“She’s not even a dancer,” one of the other girls who’s been around for a while chimes in, sweeping her eyes over Misty.
“Are you trying to tell me how to run my club?”
A well-worded question with a little bit of heat behind it often stops all manners of bullshit, and that’s exactly what happens now.
She immediately backtracks. “No way, Winger.”
“Iwasa dancer, just like Vanity used to be a dancer. Even better, you won’t have to compete for set times with me.” Misty sends her gaze around the room. “I’ll be watching over the next few days to see what changes are needed.”
“Changes? We don’t need any changes,” another girl from the back scoffs, her hands propped on her hips. She’s one of the girls I’ve been getting complaints about.
“You need what I tell you that you need. Got it?” Misty snaps.
It’s then I decide I probably made the right choice and back out of the room. The minute the door is closed, I tip my head back and take in a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief. I want to help these girls and keep them off the streets or out of other clubs that might take advantage of them, but my patience has limits, and dealing with their daily issues is beyond that.
CHAPTER3
MAXINE
It’s been a week since I left Michael Cloven on the side of the road, and he’s already cycling out of the news. It won’t be long before his murder gets relegated to a weekly update, then disappears altogether. I was right about his family and firm wanting to keep his memory clean. The location where he was found was glossed over as if he were in the area for a fucking outreach program or something. It’s being looked into as a robbery gone wrong, just like I hoped. There’s a chance someone will make a fuss about the forensics not adding up with the scene, since any investigator worth a shit would know he wasn’t killed there, but I know there’s nothing to tie me to his murder, so I take it as another successful job done.
I click the TV off and look at the clock. I’ve been thinking about that night all week, but it’s not Cloven’s death that’s been on my mind—it’s the man from the alley. I want to know what he was doing there and why he intervened. I wonder what I would have done in his shoes. Would I have stayed in the shadows, or risked myself to help a stranger the way he did? I don’t know the answer, and it’s driving me crazy.
I’ve done a little research on the club. The website was pretty generic, so I got resourceful and found some pictures of the inside on Google. The place looks like any other strip club, with lots of dark walls with mirrors and neon lights.
I shouldn’t go back. I should stay out of the area completely, but the urge to return is so strong, I can barely focus on anything else. I’m supposed to be moving on to my new target. Edward Mitts moved to Cleveland, Ohio, three years ago. The fact that he’s out of the state makes him a perfect mark, but the mystery man has dominated my thoughts.
I’m at a crossroads. Either I leave for Cleveland tonight, or I head back into the city. I look over at the generic duffle, which is already packed with a few changes of clothes, and feel nothing, but when I think of finding the man from the alley, my heart pounds quicker at the thrill of the hunt.
Resigned, I rise to my feet, ignoring the bag, and I almost feel bad for the stranger. His good deed will certainly cost him his life since he fell on my radar. That guilt is fleeting, though, and is replaced with the knowledge that I’ll only kill him if he actually deserves it.
I strap on my bra holster and check my Glock before slipping it into the secure pocket. It almost feels strange to be using a gun that’s actually registered to me, but I don’t want to get caught with a ghost gun, and I don’t plan on killing anyone tonight, so this is only for my protection.
A quick look in the full-length mirror shows my long-sleeved shirt perfectly hides the holsters under the band of my bra and between my breasts. I’ve trained for hours to make sure my draw is flawless, and although I’m marginally faster with an appendix carry, it’s just not as easy to disguise, especially in fitted clothing.
I shuck off my leggings and opt for a pair of fitted black jeans—my standard uniform. Thick socks, even in the warm weather, are next, a must for my Docs, although they are fully broken in. Typically, I would grab a bag if I was just doing some reconnaissance, but I don’t want to carry anything, and a crossbody strap might get caught on my holster, so I put some cash and my ID—the real one—into a sticky wallet on the back of my phone. With my key fob in my tiny front pocket, I’m ready to head out the door.
Finding a lot to park in is easy downtown. This area is pretty familiar to me, since I did so much scouting to find the perfect place to leave Cloven. I’m a few blocks from the club, but it’s a warm night in the city, so the streets are busy. The Friday night fireworks from Comerica Park just ended, so it’s about to get even busier.
I use the traffic to my advantage as I walk toward the club and watch my surroundings. I told myself I wouldn’t go in, that a single female would attract too much attention at a strip club, but I already feel myself wavering.
On my second trip around the block to the north, I spot the man who’s been consuming my thoughts. He’s talking to the doormen standing in front of the club, looking very comfortable in his environment. I assumed he was affiliated with the club, considering he acted like he had every right to be in that alley, but it still feels lucky to have spotted him so soon.
A slick G-Wagon pulls up to the front of the club and stops near the door, blocking my view. When it pulls away to glide into a vacant spot right at the front of the lot, I notice my mark has disappeared.
A man exits the Mercedes, his eyes scanning the area in a way that’s as familiar to me as breathing. He’s a predator, always ready. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, his smooth gait, and the bulges under his arms. He’s strapped and not even trying to hide it.
The doormen all give him nods of respect and step back as if he needs more room to pass through the door, then my mark pushes the door open from the inside and greets the newcomer with placid features. There’s no show of friendship or acquaintanceship, but the comfort in which they move by each other says differently. There’s an unspoken trust there that others might not notice, but I do.
Once they are inside, I move a little closer to the club, getting a good look at the plate on the expensive vehicle and those around it. I don’t know if any belong to my mark, but it’s worth a try.
The doormen don’t seem to be paying me much mind, or anyone else walking around for that matter. They seem more concerned with the immediate area around the club, so I’m a little surprised when one of them breaks off and heads toward the alley where my original encounter with my mark took place. He’s only gone for a few moments, and then he returns and takes up the same position, leaning on a stool while chatting with the man across from him.
Knowing I’m breaking my own rules by just standing around, I head into a small diner kitty-corner to the club and take one of the booths near the window. The glass is grimy with grease, obscuring the outside world, but I can still make out the men who exit the club and see the lot.
I order a coffee and a plate of chili cheese fries that I know I’m not going to be able to eat much of. I may miss something when I’m in the bathroom with gut issues, but I’m weak when it comes to denying myself—further proof of why I’m here.
Sadly, the fries are delicious, which makes it even harder to only have a few. I play with my phone and drink coffee for the next hour before anything of interest happens. Expensive Taste leaves the club in a slow stroll, but my mark is nowhere to be seen. I hang out for another half hour, then decide I need to go before I become too memorable, even though the waitress doesn’t seem interested in me at all. I leave a fair tip for taking up the table for so long, but nothing that will make me stand out.
