Captive (5 page)

It isn’t until the morning I realise my mistake. I should have gotten up last night, stripped my bed, and showered, scrubbing my body raw because in the morning I wake up to the smell of Max everywhere. On my skin, my sheets, my pillows, he’s all around me, all it serves to do is bring the reality of what happened between us last night crashing in. And with it shame, humiliation, self-disgust invaded every thought. It took three days to dull the memory enough that it wasn’t consuming my every thought whether I was awake or asleep. I didn’t spend that time idle though. No, I drove to Clearwater and got myself tested for everything known to man-kind, that way Max couldn’t find anything to complain about when I took him the results. Given that my bank balance was borderline emaciated I decided on the drive back from Clearwater it was a good a time as any to go to Kitty Kat’s and enquire about a job.

Closing Time - Semisonic

Interviewing with Marlene at Kitty Kat’s was something else altogether. She’s the manager, human lie detector, (she seriously is because I’m not lying when I say she can spot one a mile off, so much so it’s uncanny), seamstress of all things sequin, and occasional security guard, (not really, but she has had to step in a time or two when things have gotten hairy). Marlene is one of the most brash, energetic people I’ve met, and she’d have to be if she has to keep up with that workload every day.

In her early forties with brassy red naturally curly hair, eye opening eclectic fashion sense, and when I say that I mean she wears hippie skirts that flow to her ankles with boob tubes, row and rows of bracelets almost up to her elbows, lace chokers, and strange flip flops with huge hibiscus flowers on the toe straps. With her John Lennon style reading glasses perched on the end of her nose she makes quite the picture, it’s everything I can do not to laugh at the woman who I’ve been told is more intimidating than any of the men in the MC. However, less than fifteen minutes into my interview I realised that I’d been wrong and they’d been right. Marlene now officially scares the shit out of me.

Emerald, one of the dancers, strippers, whatever they’re called strode into Marlene’s office without knocking mind you, proceeded to bitch about another girl touching her makeup and not putting it back properly before demanding that Marlene fire her immediately. Now if I was her I would’ve taken better notice of the person I was talking to because Marlene’s face was turning a shade of red that wasn’t far off matching the colour of her hair, and you could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. Seconds later Marlene proved my observations right, she was pissed. As in, epically pissed off.

Standing from behind her desk she said,

“So what you’re telling me is that Sapphire touched your makeup, moved it to the other side of your dressing table, forgot to replace the cap on your mascara properly, and not only do you want me to replace it, but you want me to let her go. Is that about the gist of it?”

“Yes,” Emerald snapped huffily.

“Yeah, how about fuck no. Have you lost your fucking mind?” she screeched, startling both Emerald and I. “You bitches use each other’s shit all the time, stuff goes missing even used thongs for Christs sake, you whinge and whine, you’re
all
late for work and early to leave, you drink on the job and you’ve even fallen off the pole a few times. Have I fired you for any of that shit? Huh?”

Looking thoroughly chastised Emerald replies softly,

“No.”

“Damn fucking straight I haven’t. Do you know why?” With Emerald’s head shake Marlene goes on. “I haven’t shit canned your ass because you make me money when you aren’t falling off pole drunk, put some effort into your lap dances, show up on time, which is a rarity but I can hope, and you eventually shut your mouth because it’s full of some brothers cock by the end of the night.”

Propping her hand on her hip glaring at the woman Marlene turns her eyes to me when I burst out laughing giving me a sly smirk. I mean what can I say? That was fucking hilarious and I think I just fell a little in love with Marlene. Waving her off, apologising while doing so I receive a sneer from Emerald before she says,

“What is she doing here? I hope she’s not applying to dance here, she is so not the guys’ type around here and I don’t want to be associated with her kind.”

What is with people this week? That’s twice in two days I’ve been told I’m not fit for society and to be frank, it’s starting to piss me off. Before I can snap back at her Marlene lets out a low cackle.

“Her type,” she says pointing a bony finger at her. “You’re worried about her type?”

Marlene looks genuinely interested in Emerald’s response and all I can think is this is the end of my promising career as a waitress in a motorcycle club strip joint.

