When the headlights pass and enough time has come and gone that I’m sure the coast is clear, we continue. A series of turns and alleys brings us to a strip club that pulses with music and the latent desires of its customers.
I pause for a moment.
“Why’d you stop?” she hisses from my back.
I shake my head. It’s too much to explain — memories surge through me, of Vanessa’s old life, of my old life, of all the problems we have, yet problems we shared because, as fucked up was we were, we were still both alive, together, living out our own twisted form of love — and I bite them back to answer. “No fucking reason. Let’s go.”
We make it out onto the sidewalk in front of the strip club before another pair of headlights comes around the bend. Hissing, I come to a sudden stop.
“Why the fuck are you stopping?” she snaps.
“Shut up.”
I turn my head left and right. The view to the right brings Adriana’s round ass right into view. I hiss again.
The fuck am I doing checking out her ass?
Regret disappears in a second when I realize that, even though I plan on dying, I’m not dead yet, and a nice ass is a nice ass and Adriana definitely has one.
I turn a little to give her a view of the street, and whatever angry retort was on her lips dies.
“Shit. That’s them.”
“Yes, genius, that’s them.”
I don’t wait for her to fire back; I run toward the strip club and the safety of the alley. We have to find somewhere to hide,because no matter how fast I sprint, we will not get far enough away before the Russians get into the parking lot and spot us.
My feet come to a reluctant stop in front of our only option.
“No,” Adriana says.
“We don’t have a choice. In you go,” I say, and pop the lid on the dumpster in the alley behind the strip club. The movement frees the trapped air — redolent with the thick, musty smell of old buffet grub, cigarette butts, and used towels — to assault our faces with its pungent funk. I gag. Adriana gags. I toss her in. “Don’t worry, I’m right behind you.”
Then, I jump in and slam the dumpster lid closed on top of us.
My feet are wet. My nose and eyes are both watering in rebellion. My stomach wants to vacate every meal I’ve had for the last eight years.
“I hate… I hate… you… so… much…” Adriana’s voice turns into a hacking, gurgling cough that ends with something wet and goopy smacking into my pant leg. “Fuck you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For throwing me into a strip club dumpster? I’m swimming in cum rags here. If I didn’t want to kill you earlier, I sure as fuck want to now.”
“I saved your life. Now shut the fuck up or they’ll find us.”
Mercifully, she closes her plump, perfect-for-sucking-dick lips and gives me a look so sharply hateful that it’s a wonder it doesn’t flay my skin off. Seconds turn into minutes, all passing with the thrumming bass of the strip club’s music penetrating the grime-encrusted walls of the dumpster. Within the pumping pulse of the music, there’s the sound of car doors slamming and Russian voices shouting at each other. For a moment, their shouting is cut short by a different voice — the club’s bouncer, probably — asking them what the hell they’re doing, only to end with a sudden exclamation of fear as the poor bastard realizesthat questioning a quartet of armed Russians is not beneficial to his life expectancy.
Deep in the muck, we wait.
Footsteps approach.
I clench my fists.
Voices return — shouted directions, curses, exclamations and questions about where the fuck we could have gone.
Then silence again, nothing except the sensual thud of the club’s bassline.
Adriana reaches for the dumpster’s lid, but I grab her by the wrist. She gives me another skin-flaying glare, but I hold her tight. Sure, I’d love to breathe some air that hasn’t been filtered through a cum-drenched towel, but we need to be sure those Russian assholes are gone.
