Chapter 41
Jonny's hangover subsided to a dull ache behind his eyes, and a raw gnawing in his stomach. Standing outside the Oasis, engulfed in the stench of rotten fish from the pier, didn't help. But something else had his guts churned up worse than all that eighty-proof tequila. Fear.
The broken neon sign dangled sideways over the doorway with only the ‘O’ and the last ‘S’ flashing. The splintered wooden door creaked when he pulled on it. He stepped through the dingy doorway, and the stink of spilled beer, piss, and mildew shot straight to his brain. The air had the clammy feel of an air-conditioning system that was broken half the time. A month ago he hadn’t even known Cheryl, but now her working here and living upstairs made his stomach twitch.
Scratchy music blared out of a bad sound system and scraped against his nerves. He scanned the room, squinted against the haze of smoke, then patted the little velvet box inside his pants pocket. Knowing Cheryl, she’d fight him, back him down, and throw him plenty of attitude, but he had only one shot to make good, so screwing up was not an option.
Something crunched under the leather sole of his shoe, and he was grateful for the dim lighting. He shuddered to think what lurked in the dark corners, or what horrors were revealed in the daylight. Even Jon Taffer couldn’t rescue this bar.
Jonny scanned the crowd. Lowlife guys half-drunk to falling down sloppy, and women with too much make-up and ratty hair flashing fake tits in tight tops, but no Cheryl.
The crowd parted, and he spotted Sal, the owner, perched at the end of the bar. A huge bear of a man in his mid-forties, he used his hands to punctuate every word of his thick Brooklyn accent. After three ex-wives, his personal relationships consisted of his bookie and the horses at Belmont.
He approached him, and a wary smile tilted Sal’s lips as he extended his hand. “Jonny, good to see you.” He snapped his fingers for the bartender. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing.” He wouldn’t drink the water in this place.
Sal grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the bar, knocked one out for himself, then offered them to him. He waved them away. As of this afternoon, fixing things with Cheryl meant no more smoking and binge drinking.
Sal lit up and released two hacking coughs. “This business sucks.” He caught his breath. “I got bartenders I can’t trust. Bouncers shoving coke up their noses.” He hawked up more phlegm and pounded on his chest. “It’s killing me.”
“I can see that,” Jonny agreed.
“I heard about Barnett.” Sal leaned in. “Just disappeared, like that other scumbag, Nicky.”
“Yeah, a real shame.”
Sal was fishing, trying to figure how much of the street gossip was true.
“I want to talk to you about a girl,” he shouted above the grainy music, desperate to change the subject. “Cheryl Benson?”
“Sure.” Sal's dower expression became animated. “She’s here. Works almost every night.” Sal leaned in again. “Her and me had some problems, but we worked it out, and now I give her a cut on one of the rooms upstairs.”
“You're a real philanthropist, Sal.”
“A what?” His puffy cheeks scrunched up in confusion.
“That’s a . . . never mind.” he craned his neck, searching the crowd.
“I got her working our VIP tables.”
“VIP tables?” Jonny whipped around. “They must be the ones without the layer of grease and overflowing ashtrays.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. This may not be like your uptown club, but . . .”
“Forget it.” He waved his hand in surrender. “Point me in the right direction.”
Jonny edged his way around the crowded tables, passed a few guys in their Brooks Brothers casual wear, trying to act cool so they could tell their buddies on Monday they’d been to an actual “dive bar” down by the docks.
The VIP area consisted of a raised platform in the back of the room. It held six tables, and his worst nightmare: Cheryl, in a black micro mini barely covering her ass, and a hot pink midriff top exposing about three inches of her toned abs. He stood close to the wall, hidden in the dingy shadows, and watched. Guys were such suckers. Flash some tit, sweet talk them with a few well-aimed compliments, and they were goners.
She leaned in close to a beer-bellied guy with a straggly beard wearing a leather vest like a reject from Sons of Anarchy. She was obviously flirting for tips, but when the fat fuck’s big, meaty hand squeezed her ass, he lost it. Eddie said to stay cool, but there was no way this was going down. He stormed over to the table in time to hear Cheryl warn. “You know the rules. No touching.”
“Fuck the rules,” the lowlife slurred. “Me and Cheryl are friends, right, babe?”
“Take your hands off her,” Jonny growled as he twisted the guy’s wrist into an unnatural position.
“Who the fuck are you?” The drunk struggled to stand, but Jonny ratcheted his arm even higher, until he slid off his chair and onto his knees. “All right, all right.”
He released the guy. His buddies helped him off the floor, and they made a quick departure to the door.
