“If she’s out here naked your ass is mine.”
She isn’t naked, but pretty close. She and Jimmi are on one of Pirouette’s three stages along with a few professionals who are “coaching” them. Bristol’s blue dress lies in a crumpled mound of silk at her feet, leaving her in a nude-colored strapless bra and matching thong. She’s a hair from naked, and all the guys clustered around the base of the stage are salivating for that last hair to fall out. Jimmi isn’t much better, also in bra and panties.
By the time Amir and I make it to them, one of the guys with a hundred dollar bill clutched in his fist has his other hand wrapped around Bristol’s leg. Fury erases caution and discretion. I grab him by the shoulder and shove him to the side.
“Get your damn hands off her.” The guttural growl of my voice barely registers above Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop” blasting through the system.
“Nigga, who you think—”
The anger melts away from his face, morphing into a wide grin. “Grip!” He reaches to dap me up. “You did it tonight, dawg. And that song ‘Bruise’ you got out is deep. You telling our story, bruh.”
“Uh, thanks.”
With a curt nod, I reach up and grab Bristol’s hand. I can only hope Amir has made more progress with Jimmi.
“Bristol, get your ass off that stage,” I yell up at her.
She tugs at her hand, glazed eyes squinting down at me.
“No.” Her other hand goes to the front closure of her bra. “I’m trying to get this thing off. It won’t . . .”
She looks so confused by the uncooperative clasp, pouting and frowning down at her fingers that don’t seem to want to work properly.
“I can do it,” she yells at me. “Just give me a sec.”
“Fuck this.” I scramble onstage, pull the chambray shirt over my head, not bothering to unbutton it. “Bris, put this on. We’re getting out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she slurs, pointing a loopy accusatory finger at me. “You fired me. Asshole.”
I pull the shirt over her head, shoving her arms through the sleeves. I bend at the knees and haul her over my shoulder, ignoring her pounding on my back. Fortunately, a few “amateurs” were onstage trying their hand at stripping, so most people weren’t paying as much attention and were focused on the main stages. Hopefully, I was able to stay under the radar as much as possible and none of this will land in tomorrow’s news cycle.
I make my way through the crowd back toward the dressing room, Bristol still bouncing against my back. Farther down the hall, Amir has Jimmi propped up against the wall. Like me, he had to sacrifice his shirt, and we face each other, both wearing wife beaters and jeans.
“Does Jimmi not have security with her?” I ask.
“She said no, but she isn’t exactly reliable right now.” A tiny beaded clutch looks incongruous in Amir’s beefy hands. “I found a valet ticket in her purse, so looks like she drove.”
“You take her home, and I’ll get Bristol to her place.” “You sure? I don’t know if I should leave you.”
The skepticism on his face is like a straw breaking the camel’s back of this night.
“I grew up same place as you, Amir.” I hitch up my wife beater to show him the 9mm tucked into my waistband. No way I’d be in a club like this without it. “I’m strapped, same as you. You may be on the payroll to shadow me, but don’t forget who you’re dealing with. Now, you get Jimmi home. I’m pretty sure I can make it to Bristol’s house without getting jacked.”
He nods and starts herding Jimmi toward the private exit. By the looks of Jimmi’s face, he’ll be lucky if she doesn’t vomit on his bright white Nikes before it’s all said and done. With Bristol still slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, upside down with as much liquor as she’s consumed, I’m surprised she hasn’t vomited down my back already. She’s gone quiet and still. She may have passed out.
I carefully bend and flip her back, sliding her down my body until she’s pressed to my chest, my arms folded at the small of her back to keep her upright. Her hands go to my shoulders, and she slumps against me.
“Bris,” I say softly, saving the anger urging me to lambast her ass for later when she’ll remember it. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”
“No.” She shakes her head, the burnished hair tangling around her shoulders and over her eyes. “It’s fun. Don’t . . . don’t wanna go.”
“Bristol,” I say firmly, glaring down at her. “We’re leaving right now.”
“It’s fun,” she whispers, her face crumpling and tears rolling over her smooth cheeks. “I’m having so much fun. Can’t you see I’m having fun?”
Still in my arms, she drops her head into the curve of my neck and shoulder. Her tears rain over me, dampening my skin, and her heaving sobs jackhammer my heart. I rub her back in soothing strokes.
Dammit, I can’t take Bristol’s tears, not even the drunk ones. “Hey, it’s okay.” I try to pull her back so I can see her face, but she presses closer.