G-Men: The Series (13 page)

“Not much,” I admitted. “All I know is that he totally fascinates me, despite the age difference.”

“How old is he?”

“I’m not sure. I’d guess mid-to-late twenties, maybe.”

“Seriously, that’s the least of your worries, Sam. He’s a biker in a gang, a notorious one at that.”

“They aren’t called gangs, Bec. They’re a
club
.”

“Whatever,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “The point is that you’re literally flirting with danger. It’s unsafe. Are you telling me the truth about this being the first time ever that Jack physically abused you?”

“Of course. Why would I lie?”

“Okay. So now that you’ve told me all of this, do I get to have an opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Am I allowed to verbalize it?”

I nodded at her, rolling my eyes.

“I think you need to take Slate’s advice and quit that job for your own safety. I fully support whatever you decide. I seriously hope you leave that bastard you married, and find a life somewhere in-between.”

“In between what?”

“In between that “Stepford Wife” existence you’ve lived for the past nineteen years and the “Easy Rider” life you’ve got going on now.”

“I
knew
you wouldn’t understand,” I said, rolling my eyes at her once again.

“I
do
understand, Samantha. I understand that your marriage is a farce and that you realize that now. But this isn’t the answer, you know?”

I remained silent…getting my sulk on.

“Hey, I’m all for you being with a younger guy, if that’s what you want, but get rid of Jack first. Don’t enter a new relationship with the old baggage still attached. I also think you need to find a different type of guy. Do you really see yourself with a member of the Outlaws? I think that’s something that spawned from the fact that you never got to be a teenager. You never got to go through that phase where bad-boys were all that attracted you.”

“Oh, and like
you
did?” I asked incredulously. “You’ve been with George,
forever
.”

“We met in college, Sam, and not until my junior year. My freshman and sophomore years? Hey, I was all about dating the bad-boys. You were happily ensconced in your imaginary Stepford life of bliss. We didn’t talk much, but I was dating some real losers.”

“Yeah? So why am I just now hearing about it?”

“Wasn’t one of my proudest moments, those couple of years,” she replied. I could tell she was thinking back on them now.

“How bad were they?”

“Well, let’s see. They were all
townies
, of course. Most of them were high school drop-outs. The first one I dated was Ritchie. God, we were together for like six months. He’d self-tattooed his body in places that shouldn’t ever have tattoos. He had the names of every person he’d ever fucked tattooed on his body.”

“No shit?”

“Yep,” she said, shaking her head. “I used to find new ones all the time. The day I found the name “Marvin” tattooed on his left thigh was the day I knew it was over.”

“Oh my God!”

“After that came Butch. He worked at a gas station near campus. I loved his sultry, pouty, chip-on-the-shoulder look. He was great in the sack, too. We did it every way and everywhere. Once we did it in the cemetery during a full moon. That was totally erotic. I used to tell my roommate in the dorm all of the lurid details. She thought I was making it all up. One night, I got back early from a night class, and I found Butch doing my roommate in our dorm room.”

“My God, Becky. I had no clue.”

“So you see what I’m saying though, right? With some girls, going out with bad boys is like… . . . a rite of passage. You never got yours, Sam. I’m just saying it’s ludicrous to think that I would’ve ever
married
one of those idiots. It was just a phase.”

“So, you think my attraction to Slate is
my
postponed bad-boy rite-of-passage phase?”

“I think so, Sam, but it’s something that you’ll likely need to do in order to get it out of your system.”

“Then you wouldn’t like
disown
me as a BFF if I did?” I couldn’t believe that I was even considering it. I’d never considered cheating on Jack. Ever. I mean I was certain that Jack was cheating now with Susan; and maybe he had in the past as well, but still two wrongs and all that jazz didn’t give me a free pass. Still - there was just something about . . . Slate.

“Honey, you don’t need my permission to fuck some young bad-boy. I’m just saying you need to be careful. He comes from a whole different world than my college bad-boys.”

^{chapter 14}

I felt like a giddy teenager as I prepared for my Tuesday shift at the club. I took extra care with my waxing for my first night back since Jack had hit the road again.

I packed another new dance outfit in my garment bag for tonight. It was a silver-sequined cutout, one-piece monokini swimsuit. The cutout was in front and the sparkly material only covered the barest of necessities.

I’d been getting Brazilian waxes over the past month. That was one reason I was glad Jack hadn’t wanted sex. He definitely would’ve wondered about my baldness down there, not that he ever really
looked
at what he fucked.

Jack had never cared for being the provider of oral sex. He enjoyed the recipient role only. He was a taker and always had been. Tonight, I was in the mood for both.

Margo was happy to see me back. She said that no one knew why I hadn’t been in last week. That was her way of prying it out of me. I simply told her I needed a break to take care of some personal business. She fussed over my hair and make-up; styling my long-tressed wig into an exotic bunch of loose curls that framed my face. She added matching extensions to it, so it went down nearly to my waist.

I got into my 4-inch spiked heels and added my silver grip gloves that were attached to wrist cuffs.

“Has Slate been in?”

“Yep. I saw him in last Friday with that wild bunch. He was sitting with Slash, that fucking dirtball.”

“Slate?”

“No, Slash. I hate that mother-fucker for what he is and does. Don’t get me started on that fuckin’ pill pusher.”

I honored her request. It wasn’t often I saw Margo get that steamed up about someone.

Opal came in just then. “You’re up, Diamond.”

“Thanks,” I said, handing Margo her money. “See you in a few.”

My first dance was dancer’s choice for the music. I’d told Kevin I wanted “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” by John Mayer for my first dance. It was a slow, sensual song. I loved the lyrics. It was my message to Slate. I prayed that my bad boy was out there. I heard the first chords to the song start as I slipped onto the stage.