“Yes actually. She’s nasty,” she wrinkles her nose as she tilts her head in my directions. “All those dreadlocks, skanky tattoos, and her boobs aren’t big enough. That and the fact that she’s cheap and puts out for anyone isn’t the kind of girl we want around the club. She’s old too.”

Oh my fucking God! Old! I’m about to turn thirty-one, not ninety. Not to mention that Emerald looks even older than I am with all her fake blonde hair, over made up face, and the wrinkles lining the corners of her eyes. I can’t believe she’s saying this shit about me. Actually I can and I don’t like it. Calmly crossing my arms over my chest I wade into the conversation saying,

“What she really means to say Marlene, is that she’s found out some information about my past and finds it confronting. She doesn’t want me here because every time she looks at me she’ll have to be reminded of what she knows, or think she knows.”

“That’s bullshit!” Emerald yells. “I just don’t think you’re the image the club is looking to portray. Guys come here to relax, look at something pretty, maybe get a private dance. They don’t come here to have some ex-junkie, club whore flashing her used and abused self all over the place. It lowers the class of the place.”

I can’t help laughing again, and this time Marlene joins me.

“Seriously? I lower the class of the place? Can you hear yourself?” I don’t wait for her response before continuing. “Classy is not attacking someone you don’t know, have never met, and haven’t got hard evidence to back up your accusations. Classy is not assuming I’m here to start stripping. And classy is definitely
not
coming into your boss’s office demanding things of her without invitation, and causing shit you’ve got less than no right to cause. Unless you are squeaky clean, don’t throw stones when they’ll get thrown back and shatter that glass house you’re living in.” I end by throwing my hands up in frustration. Bitches like this are part of the reason I left Denver in the first place. They think they know enough about you to judge you but the reality is that they’ve overheard some snippets of information here and there, putting two and two together and getting nine.

Clapping sounds as I whip my head back to where Marlene is standing looking pleased, and just a little proud.

“Well now my little prodigy, I must say I’m fucking impressed. When can you start?”

The next night I began my first shift as a waitress-slash-assistant bartender at Kitty Kat’s. While I hadn’t had any formal bar training, and hadn’t worked one outside of Vengeance’s own clubhouse bar, Marlene decided that serving alcohol to dozens of intoxicated bikers for five years was more than enough experience to hire me on. I can’t say I love the uniform, but on the upside if covers the basics so I suppose I should be grateful.

Tight black booty shorts, and when I say shorts I really should clarify and say they are closer to resembling boy short panties than actual shorts, a tight deep purple tank top with Kitty Kat’s plastered in bold lettering across the bust and logo which is a fierce cat’s paw dragging downwards leaving claw marks in its wake, and six inch black platform heels make up the entirety of my new uniform. The outfit isn’t uncomfortable, well except for the shoes they
kill
my feet by the end of the night, but the looks I get while wearing it are. In the last almost four weeks, and yes I’m still working there it’s a long story, I’ve been grabbed, groped, had my ass slapped, my boobs manhandled and had more penises rubbed against some part of my body than I’ve ever cared to come into contact with. Most of the guys are dissuaded by a hand slap or firm “don’t fucking touch me”, but a couple of times I’ve been forced to call Dagger or Saint over to take out the trash when they won’t take no for an answer. To make matters worse, I’ve barely been sleeping catching a couple of hours here or there when I can, and this isn’t making my increasing hostility towards inappropriate men any better.

I haven’t told anyone and I don’t intend to, but the letters I’ve been receiving for the last couple of months have started coming more frequently much to my dismay. What’s more disturbing though is that they’ve gone from saying stuff like, “I’m watching you,” and “See you soon,”, to “Watch your back bitch,” and, “I’m coming for you cunt and this time you won’t get away.” To say I panicked at the sight of the first one would be a massive understatement, I was a fucking mess for a week after it arrived.

