacation with, so he gave me a burdensome assignment when I was supposed to be off work.” Snapping my mouth closed, I cast a sheepish look at Ben. I hadn’t meant to talk shit about David in front of him.

Mr. Santiago is quiet for a moment, calculating everything I said before responding. “Mickey, I hope you know that?—”

A crackle of static and a shout cuts through the room, and all eyes dart to the radio docked on the back table. It’s a simple handheld that the security guys wear at all times, except while theirs have earpieces and mics, the one in here is turned up just loud enough for us to hear if something happens within the club. We don’t know all of their lingo, and most of the time, their shift changes and playful jabs fall on deaf ears within the dancers’ room, but we know the difference between standard procedure, idle chatter, and panic.

The voice that just yelled across the radio channel sounded very, very panicked.

Ben and I both shoot to our feet, ready to spring into action as soon as we make out the words “private room” in Key’s baritone voice. We race out of the dancers’ lounge and take a sharp left toward the area where private dances are hosted. I hear another set of heels following behind us, and one look over my shoulder shows Frankie’s nervous but determined face. I’m thankful it’s him and not someone like Dream, who undoubtedly would end up making the issue about himself. Frankie and I are some of the most senior and mature dancers here tonight, so it makes sense we are the ones to respond.

And really, it could be anything. It could be a medical emergency with a patron or two clients in a fistfight.

More likely, though, a dancer is involved, and Frankie and I know that our coworkers deserve to know we have their backs.

The three of us round the corner to a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Two security guys are hauling a patron to his feet as blood drips from his nose onto the grey vinyl flooring. At the entrance to a private room, a dark purple curtain is carelessly parted by Key’s giant shoulders, and Karma is huddled into his embrace. Key’s hand dwarfs Karma’s bicep where he holds him close, his knuckles red enough to explain where the client’s broken nose came from.

“Key,” Ben addresses the beefy security guard with a business-only tone. “Tell me what happened.”

“That fucker punched me out for no good reason!” the client yells nasally from his position between Brax and Elvis. “I’m suing him and this entire club! And that bitch who took my money without giving me what I paid for!”

Karma flinches and huddles further into Key’s arms, the guard turning to put his body between the dancer and irate client. Frankie and I wordlessly approach our newest dancer to fully surround him in a protective huddle. My hand finds Karma’s, and his fingers quickly slip between mine, squeezing tight.

Fuck. This is exactly why I didn’t want him giving private dances by himself yet. Who knows what that client managed to do before Key got in there?

I know this is one hundred percent the client’s fault. One hundred percent. Karma is a people pleaser who would never take money without following through, and Key is the most straight-shooting guy on the security team. He wouldn’t have punched someone without a very, very good reason.

“Key,” Ben says again when broken-nose guy pauses to pinch off the blood flow.

The guard squares his already broad shoulders and tips his chin up like a soldier at attention. “I heard Karma tell the client that he isn’t allowed to touch the dancers. Not too long after that, I heard Karma say ‘No’ and ‘Stop,’ so I followed protocol, approached the curtain, and identified myself as security. I called into the room and asked if everything was okay. The client said, ‘All good here,’ but it took longer for Karma to say he was okay. I remained outside the curtain, and when I heard Karma cry out, I deemed it necessary for our dancer’s safety that I enter the room. Inside, I saw Karma on the ground with the client on top of him, and Karma’s wrists were pinned in the client’s hand. I acted to ensure our dancer’s safety and requested further assistance on the radio. Brax and Elvis showed up, and the client was turned over into their care per protocol, but he tried to fight them and ended up on the floor out here. I’ve observed bruises on Karma’s wrist and a defensive mark from Karma’s nails on the client’s forearm. It is my recommendation that the client be removed from the premises and be refused entry should he ever attempt to return.”

Ben turns to Brax and Elvis. “I’ll review the camera footage after closing today, but for now, please escort the client out and add him to our banned patron list. Should the recordings reveal a different story—” He addresses the client now. “—you will be notified. Expect to hear from my team within the next twenty-four hours. They will either offer an apology or serve a criminal trespass notice. Feel free to sue if you wish. Tell your lawyer to contact the Mercurial Law Firm to speak with my representatives.”

The client spits blood on the floor at Ben’s feet. “And you are?”

“Benjamin Santiago. I own this club. My lawyer will be anxiously waiting to hear from you. She’ll have the camera footage copied and ready if you seek to take this to court.” He makes a gesture of dismissal. “Remove him, please.”

Brax and Elvis immediately obey the order, and it’s only once the client is out of sight that Karma begins to sob audibly.

“I-I-I’m sorry, Mr. S-Santiago. H-He— I didn’t— And then?—”

“Shh,” Ben shushes him, gentle and reassuring. Extending a hand, he waits patiently for Karma to accept, then pulls the small dancer close. One bronze thumb rises to swipe delicately at the smudged bubblegum-pink lipstick on the corner of Karma’s mouth, and the realization that Karma had just reapplied before entering the private rooms hits me in full force. There’s only one reason the lipstick would be smeared, and that reason has just been manhandled away by two of our security guards. Fucking handsy clients in private rooms. “Pretty boy. I know you didn’t do anything wrong, Karma. How are you feeling? Should I get you a ride home for the night?”

Big eyes opening even wider than normal, Karma quickly shakes his head. “No, I need—I mean, um, I want to stay and dance some more. Please.”

“Karma, I don’t think that’s a good idea . . .” I begin in my gentlest tone.

Frankie, of course, isn’t happy to let Karma go run and hide. “Or we can double up like when you first started here,” he offers. “We can only take regulars into the private rooms, or we can stay in the main room.”

Karma blinks rapidly, gaze darting between all of us. Each of us has a different opinion, and the people pleaser inside the small dancer wants to accommodate everyone. Key stands with his arms crossed and a scowl that says he’d rather attach Karma to his chest like an infant in a pack and carry so he’d never be out of his sight. Frankie looks ready to take on the world with Karma as his wingman. I, of course, think Karma should take his time and think about what just happened to him. And Ben . . .

Our boss silently slips a sleek money clip from his pocket and holds a neatly folded, thick rectangle of money between two fingers, angling it toward Karma. “My husband, Zev, is at the first VIP booth to the left of the stage—the one with the pole available for a dancer. He’s waiting on some business associates who won’t be here until later, and I’d planned to buy him a dance anyway. He’s respectful, generous, and he cares entirely too much about everyone. He won’t lay a finger on you—not unless you ask him to.” He winks, as if the thought of his husband touching another man isn’t an issue in the slightest. “What do you say, Karma? Will you go make my husband’s night? I promise, he’s the safest option in this entire club.”

The small, young dancer stares at the stack of cash as if in a trance, and I wonder, not for the first time, how his financial situation is at home. Between always needing hand-me-downs and not being able to afford a night off, it’s concerning to think about him being all on his own.

Then again, if the intensity in Key’s glare has anything to say about it, I’m sure Karma won’t be alone anytime soon.

Fingers trembling, Karma delicately takes the money from our boss. “S-sure.”

“He’ll be very happy,” Ben assures with a satisfied smirk. “He’ll be the blond guy smiling with too many teeth when he sees that you’ll be his entertainment tonight. You’re going to drive him crazy, beautiful.”

Karma blushes as he tucks the cash away and turns for the main room, all of us watching, each of us with a different thought on our minds.