There he was, sitting along the side of the stage where my dance was being performed. There were four or five others with him, all in the signature leather jackets and colors of OMC. He did a double-take when Kevin announced me as I walked out. Whoever was sitting next to him let out a low growl as I danced seductively for Slate. His face darkened. He was pissed. Even from where I was, I could see the muscle in his cheek twitch.

Oh, shit…

I didn’t take my eyes from Slate. Even when his buddy tossed several bills on the floor in front of me, ordering me to bend down and pick them up, I kept my eyes on him.

Typically, the money was put in a large glass jar on the side. This biker asshole was trying to make a point. I wasn’t going for it. It wasn’t about the money for me; it’d always been about the dance. I was the only one that knew that.

I continued my graceful, seductive moves, taking the pole and doing slow, sensual slides, wrapping my leg around it, and twirling to the melodic music of this song meant for Slate and no one else.

The biker dude that had tossed the money was starting to get a bit louder, more obnoxious. I noticed his denim vest had quite a few emblems on it. Maybe he was the big kahuna. One patch was of a skull and crossed pistons. The top read “Outlaws” and the bottom portion read “Fort Wayne.” There was another patch on the front that was a white diamond-shaped emblem trimmed in red that had “1%” on it.

I wondered if the Indianapolis chapter was hosting visitors from Fort Wayne this evening. I certainly didn’t appreciate the guy’s big mouth. He was getting pissed that I hadn’t interrupted my dance to bend over and pick up the handful of twenty-dollar bills he’d tossed on the runway.

“Come on, baby,” he yelled. “Bend over and pick up the cash. We want to see some tits!”

I tried my best to ignore the comment. I didn’t want it to throw my rhythm off. I could see Slate’s demeanor worsening by the second. What had started out to be my dance for Slate was turning into a free-for-all with the barbs and cat whistles amongst the group.

“Come on, Bunny! We want to see if those are bolt-on’s you got there!”

I’d taken all of the lip I was going to from this ass-trap. I didn’t give a shit what type of violent, abhorrent behavior he was capable of unleashing. The freakin’ bouncers weren’t addressing the issue, and they sure as hell needed to! They were probably intimidated. I could see Slate saying something to the loud mouth right now.

Fantastic. Now Slate’s jabbing his finger into the dude’s chest…

I strained to hear over the music what was being said. Finally, I heard motor mouth give Slate a half-assed apology.

“Chill, Slate. I didn’t know the chick was your Betty, man.”

Who in the hell is Betty?

I was never so grateful for a song to be over. I hurried off the stage behind the curtain. I saw Garnet in the chair getting ready. She smirked as I walked by to the restroom. I found a stall and sat on the commode. I was shaking. I’d been humiliated out there. I’d been treated like female trash by that loud-mouthed, piece-of-shit biker from Fort Wayne.

I stayed hidden in the stall, licking my wounds when Margo finally poked her head in and asked if I was okay.

“I’m fine.”

“Uhh, well Kevin came back looking for you. Slate bought a private drink for you.”

“Tell Kevin to return his money. I’m not having a drink with that S.O.B.”

“Diamond, you know how Janine feels about turning those down. It’s a lot of money for the club.”

“Hells bells, I’ll pay it out of my tips then, Margo. I’m not going back out there until my next number.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, soothingly. “I’ll pass the word along to Kevin.”

Forty-five minutes later with my pride semi-intact, I went out to wait behind stage for my next number. I heard Kevin announce the next song was a request for Diamond. It was “Bad Girlfriend” by the group Theory of a Deadman.

Shit. I knew it was Slate. This song was something else, difficult for pole-dancing for the style that I liked because it was loud and fast; there was no pause or smooth transitioning. He’d done this to punish me. I wasn’t sure if it was for not quitting the club, or for refusing his private drink.

I took the stage and immediately saw his eyes burning into me. He regarded me coldly. It was as if I’d somehow humiliated him and now it was payback time. I swallowed nervously as I took the stage. I tried like hell to keep up with the beat of the song. I was distracted by him and the others.

As I descended the pole in a fast, upside down twirl, I saw Slate toss a one-dollar bill on the floor next to me. His eyes looked at me in pure anger.

Tossing a one-dollar bill at a dancer was the worst kind of insult. It was along the lines of leaving a penny as a tip for a server. It sent the message to the recipient that he or she was a piece-of-shit. That was Slate’s message to me.

I felt the tears well up in my overly made-up eyes. He expected me to pick it up. That was the price for his forgiveness. I somehow understood that without having to be told. I was expected to acknowledge his insult so that he could save face with the rest of his biker cronies.

What the hell?

I climbed the pole and arched my back doing a downward spiral. My arms were free, and as I neared the bottom, I picked up the dollar bill. I looked at Slate and saw the smug look of satisfaction cross his face. In that instant, I hated his guts. His comrades seemed pleased with his dismissive treatment of me. The big mouth from Fort Wayne was clapping him on the back as he downed his beer.

Fuck them all and the bikes they rode in on.

Blessedly, the song was over. I went back stage and asked Opal if she would cover my last dance for the night. I gave her fifty bucks to do it.

I went to the locker room and quickly got out of my costume and into my jeans and sweater. I pulled my new Ugg sweater boots on and got my purse and jacket out. I was outta there.

Hopefully, there was a bus due shortly. I slipped out of the back door and ran across the parking lot towards the corner where the bus stopped. I was nearly there when I felt strong arms grab me from behind.

I started to scream before a hand clamped firmly over my mouth, and I was hauled over to the sidewalk near the curb. I recognized Slate’s pick-up truck. I saw the lights flash as the remote was activated, unlocking it. I was in Slate’s arms, I realized now. That didn’t make it any less scary for me.