1
Decker
Another girl, another firing. That's how my week is going.
"It was just a hand job." Claudia rolls her eyes, and her fake lashes brush her tattooed brows. "That's barely even anything. I didn't even kiss him, for chrissake."
Her eyes dart to the corners of the room as if not looking at me will change the outcome of what’s about to happen.
"You know the rules," I say, fighting the urge to lecture her like a daughter instead of fire her like an employee.
Believe it or not, it hurts me every time I have to do this. I want to help them all, but in the end, they have to want it. I can't do it for them.
"I'mgreatat hand jobs. I got him off in like twenty seconds." Claudia pouts. "It's almost like shaking someone's hand. Would you fire Allister for shaking hands with one of the clients?"
Allister, my right-hand man, cuts in. "Congratulations on your skill set. And no, it is not like shaking hands. Did you wear a rubber glove?" His voice is always low, but when he'sdisappointed, it drops to something like a bass drum learning to speak.
He's pissed. He's the one who talked me into hiring her. I told him she wouldn't take it seriously. Looks like I was right. No pleasure in being right about this kind of thing.
I press my middle fingers into my temples. The lights in here drive ball-peen hammers into my skull.
I glance down at the open employee folder on my desk, then scan around the room. The office is all white. Some would say too white. Too cold. Not me.
Neatly stacked pillars of white boxes line one wall, labeled and color-coded by unpacking priority. One of the girls asked me yesterday my favorite color. When I told her ‘white’, she snorted, said that's not a color. I disagree. White is clean, pure, without blemish. My house is the same way, and I've lived there five years.
I haven't had time to make any of it anything else.
I re-focus on the task at hand.
Claudia.
Allister is my GM. And my best friend. Heart of gold inside a body the size of Texas. The stark lights reflect off his bald head as he shakes it, running a hand back and forth over it, staring at Claudia as she inspects her shimmering pink nails.
This is my club. My rules. The girls dance, they don't strip. They wear barely anything to start with, but nothing comes off, and every customer’s hands stay where I can see them.
But in this environment, today it's a hand job, tomorrow a blowjob, next week one of my girls is in the back of some asshole's car with her face bruised. I've seen it. I won't have it.
"So, I'm done?" Claudia juts out her hip and finally settles her vitriol on me. "You're firing me? This is total bullshit. One hand job and one joint, that's all it was. And now you're firing me? I didn't even smoke it here, for chrissake. You can't tell me whatI can do on my own time. This place is turning into the damn Westlake Baptist Church."
I hold up her file. "Yep, you're done. You signed the contract. School, no drugs, no drinking, don't touch the customers. You fucked up." I shrug and close the file. "I don't fire people, Claudia. They fire themselves. Get your stuff out of your locker. We'll send you a month's pay to get on your feet. Allister will walk you out. I wish you the best."
I lean back in my chair. My temples are still pounding, and my stomach is eating itself. One a.m. Haven't eaten since noon.
"You can suck my ass!" Claudia gives me one final middle finger before she stalks out the office door, Allister rolling his eyes at me as he walks behind her.
Sixteen years a Marine. Now I own nightclubs. Funny how life turns out. I don't even drink, and strip clubs never did a damn thing for me. But I got out, and the world doesn't have a lot of use for a retired jarhead with no taste for desk work, so this is what I built. Monarch was the first. Four more after that. This one, Monarch V, opened a month ago.
Every girl who walks through my door — and I do mean every one — gets the same offer. Stick to the rules, and I'll cover whatever they need to get out of whatever they're in. Rehab, attorneys, GEDs, college tuition. I've bashed in a few pimps' faces along the way, too, when they came around looking to collect what they thought belonged to them.
Some of my girls are lawyers now. PTA mothers. Social workers. One's a fucking pediatrician. I keep every Christmas card.
The low bass from the floor bleeds through the open office door. I'm usually gone by midnight. Tonight I'm not. Tuesday is tryout night. Girls who want to dance come in, we look, we decide. I usually stick around for it.
After a few beats, Allister steps back into the office as I twist my head around on my neck, trying to relieve the pressure.
"All set?" I ask.
"Yeah. That girl is — colorful. Had some unique parting words for you." He licks his lips, then adds, "And me."
