Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(17)
Ginger rarely gets snippy with me and she’s fairly private when it comes to her relationships, which means that the supply issues have started to wear on her. Unhappy customers generally mean shitty tips, and shitty tips means pissy staff. They work hard for their money.
I hold up my hands in surrender. Now that she’s negotiated this deal, backing out would guarantee an irate deliveryman and even worse service for who knows how long. “Okay, fine. But don’t ever offer anything like this again. And warn me so I can turn the cameras off, will you?” I don’t want any evidence of . . . anything. “And make sure you’ve got Ben or Nate outside that door, for safety.”
She winks. “You’re welcome.”
Shutting the cooler door on our way out, I add, “You know, I could use a full-time manager. You sure you don’t want the job?”
“I’d rather have my scalp waxed,” she says in a singsong voice, heading back toward the main bar to finish setting up. She comes up with a new clever retort each time I ask. “Oh,” she slows and throws over her shoulder, “don’t forget that Charlie’s on at eleven. Try not to act so weird again, okay?”
“Did she say I acted weird?” Not surprising if she had.
“I’m saying you acted weird. Just . . . She really wants this job.”
I nod slowly. “You okay with her on the main bar with you? I’m thinking we can use a third girl there, given how busy it’s been.”
Her full lips curve into a frown. “I thought she was looking for dancing.”
I consider how to answer this. “Only stage for now.”
Ginger narrows her eyes at me and I know she’s trying to figure my motives out. “Sure, okay. I just thought you said you weren’t hiring anyone else for the bar.”
“Yeah. I thought a lot of things yesterday.” And then Charlie strolled into my office.
Ginger shrugs. “If this busy run keeps up, we’ll definitely need Charlie.” Then those streaks of blue disappear around the corner, leaving that name hanging in the stale air between us.
Charlie.
No, I haven’t forgotten about her. She was at the forefront of my night with Vicki, she plagued the four hours of sleep that I got, she hijacked my morning workout . . .
It’s because she looks like Penny. That’s all. But she’s not Penny. She’s just another young woman who needs to make money and she’s looking to me for a job and nothing else. Whether her motives for stripping are true or not remains to be seen. The sooner I get accustomed to her, the sooner she’ll become just like all the others. Hopefully she won’t be here for too long.
And I need to keep my dick far away from her.
■ ■ ■
“The line-up’s around the corner again,” Nate says next to me, his eyes roaming the crowd.
“This is insane. I mean, it’s great for business, but . . .” I rub the side of my neck as I take in the sea of heads. Penny’s is a decent-sized club—fifteen thousand square feet of stage, V.I.P. rooms, and seating area—and we’re at capacity. According to the front door, no one has left in the past hour. Most patrons are angled toward the stage, and Mercy—a petite platinum-blond girl with big blue eyes and an ultra-skinny waist who’s real name is Annie. Some steal glances at one of a dozen flat screens showing the Marlins game. Others are busy trying to catch the eye of one of the many girls milling around the floor.
I’ve done my best to keep Penny looking upscale versus sordid. I kept the neon lights to a minimum, opting for soft lighting to balance off the stage lights instead. The floors are all mahogany, as are the bars and the stage. On the south side of the club, there’s a slightly raised V.I.P. lounge, complete with plush leather chairs and an unobstructed view of the entire stage.
Still, no matter how new and tasteful the décor is, no matter how hard the cleaning staff works, when I walk into this club, it always feel seedy to me.
“Thank God that delivery came in today or we’d be dealing with a small riot,” I mutter, more to myself.
“By God, you mean Ginger, right?” Nate’s deep laughter is a low rumble. For anyone who doesn’t know the guy, he comes across as one scary-ass dude. The stuff gangster stereotypes are made of. He certainly plays the part perfectly when he needs to.
But I knew Nate when he was the underfed, grubby little neighborhood kid, running through the streets alone at night when a child his age had no business being out in South Central. I saw the angry bruises across his cheeks, earned when Nate didn’t move fast enough to answer his strung-out mother’s demands. I saw his rib cage when he hadn’t eaten anything but a moldy loaf of bread in a week. I saw his tears on the nights when he sat confused on his back porch steps, wondering why his mom still didn’t love him like she said she would after he fetched her a dime bag of crack.
Nate has been a fixture in my life for thirteen years now. I took him under my wing, making sure he was fed, bathed, clothed, and safe. In exchange, he gave me his unwavering trust. The kid idolized me. It was always a rather strange friendship—Nate was five years younger than me, after all—but in him, I found a level of co-dependence that kept me going through those dark years after my family was killed. Taking Nate with me when I left South Central for Miami was an easy decision.
Prince’s “Cream” starts booming over the sound system. That’s Cherry’s signature song and the regular crowd knows it, exploding in a round of cheers as the exotic Asian struts out onto the stage in a silver sequined dress and heels that could gouge a person’s eyes out.