Taboo Unchained(8)
Hmm.
Perhaps 'gentlemen's club' wasn't the right term for this shit hole.
“Hey baby.” I ignore the puckered lips of an old stripper, doing my best to keep the distaste from flickering across my face. Based on the woman's tired eyes and the deep frown lines framing her mouth, that's certainly the last thing she needs. Life has not thrown Miz-E many bones. I stare at the hideous butchery of the English language flashing at me from her glittering necklace and attempt a smile.
She comes undone completely.
“You know, I don't normally do private dances, but for you, I'd make an exception.” When she reaches down and cups my junk, my hand wraps her wrist reflexively and squeezes tight. Miz-E's fingers open up as I pinch her tendons between my nails.
“I'm certain you're used to being touched without your permission and for that, I'm sorry.” I release the stripper's long fingers, cringing at the broken pink paint on her faux nails. My green eyes find her blue ones and hold tight. I watch her unravel beneath my gaze. “But I don't like to be fondled like a toy.” I step away from the longing look and the desperate parting of lips. There's no true darkness in Miz-E. Sadness, melancholy, pain, but no darkness. It takes a special type of person to nurse my kind of hurt.
I wade into the sea of round tables and stained velvet settees, taking great care not to touch anything. My lip twitches. All around me, men sit slumped at tables. Hardly any of them are even interested in the girls. This breeding ground of filth attracts a different sort of folk at this early hour of the day. The college kids and the businessmen don't show up until it gets dark outside.
Mark sits near the stage, leaning back against a torn cushion and nursing a beer. His weak eyes waver with unbridled lust as he sizes up the dancer swinging her hair in a lazy circle. She's not even smiling, but Mark doesn't seem to care. He lifts up his hand and offers a wad of bills – most likely in ridiculously small denominations – and waits for the girl to move towards him, shaking her tits and snatching the money without even a flicker of joy, real or otherwise, in her tainted expression.
I stalk across the room and slide into the seat next to Mark, feeling his eyes flicker over to me in an instant. He doesn't recognize me which I find amusing. I threatened his life yesterday evening, and he doesn't have a fucking clue. I grit my teeth tight and feel a muscle in my jaw twitch.
“Trying to scam on my tips?” he asks, looking down his nose at me like I'm the scum of the earth. “That's pretty low, man. Even for this crappy joint.” Mark scoffs and reaches into his pocket again, re-emerging with more bills.
I consider starting up a conversation, working my way into Mark's good graces, but then, what fun is that? I simply want to become a fixture in his life today, a shadow that's omnipresent, nonthreatening, unimposing. Silent. I smile.
Mark doesn't notice; he's too busy ogling the stripper's breasts. As infuriating as that is, I force myself to lean back and accept it. That's okay. I'm like a lion, stalking its prey through the grasses of Africa. I sit and wait, fielding texts from my clients as I spend a lazy day fighting off strippers with well-placed smiles and carefully bare rejections.
A few hours in, Mark gets up and follows Miz-E into a back room. I wait until they retreat inside one of the velvet covered doors and lean against it, listening to the sounds of a not-so-exclusive performance. Oh, Miz-E, you lied through your crooked, yellow teeth. She'd make an exception for me? I'd have been a treat, a soothing balm on that woman's soul. But I'm not in the business of providing charity.
A sparse few minutes after they've begun, Mark is done with Miz-E, strutting from the room with the same false swagger I threw on to walk in here. Amusing. I stand in the corner near the bathrooms and manage to trail Mark out of the strip club and down the street before he realizes he's being followed.
A quick glance over the shoulder proves to me that Mark is aware of my presence, acknowledging me with a scowl and the brush of his fingers down his scraggly facial hair. I don't yet have a plan to deal with Mark when I finally do decide to pounce, but my inner darkness can be quite beautiful when given artistic license. I respond to Mark's glare with a nod of my chin and pull out my cell, letting him know that yes, I see that he sees me, but that I don't particularly give a shit.
I need you to fuck me with your dick, Carter. Give me a call.
A text from Mrs. Braxton. My mouth twitches, but despite her dirty language, I'm not yet ready to forgive her. I ignore it and glance back up at Mark. He's stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning against a crumbling brick wall on the corner. Dark green ivy drips like rain around his face, mixing with his curly hair. Sweat beads on his forehead.