Chapter 6
Stilettos is a packed house tonight, not much different than any other night, but I’m not into it. I sit behind the oak wooden desk in my closed office, twirling the straw around in my glass of whiskey that Dancer brought me. Condensation beads around the glass from the melting ice because I haven’t taken one pull from it. All I can think about is what I did last night: showing up at Sierra Greene’s house, threatening her the way I did, and scaring the piss outta her.
Maybe I took it too far? Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to her house? I need her as far away from me as possible and she doesn’t belong in my world, even if the women want her there. Every time I see her, those memories flood back in, my rage rises to the surface like the flames of a wildfire, and I can’t control it.
I thought I was doing good, handling it, until I saw her again. My wounds, still not fully healed, split back open the first time I saw her at the clubhouse, and they bleed just as bad now as they did then. I realize I’m never going to be able to put the past behind me and truly move on from that night. How can anyone expect me to forgive someone that took part in destroying me, taking everything away from me?
If someone would have asked me, back before the night I met Sierra Greene, “What’s your dream?” I would have responded, “I’m fuckin’ living it, man,” with a smile on my face. Did that dream involve a strip club? Fuck no! But...shit changes. I was dealt a fucked up hand in this life fifteen years ago, and I haven’t smiled since.
I got the idea about a year ago to open Stilettos, and I knew my brothers would be all for it, especially if it’s bringing in money for the Sinners. When I found this building, it was on the outskirts of Wichita, run-down, but perfect for the space I needed. Once the deal closed I got started right away, hiring a construction company, a designer, and my employees. Everyone worked together, and we turned that run-down shithole into the busiest gentlemen’s club in the state of Kansas.
Someone knocks on my office door, pulling me from my thoughts. “Come in.”
Dancer pops her head in. “Hacker, two of the girls are arguing.” Dancer is my lead bartender and one of the best employees I have. She’s a cute little thing with her short stature, long dark hair, and crazy yellow cat eyes. She’s become closer to me than just an employee, the closest I have to a daughter, and I’d split someone open for hurtin’ the girl.
Fucking Christ! I get out of my chair, following behind Dancer to the dressing room. “You took him from me!” one of the girls yells at the other as we enter.
“It’s not my fault he took me into the VIP room.” The other shrugs her shoulder and goes about trying to change into a new outfit.
“Ugh! I can’t stand you!” the first girl screams. I see it in her eyes: She’s going to pounce like a tiger. Just as she lunges, I grab her around the waist.
“Chill the fuck out!” I demand as she tries to kick at my legs. I carry her out of the dressing room and back to my office. Dancer shuts the door behind the three of us. Setting the stripper back on her feet, I ask, “What’s going on?”
“That bitch saw me sitting with the guy all night. He kept promising me the VIP room. When I had to get up on stage he took her instead.” Tears well up in her eyes. This type of business can be cutthroat between the dancers, but that’s how it is.
“Hannah, some of the men out there are assholes. They’ll keep you sitting there hoping, but they have no intention of giving you money. Most likely he saw Jewel and figured he’d get more than dances out of her. You ain’t like that, so you need to pick and choose your battles, honey. But…no fighting with the other girls, ’cause if it happens again I’ll have to fire you. Understood? Go home for the night and come back tomorrow.”
She nods. “Thanks, Hacker. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“Good. Now get outta here.” Dancer opens the door for Hannah to leave, then shuts it once again.
“Shit, it’s like having a grown daycare in this place. The girls fighting over a toy.” She shakes her head. “You really should think about getting a manager for the girls. I can’t watch them all the time behind the bar, your brothers and the bouncers can’t, and neither can you.”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” I answer just to appease her, sitting behind my desk.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” She plops down in one of the chairs opposite my desk.
My eyes connect with hers. “Nothin’, why?” My brow arches.
“You seem off today.” She shrugs her shoulder with a pointed look at the whiskey still sitting on the desk before bringing her gaze back to my stare. “You haven’t touched your glass.”
“I just got some shit I’m dealing with. You better get back out there and help Jeremy tend the bar.”
“Right.” She stands, walks to the door, and, before she opens it, turns back to me. “If you wanna talk, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Dancer.” She nods, opens the door, and goes back to do her job. Smoothing my hand over my hair, I go back to my own job of running through payments and the inventory of liquor.
Two am rolls around, and the final girl is walked safely to her car by one of the bouncers. By 2:30, everyone is gone, and Dancer is finished cleaning up the bar. I always wait for her so we can leave together. I follow her home to make sure she doesn’t have any men from the club waiting behind. We lock up the club and walk to her vehicle.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hacker,” she says with a smile as she sits in the driver’s side of her Hummer.
“See ya’.” I shut the door, walk to my Harley, straddle the beast, and start it up.
Dancer drives out of the lot first, with me following close behind. The twenty-minute ride to her house is mostly highway until we hit city limits, then we take side streets until she pulls into her garage, and I wait on the street until I see her living room light turn on. Scoping out the surroundings, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, no suspicious cars, so I ride to my house.
I’m one of the few Sinners that owns his own house. I never actually lived at the clubhouse like my brothers, and I’m the last original Sinner left now that Ripper has been killed.
I park my bike in my driveway, go to the mailbox, grab my mail, and walk up to the front door. When I get inside I look through the envelopes; one stands out, and I know I’m gonna need my bottle of whiskey for this shit.
Taking the envelope with me, I walk into my kitchen, turn the light on, and grab my bottle out of the cabinet. I don’t bother with a glass, instead taking a long pull straight from the bottle before sitting at the dining table. The envelope lies in front of me, tormenting me. Breathing deeply, I open it. I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this, and the memories flood in.
The cold.
The ice.
The pain.
The words no one should ever fuckin’ hear.
Mr. Jackson,
We are writing this letter to inform you…
I keep drinking until the bottle is gone and the memories fade away with the blackness.