Cheryl gawked at him, but before she could respond, he had her firmly by the arm. When he stopped at the rear of the club, she walked out of his grasp.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, eyes wide and wild.
“Taking you outta here,” he shouted.
“Like hell you are.” Her neck flushed to match the color of her shirt. “Now leave.”
“Fine, but you’re leaving with me.” He reached for her, but she dodged to the side.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She spread her legs in a firm stance of defiance. “And I don’t have to listen to you.”
“When did you ever?” he huffed out. “Now let’s go.”
“No!”
“You’re not staying here in that outfit.” He eyeballed her with her breasts on display, hammering against the thin top with every angry breath. “You’re dressed like a damn hooker.”
“A . . .” She made little choking sounds. “A hooker?”
“You heard me.” He waved his hand in the air. “What the hell are you thinking dressing like this in front of these bums?”
She huffed a sarcastic laugh. “According to the Post, you like that look.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw the photo of you and the blonde on Page Six.” She stabbed him in the chest with her index finger, and he flinched. “It didn’t take you long to move on.”
“For your information, I don’t even remember her name.” He realized too late how bad that sounded.
“Isn’t that typical,” she mocked. “Another blowjob in your office?”
“That’s not what I meant, smart ass. It was an old publicity shot taken over a year ago.”
“Whatever. But you still can’t tell me what to do. ‘Cause I do what I want, when I want, and I make my own decisions.”
“And your decisions suck.”
“Once again . . . I. Don’t. Care. What. You. Think.”
“Hey, Cheryl,” the bartender gestured and yelled over the pounding music. “The guys over at table five are getting restless.”
She pivoted on her stilettos and lost her balance. He leaned in to steady her, and the small round service tray she held jerked up smacking him in the face.
“Damn!” He jumped back.
“Ohhh, shit.”
“Is this guy giving you a hard time?” One of the bouncers loomed behind him.
Jonny blinked and glared at him through watering eyes. “Where were you ten minutes ago when some jerk had his hands all over her ass?”
“Everything’s fine,” she assured the hulking bouncer, but he still hovered. “We’re good.”
He threw Jonny a threatening glare and meshed into the crowd.
“Did I do that?” She zoomed in on what felt like a boulder erupting on his cheekbone. The corners of her mouth turned up as she bit back a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not funny.” He massaged his cheek. “You fuckin’ clocked me.”
“I’ll get some ice at the bar.”
“Forget the ice.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m fine.”
She tugged him down the back hall and stopped by the stairs that led to the upstairs apartments.
“Why are you here?” Her voice quivered.
“I wanna talk to you, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You seem tired.” He touched her arm. “You shouldn’t be working here.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad? C’mon, Cheryl, these guys just wanna get in your pants.” Her evil glare forced him to regroup. “Nothing’s right without you.”
“It wouldn’t have worked anyway.” Her voice tightened, and she slumped with defeat.
He might’ve believed her if he hadn’t caught the tremor in her shoulders.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, grasping her hand and rubbing his thumb against her palm. “I never felt the way . . . I mean, you made me feel things . . .” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “I’m saying this all wrong, but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was wrong to push you away.”
“But you did, twice, and how do I know you won’t do it again?” She snatched her hand away and stepped back. The shadowy lighting blurred her expression, but the single tear that spilled down her cheek broke him. “You can’t run every time things get hard.” Her voice quivered. “I don’t want that for myself and I won’t do that to my baby.”
“Baby?”
The service tray clattered to the floor, and she bolted for the stairs.
He stared after her, and by the time his feet reacted, she already had six stairs between them. Fast for a woman in ridiculously high shoes. He reached the landing in time to hear her slam and lock her apartment door.
He knew it wouldn’t open, but he jiggled the knob with one hand anyway while pounding his fist against the door with the other.
“Open up,” he shouted.
“No,” she yelled back.
He pounded harder and kicked at the bottom of the door. “Cheryl, I’m not playin’ here. Now open the damn door.”
“No.”
“I’m telling you for the last time, open this fuckin’ door.”
The door opened across the hall. “Hey, buddy, shut-up or I’m calling the cops.”
“Mind your own damn business,” Jonny snarled over his shoulder. “Ahhh, fuck this.” He raised his foot and kicked the cheap door so hard it flew open, splintering at the hinges.
Cheryl stood in the middle of the dingy room, wide-eyed. “You’re crazy.”
He stepped around the door hanging half off the frame at an odd angle. “I told you to open the door.”
“And I told you to go away.” She slapped her hands on her hips.
“You had to know that wasn’t happening.” He closed the gap between them until they were inches apart. “Now tell me the truth. Are you pregnant?”