At first they were coming every second week building up to once a week on a Thursday. In the beginning I caught the fact they were arriving on the same day every week, but not the significance. It wasn’t until I sat down and wracked my brain that I realised Thursday was the day of the week I finally managed to escape. After that little revelation, post crying jag, I called the closest most reputable security company and asked them to come around and install whatever their top of the line monitored system was. My next stop was to Barlow and Sons. Mr Barlow has been a gunsmith for going on fifty years now, and his sons Mason and Cody are carrying on the family tradition, started by Mr Barlow’s grandfather, beginning their training straight out of high school. At thirty-nine and thirty-six respectively they’re sweet, handsome, charming men that I’ve seen around time and had the privilege of tattooing a time of two.

Ultimately I bought a Beretta PX4 Storm semi-automatic .40 pistol. I’ve spent time around guns learning to handle, fire, tear down, clean and reassemble them. Boss told me that if I’m going to learn how to shoot one I had to know the ins and outs of my weapon. I practiced with him for hours at the armoury at home, the firing range ten miles out of Furnace, and can tear down my gun and reassemble it nearly as quickly blindfolded versus not. I learnt to shoot using the; Sig Sauer 9mm, Smith & Wesson 629 .44 special, Ruger .380, Glock 30S 10mm, and the Beretta 9mm with Boss stating that I needed a rounded firearms education. Originally I was stand-offish around guns, the thought of hurting someone unintentionally was terrifying. But after a lengthy safety talk and demonstration from Boss and Diesel I felt confident enough to try it out for myself. And I loved every second of it.

The power. The control. The knowledge that I can defend myself if I need to was heady, it gave me a sense of peace I hadn’t achieved through anything else I’d tried. By the end of my practicing, over and over every day, I ended up a better shot than both of my teachers. Granted I don’t get out to the firing range here in Blackwater often but I do go regularly.

That’s how I met Mr Barlow, or Al (short for Alfred which he hates), Mason and Cody. They didn’t look at me like I was just some insipid woman playing around with big boys’ toys, they treated me with respect, offered assistance when they thought I needed it, and spoke to me with kindness.

If I’m truly honest, they’re the most real of the friends I’ve made here, with Al being the
only
person to know my whole sordid tale. He didn’t judge. He didn’t rail at the system for failing me. And he didn’t look at me with pity after I was done. He simply held me when I cried, wiped my tears away and told me to come for Sunday dinner. So I did what any woman invited to dinner by a wonderful older man, that was kind, considerate and understanding would do, I went. Just like I went the Sunday after, and the Sunday after that. In fact I’ve been for dinner with the Barlow’s every Sunday since meeting them ten months ago, with the exception of the Sunday four weeks ago when I made the grave mistake of going to Lou and Steel’s. A mistake that will
not
happen again.

The last edition to my self-made fortress of protection was the cutest, most adorable black German Shepard puppy I named Baxter, Bax for short. I was assured by the breeder, who by reputation is one of the very best in five states, that all her dogs are compatible with protection training and should I need her services to do so she would be more than happy to help. I took her up on this three months ago and haven’t looked back. At nine months old, Bax is energetic when he’s allowed to be, calm when I need him to be, and always watchful. So much so he comes across as much older than he is, an old soul trapped in a puppy’s body. He weighs in at sixty pounds now but is expected to reach eighty to eighty-five, if you go based on his parents’ weight at adult size. He’s smart, a fast learner, observant, and has done more for my well-being than the alarm or handgun put together.

We walk morning and night, I play Frisbee with him when I finish work if it’s too late to take him out, he goes to Sunday dinners at the Barlow’s with me, and has even come to the clubhouse on hog roast occasions. The only thing I question is his assessment of someone’s character, because my dog loves Max. And when I say loves, I mean he ditches me, albeit momentarily, any time he sees Max or senses he’s nearby. Thankfully Max’s hatred of me hasn’t transferred to my dog, if anything Max loves Bax, (I know that sounds ridiculous but it is what it is), just as much.

So, now I have an alarm which cost me a hefty dint in my savings, a handgun that has taken pride of place in my bedside table drawer, and a dog that is intelligent but is clearly lacking in the section of his brain where he distinguishes who’s an asshole and who’s not. Not to mention said savings is gone, so no escape plan B for me meaning my high security fortress better be up to scratch because I have no doubt its defences are going to be tested soon.