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“Callan Scott.” He offers up on a tired sigh. “He owns a few clubs. That one last night is the most exclusive, private.” I nod. I already know that.
Callan. The name suits him.
“It’s a strip club.” I’m blunt and unforgiving. I’m cross that he’s been lying, and that he is exploiting those women. Some of them may enjoy the work, but I can guarantee a percentage of those women are there because life handed them a shit deal. “So you work there then?” I wonder.
He shakes his head and nods to the open door.“The tablets?” He pops his bottom lip out for effect.
“Fine, but I want answers, Oscar.”
“I know,” he says. His tiredness suggests at having kept this secret for a while, and now it’s out, he is giving in to it. I give him one last reproachful look over my shoulder before I head down to the kitchen. I hear Oscar make his own way down, then find him draped over the sofa like a cheap rug, my fur coat in tow. I give him a raised brow, and he lifts his arms, displaying the coat fully. “I feel like a pimp in this.”
“Probably should have worn it last night,” I comment.
“Very clever,” he mutters. “This isn't real fur, is it?” he asks, his lip curling.
“No!” I scowl. “Here.” Handing him some water and tablets, I take a seat beside him and flick the TV on. I'm glad I have a free day. I was really mad at him last night for leaving the hospital, but he does seem okay, just in pain.
“Thanks.” I give him a few minutes, letting the tablets do their work before I start to question him.
“That guy,” I start, “Callan. He seems too dangerous to just be a club owner.” He looked like he could giveRockyBalboa a run for his money. “What’s his deal, anyway?”
Oscar shrugs. “I don’t know much about him.” I practically roll my eyes into the back of my head. What a big fat lie.
“But you work for him?” I’m trying to lay the foundations and work out what’s going on. Oscar certainly isn’t being forthcoming.
“Kind of,” he says around a deep gulp of water.
“Oscar, quit stalling,” I snap.
“Honestly, Z, all I know is my cousin Tony works for him, security, and that Callan is mean as fuck,” he adds when I turn to look at him. “I just package drop.” His small shoulder shrugs under the big coat.
“You know when you say package drop in context with a strip club it leads my thoughts astray.” I quip.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like because you're starting to piss me off,” I tell him, my patience wearing thin.
Running a hand through his mop of curls, he shrugs.
“I can't tell you. I don't know anything myself. I just get told where to pick the package up, and then I take it to Skyn,” he mutters.
“Skyn?”
“The club.”
“How original,” I mutter, recalling all the beautiful women sliding down poles in their barely there outfits for their big, scarily beautiful boss. I stare at nothing, reliving last night and the tension-filled interaction between Callan Scott and myself.
It annoyed me that he knew my name. Fashion models seem an unlikely interest for a man like Callan, or is it just that he was being diligent and had looked into Oscar, and that in turn led to me? I’m pulled out of my thoughts when Oscar says, “I am sorry, Zara.”
“Surely I should be saying that to you. Look at you.”
“It’s my own fault. I knew not to take you there. I know the risks.”
“Will you go back?” I ask tentatively. I hope not.
He shakes his head and points to his face.
“I think this was Callan's way of telling me I’m no longer of use.” I embrace that thought gladly, feeling lighter than I have all morning. Good. I don't want him going back. He’s too good for those kinds of people, and I certainly don't want to be caught up in that kind of situation again.
