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Chapter One
MELLIE
Oracle, in West Boston, doesn’t look like a strip club. There’s no neon sign with “X’s” or the word “GIRLS” flashing anywhere. There are no scantily clad women out the front, luring patrons in. There are no pictures of scantily clad women in the windows.
It looks like any other bar, situated in a gorgeous historical stone building. It has an imposing façade in the daytime, and I imagine it must look quite spectacular at night when it’s all lit up.
There is a nondescript, dark-colored sedan across the road with two men sitting in it. They’re clearly cops. I’m not sure whether they are not bothering to hide the fact that they are staking the place out or if they don’t care.
Ignoring the feeling of their eyes on me, I clutch my denim jacket closer to my chest as I hurry up the stairs and dart inside the club.
I pass a small coat check area, unmanned and empty since it is only one in the afternoon. Continuing through the silent hallway, I walk through an elaborately carved wooden doorframe into a largish bar area.
I haven’t been into many strip clubs in my life –Dad would have had my head –but it’s exactly how I imagined one would look.
There is a stage at the far end with a prominent pole for the strippers. An old-school wooden bar runs the length of one side of the room, and tables and red leather-clad booths are scattered around the space. There are no exterior windows, though the overhead lights are currently brightly lit. A strobe light is mounted on the ceiling, and the stage appears to have a serious lighting system.
Over near the bar, there’s a shiny jukebox and a DJ's booth to the side of the stage. This is a pretty cool space. I’d totally come to a party here. The club isn’t completely deserted. A sole male bartender stands watching me, stacking glasses.
He has a bushy red beard and matching bushy eyebrows and glances up when I enter, eyebrows raised.
“Are you lost, love?”
I relax at once as his broad Boston accent rings out. I don’tknow, but I don’t imagine the Irish Mafia would have broad Boston accents. Would they? Wait. Do the mobsters inGoodfellashave New York accents? Oh god. What if he is an Irish mobster? Everyone in town knows they own this club, which explains those two cops out the front.
I’m here because the Irish run this place, but that’s my business. And just because I know they run this place doesn’t mean I’m ready to come face to face with one of them.
The bartender is still staring at me, looking condescendingly up and down my body. Shit. I should have dressed differently. I shuffle my strappy stiletto sandals and wish my dress was a little longer.
“No, I’m not lost.” I square my shoulders, approaching the bar. “I’m here for a job.”
His bushy red eyebrows rise as he sweeps his gaze over me. I definitely wish I wore a different skirt. This isn’t the best start for a job interview in a strip club; hating how this guy’s eyes linger on me.
I clutch my jacket tightly to my chest, fighting the urge to wrinkle my nose at this asshole. I might be here to try to get a job as a stripper, but I’m not about to give away the goods for free.
If he wants a look, he can pay me. Plus, I’m sure the person who has the final say in who gets hired wouldn’t be stacking glasses in the middle of the day.
“If you want a job, you’ll have to impress Seamus Fitzpatrick. He interviews all the girls. He’s not in for a few more hours. You’ll need to come back then.”
I blink, telling myself that I’m not going to cry. I only just managed to get the nerve to stroll in here once. Leaving isn’t an option. Not until I know I’ve got a job.
“That’s okay.” I flash him what I hope is a winning smile. “I’ll wait.”
He opens his mouth to say more but doesn’t get the chance. I turn on my heels, striding across the room and planting my ass on one of the red-leather booth seats, sliding along to the wall.
If they want me out of here, they can drag me kicking and screaming, but I won’t make it easy for them. I need this job.
NIALL
“Please, Jesus,please.”
They always beg. Always. No matter how tough they act when they first land on my table, in the end, they always beg.
“Jaysus can’t hear ye down here,” I tell him.
He shudders at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide with fear, tinged with pain.
“I have money,” he gurgles, causing my eyebrows to raise. Well, we’ve moved rather quickly from begging to bargaining. That has to be some record.
