CHAPTER ELEVEN
*Lace*
Lights.
Camera.
Action.
I plaster on a smile — the no fail, money making one — and walk the planked hallway, ensuring an extra hard clack of my tall platforms with each step.
Reece fell asleep while I magically transformed myself from a cinder maid into a princess, erotic edition. Where the ballroom is a strip club, the cast is an eerie blend between the evil stepsisters and the seven dwarfs, and the dwarfs double as huntsmen.
The only thing that poor cinder maid and I have in common, other than a desire to break our chains, is always having to choke down the smoke and clean up the ashes left behind by others with the hope that no lingering embers burn and scar us in the process.
Vincent is the culprit this time, the literal ashy tip of his joint on the precipice of spilling onto the hardwood floor as he stares off toward the bar with a faraway, dull look in his typically bright-blue eyes.
I worked up the courage to walk out here, head held high, only for the first Hell for Leather member who crosses my path to cripple me without even trying. Vee barely registers my presence when I swipe up the ashtray Reece dropped last night and balance it on his knee just in time for it to catch the long line of ash when it falls.
The fact he refuses to make eye contact is unsettling and challenges my ability to remain composed. His glazed expression says everything yet nothing.
Was the trigger pulled after all?
Did Vee kill my father?
Forcing myself to move on, I jerk my narrowed focus away from him and simply perform a quick scan of everyone else rather than lingering on any one person.
Tit for Tat is full. With so many people in the building, dancers and brutish men alike, the room feels a hell of a lot smaller. A sweat breaks out in beads down my spine, and I twist my fingers together to keep from fanning myself.
My brief survey is enough to form a pretty fair speculation about the guys: Reece is the only person getting any beauty sleep as of late if the collectively glassy eyes and weak postures coming from the Hell for Leather crew are any indicator. Having the “ugly lights” on, as opposed to our very forgiving soft lighting, does the men no favors, each beam acting as a dead, cold finger pointing right at the dark bags under their eyes.
The harsh fluorescents overhead expose every bit of grime and dust on the stage, too — such a stark contrast to the seductive, hazy ambiance patrons experience. Well-acquainted with the filth that is my life, I lean against the edge anyway and continue following the burbling brook of my musings while everyone else chitters and chirps.
My focus briefly finds Zane. He is an exception to the previous speculation, of course; his brown-gray irises are bright and lively. Thanks to me, the sleep he got last night was probably the best and deepest he has had for a long while.
Last but not least, whether or not Kal looks as rough as the rest of his crew is yet to be determined. As usual, Kaldon Griggs, the scary troll, appears to be elsewhere. Hiding under his bridge, sitting in as the manager on duty, I presume.
After all, someone in a leadership position had to officially open the saloon and let everybody in. Any other day, I would have had to wait outside right along with them in order to keep up the pretense that only those in management have a key. But with Zane already here, having obviously obtained a key himself, at least that was one less thing to worry about this morning.
Come to think of it, Stoney and Foster being MIA so frequently these past couple days is a little concerning. The Rolling Stones have control of the area — and Tit for Tat — yet are asserting absolutely no dominance whatsoever. According to Coty, they even had a prospect acting as manager when HFL stormed in. I was already on the floor working, so the swap escaped my notice, but as far as I know, that was the last time the Rolling Stones made any sort of move other than to defend themselves against the brawl HFL instigated at the Kick-Start Party.
Kal and his officers should take note and seriously consider turning on some figurative fluorescents to uncover the dirt Stoney and his men are undoubtedly up to.
Eh, but who am I for my opinion to matter? Nothing more than temporary entertainment. Certainly not someone with smart, valid thoughts who should be taken seriously.
A sharp whistle dams my stream of thoughts. Assuming the slap on the wrist came from Coty, who is holding up the wall surrounding the DJ booth, I cast my attention toward him. When my eyes find his, though, he breaks the connection before it can even come close to binding, his gaze avoiding mine and dropping to the floor. Last time I got a good look at his face, he had a puffy jaw from the hit he took at the brawl. Now, in addition to that blossoming bruise, a raw scrape runs from his cheekbone, around the outside of his eye, and up to his temple.
The clearing of a throat from the opposite side of the room has my attention bobbing away from Coty and toward the hallway.
Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Kal decided to show his face after all.
Remembering that his presence often comes with consequences, my snarky inner amusement zaps away in the next instant. The feminine conversations flowing around me as everyone waits for the meeting to start blasts through my dazed fog. A rush of panic jolts me into action, and I yank my phone from my pocket and open the video app.
Seeing Reece asleep and safe, my knees get wobbly and vision goes a little wavy for a couple thundering heartbeats, but I quickly clear the murky panic with a rapid shake of my head and address the group. “Mornin’ ladies and gents.”
The room goes quiet except for the familiar, quiet whir of a spinning pole. All attention floats over to the stage tucked away in the far corner of the room. Brodi sits beside the pole alternating between gripping it, jerking it into a spin, and getting lost in the blurred mirrory reflection. Over and over again.
Scanning the room for Jess, I continue. “We have quite the busy extended weekend ahead! Booth setup is in roughly half an hour, so I guess we better get this rodeo started. Jess picked up the outf—”