Rat slides down in his chair, but he mutters, “Leaves us to do all the fuckin’ work while he’s off chasing pussy.”
Paint’s eyes open wide. “Like you might have to actually work the floor for once, and not spend all your time in the stripper’s dressing room?”
“Or get head out back,” Stalker adds.
“Fuckin’ pick on me, why don’t you?” Rat looks around the table for support. He gets none. But he does get Bullseye’s sharp eyes on him.
After a beat, Bullseye states, “We’ve all got jobs. Don’t expect anyone to slack on them. As for Freak? He’s given his all to the club. I can’t fuckin’ remember when last he took any time off.”
To my relief, his comments are met by a general raising of chins in my direction. Well, except for one, but that’s to be expected.
“Any other fuckin’ business?” Prez raises the gavel.
It’s Saturday night. Brothers all have shit they’d prefer to be doing, so there’s no back-and-forth chat, and no one offers any topics for discussion. There’s, thankfully, no meaningless questions. The meeting finishes, and all brothers disperse.
Unlike many of my brothers, I won’t be fucking or drinking tonight. I plan to get on the road to Flagstaff early the next morning. But I do have to do my job, so I follow Paint, Rattler, and Stalker out to our bikes, and, with Stalker and me taking the lead, we ride to Royals.
This time when I enter, the place is full to the rafters, and I’m glad I’ve come to give my brothers a hand. There are not one, not two, but three fucking bachelor parties in, which are always a hotbed for trouble. The groom usually thinks he’s entitled, just due to his getting wed, either the next day or soon. His behaviour can range from insisting on being served first at the bar to having a last fling with any dancer he likes. Which is fine, as long as the girl is willing. It’s a fucking pain in the ass when she’s not – often needing us to step in and explain, in whatever way necessary, that he can’t have everything he wants. If we’re lucky, it only needs a few choice words to persuade him.
Grooms, groomsmen, and friends always drink far too fucking much. Most of the dancers are, well, I won’t say they’re happy to, but they tolerate giving lap dances for the extra cash. But drunks are likely to get overly handsy, and we need to keep one person full-time watching the footage from the security cameras in each of the private rooms. As well as having menclose to teach them whatever lesson they’ve earned, depending on how far the mistreatment has gone.
If it’s not lap dances or monopolising one of the girls for sex, then they’re trying to pull a dancer off stage, or getting up on it and trying to help get her clothes off. So extra security is needed close by there as well to keep the girls safe.
And then there’s always one skinny, nerdy motherfucker who can’t hold his drink. Puking in the heads is one thing, but often they can’t get that far before they throw up. The servers and bouncers have to double as cleaners on rowdy nights like this.
It’s still relatively early, and a quick glance around shows none of the groups are, as yet, three sheets to the wind. Looking toward the bar, I see Stalker gesticulating to Meat and the other bouncers assembled around him, giving them their instructions. His eyes constantly survey the room, and when he catches me looking, he raises his hand. I lift my chin. Yeah, he’s aware of the possible problems just as much as I am, and is doing what he can to preempt trouble.
Are you starting to get the idea that my brothers and I hate Saturday nights and bachelor parties?
And don’t even ask me about the bachelorettes. The girls who think they’ll walk on the wild side and have their party in a strip club. After a few cocktails, they’re trying to pull the dancer away from the pole so their drunken selves can have a go on it themselves. Well, there are normally a couple of them that try that, while the others are screaming at the top of their lungs, encouraging them on. And then the bachelors decide what the bachelorettes are doing is a fucking good idea.
All this while the houseful ofnormalcustomers are getting agitated because they’re not getting the show they came to see and paid the table cover for.
You see where I’m going? It’s what we get for running a strip club with a reputation where anything goes. It does bring us inmoney, but it can be a pain in the ass as well. Especially on Saturday night, and when, as I noticed riding in tonight, it’s a full moon.
Even as I think about it, I see the place livening up. As I put in my earpiece, I’m satisfied it’s all hands on deck, with the bouncers spread out around the room. Rattler, Paint, and Stalker come over to join me.
“You got your ears on?” I ask.
The three of them nod, and Rattler’s expression as he spies the various parties shows that in this, at least, we’re of the same accord. To give him his due, when there’s a need to have all hands on deck, he shows up. Though he does complain about it.
Suddenly Rat’s eyes narrow. “Who the fuck’s that?”
Grimacing, I notice who he’s talking about. Employing the voice I use when I want to suggest I’ll hear no argument, I respond, “That’s the new girl, Amethyst, Amy…no…” I correct, “Ames. It’s her first night.”
“She’s going to get fuckin’ slaughtered,” Paint observes. His grin suggests he’s looking forward to the show.
“And there we go.” Stalker chuckles as the night’s split by a piercing scream.
Followed by a loud, obnoxious voice shouting, “Fuckin’ bitch.”
We all look at each other, then Rattler shrugs. “I’ve got this.” He leaves us and makes his way over to one of the bachelor parties who’d obviously thought Ames was part of the deal.
“Send her home,” Stalker suggests.
I take the opportunity to glance at my phone, ostensibly to check the time, but I also note the lack of messages I’m hoping to receive. “She’s near the end of her shift. You deal with her, Stalk.”
“Want me to tell her not to come back?”
