Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(35)
He stands there, raising his eyebrows, and hesitates a moment, delaying so long I’m close to losing my temper. Music is thumping wildly not far from my head, some eighties hair-band song, pouring sugar on a cherry pie or some equally metaphorical food-inspired bullshit.
“I think you ought to leave,” the man says. “Amello doesn’t entertain folks that don’t have appointments.”
“He’ll make an exception for me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because he isn’t going to like what happens if he doesn’t.”
It must sound like a threat, because the guy reacts as such, uncrossing his bulging arms as he takes a step toward me, like he expects me to balk. I raise an eyebrow, just daring him to lay a finger on me, when a voice cuts through the tension, shouting over the music. “Darrell, its fine. I’ll see him.”
Ah, ol’ Mello Yello, the yellow-bellied motherf*cker. I turn, seeing him standing in the doorway to an office beneath the DJ booth. He eyes me warily, probably wondering why I came here.
I waltz past him, right inside. Amello clears his throat, saying, “leave us,” to a pair of guys. They vacate the office and Amello shuts the door, hesitating there, like he’s nervous to be alone with me. Probably ought to be.
“Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,” I mutter, strolling across the office, around his desk. There’s a wall full of monitors broadcasting live, showing every nook and cranny of the club, women performing acts not meant for innocent eyes. “Kissed the girls and made them cry.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting down behind his desk, ignoring my teasing. Smart.
“Why? Am I not welcome?”
“Didn’t say that. I was just wondering what brought you here tonight.”
“Good question,” I say, my gaze scanning the monitors, stalling on one near the top, a view of a dim hallway. A woman saunters through it, leading a man toward an isolated back room. I can’t see her face, but I recognize the rest of her.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you want, Scar?”
I kind of want to kill him. Not even going to lie. But at the moment I just want him to shut the f*ck up so I can watch her in silence. That’s not going to happen, though. No, he’s too nervous. He fidgets and huffs and shifts around in his chair, waiting for an explanation for my presence.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot, Georgie,” I say, watching as Scarlet leads the man out of the hallway. I scan the other screens until I find her again.
It’s a perfectly square room, a small platform in the center, a pole jutting out of it and connecting to the ceiling. A deep leather lounging couch takes up the back as mirrors line the walls surrounding it. Besides that, a few wayward leather chairs are shoved aside, and a small bar runs along the left, red lighting consuming the room.
Scarlet glows... well... scarlet. There’s no other way to describe how the color tints her skin. She’s stunning, bathed in red, just like I knew she would be.
A smile lifts my lips as I turn to Amello. He’s lucky, so damn lucky, and the son of a bitch doesn’t even know it.
“I don’t take well to being called names,” I say. “Nor do I appreciate having my reputation called into question. I didn’t rob you. Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. So you can take your ten percent and shove it up your ass, because I’ve got no use for your measly pennies. But I like to think I’m a reasonable man, so I’ve decided to let it go this time, because I figure, you know, maybe you just don’t know any better, but you’ll learn, if you know what’s good for you, and it won’t happen again. You got me?”
He glares at me. He isn’t happy, that’s for damn sure, but he’s got me. He’s not a complete idiot.
“What would you think,” he asks, “if you were me?”
“I’d think I had something somebody wanted,” I say, my gaze flickering back to the surveillance monitor. How true that is… but it’s not his money I’m after.
I find myself wanting the beautiful bendy brunette that’s working in this shithole.
“We can be friends, you and I... but that’s a choice only you can make,” I tell him. “If you don’t want to be my friend, you don’t have to be. But I learned long ago there are only two kinds of people in this world, so if you’re not my friend, Georgie? I guess I’ll have to count you among my enemies.”
I walk out, saying nothing else. He glares at me, having no rebuttal. What’s there to say, anyway? Nothing.
The club is loud, the music still thumping, some techno bass bullshit without any words now. Blinding disco lights flash, the girl on the main stage swinging around a pole, wearing reflective material, like a cracked-out gymnast.
I’ve got nothing against strippers. Really, I don’t.
I’ve got nothing against prostitutes, either. You do you.
But I do have something against people who can’t even function without shooting something into a vein, without snorting something up their nostril. I spent the first half of my life under the care of someone more cocaine than woman. The agitation, the erratic behavior, the nosebleeds. My mother blew out her septum when I was just a kid, had plastic surgery more than once to try to hide the evidence. I can spot an addict a mile away thanks to her, and the woman on the stage? Cracked-out, without a doubt.