1. Table 21

Chapter 1

Table 21

MEGAN

I stare at the body of a man sprawled in the middle of the alleyway.

Trash bags in hand, I stand there frozen, not knowing whether to go back inside and pretend I saw nothing or casually walk past the body and dump the trash bags in the dumpster.

The answer is beyond obvious.

I quietly step back inside and close the door. Locking it, I drop the key on the kitchen floor and kick it under one of the metal counters before calling out to Billy, the line cook, "Well, damn, the door's locked."

Billy's large afro peeks from behind the wall where he's been taking his break. "Where's the key?"

I squint at the long key holder attached to the wall as if I've suddenly gone half-blind. "I don't know. Should've been hanging right here."

Billy stares at me.

I stare back.

"What're you looking at me for?" I say, mustering up an annoyed voice. "I can't produce another key out of my ass." When he leers at my behind, I flip him off with a quick grin. "Tell Ralph to throw these out when he comes in the morning. He knows where the extra key is. I've got to start my shift."

As I dump the bags next to the door and walk away, I call out, "Stop staring at my ass, Billy, and go call your pregnant girlfriend."

I don't have to look at him to see the guilt on his face before I push the door open to walk into ear-splitting music that almost vibrates in my bones. People are screaming and laughing as sweaty bodies grind and dance against each other with loose movements, the strobe lights working the crowd, and the DJ swaying with the beats.

I slip through the go-between of the bar, nodding to Harry, who quickly hands over a drink to a waiting customer before hurrying away for his break.

"Megan!" comes a familiar shout of my name, and I turn to smile at the greasy-looking man, one of my oldest patrons.

"You want the regular, Charlie?" I ask, seeing that his hand is empty.

"Make it two," He lifts his fingers to show me the number before shouting loudly over the music, "For me and my girl!"

His girl turns out to be a familiar-looking face from the neighborhood with badly dyed lavender hair, fake lashes that look like they hurt, and a body clearly built on a surgical table. I feel sorry for Charlie, but I'm not going to hurt Cookie's chance of landing a score. She's got two kids to feed at home and Charlie probably has a week's pay burning a hole in his pocket.

So I smile, "Well, good for you!"

They both disappear into the crowd, and I already know where Cookie is leading him.

"Poor bastard," a man sitting close to me comments.

I wipe down the counter, shrugging, "At least he'll go home a happy man."

"With a lighter wallet."

I just grin.

What I've just witnessed over the last ten minutes is par for the course. The Blue Whiskey Lounge isn't your average nightclub. The reason why my salary is pretty good is that the kind of clientele this place attracts isn't the safest or the classiest, so we're well compensated for the risk involved.

That's not the first sex worker I've seen pretending that she's just a party girl looking for a good time. And that's not the first dead body I've seen in the alleyway behind this club, and it probably won't be the last. The first time, I was foolish enough to call the police, but now I know better. Last time, it nearly cost me my hard-earned scholarship.

Nobody will bother me here as long as I keep my head down and focus on my work. The midnight shift isn't the best or safest, but it's the highest-paid one. And if I want to make rent for a one-room apartment in the seediest part of Los Angeles and be able to afford groceries, I have to gamble with my safety. Those are the breaks.

I notice as one of the servers approaches me, "Two whiskeys and scotch for Table 21."

My hand, which is already reaching for the glasses, freezes in mid-air before I deliberately relax it. I cast a quick look in the direction of the table and see three men sitting there in expensive suits. After six months of working in this club, I already know that Table 21 is reserved for special clients. The kind you really don't want to mess with.

One of the men is facing me, and when I look over at the table, he looks up and meets my gaze head-on. His piercing grey eyes leave me breathless with fear. This man is no stranger to violence.

I quickly look away and start preparing the drinks. Handing them over, I warn the pretty server under my breath, "Don't linger for tips."

I watch her leave and wonder if she'll be smart enough to listen to me. She won't be the first fool to be attracted to power dressed in designer clothes and then pay the price for it. When I see one of the men grab her ass under the short skirt, I tense up. Then I see the smile on her face and I close my eyes in regret and pity.

This one won't last.

I turn my back and go back to work. Unlike other dance clubs, The Blue Whiskey stays open after the clock strikes three a.m. The music dies down, and most of the people who still want to dance the night away move on to other clubs in the district. Conversations become hushed, and shady business dealings begin.

From three in the morning, for the next few hours until sunrise, The Blue Whiskey is at its most dangerous. I have never met the owner of this club, and I never intend to meet him, although I've heard about him. The dude runs a tight ship. So tight that even the LA police department turns a blind eye if a man is shot in his club or lies dead in the adjacent alleyway. A man with that kind of influence is not someone anyone like me should get to know.

I busy myself with preparing drinks as the sounds in the room become more muted. I keep my eyes down, and my flirtatious smile (which is part of my job description) fades away.

An hour ticks away, and I look up, between orders, towards Table 21. The men are still sitting there. Two of them are clearly drunk, but the third one, the one in the tailored power suit with the grey eyes, is stone-cold sober. The glass of whiskey is in his hand as he gently swirls the liquid. Once again, he notices that I'm watching, and he looks back at me.

He has a head full of dark hair, almost jet black under the flashing lights, and he arches a sharp brow at me, the corner of his lips quirking up at what he clearly perceives as my interest.

I lower my gaze.

I'm not blind.

The man is sex on a stick.

But I have an exam tomorrow, and I can't take that exam if I'm too busy lying next to the dead body out in the alleyway.

The door of the kitchen opens and the manager, Steve, walks out frowning. "Megan, why do we have extra servers tonight?"

"What?" I glance at him. "We have eight like every night. What do you mean?"

"Sally is still on the roster," Steve scowls. "She said you told her to work overtime."

I blink, "What? I didn't–"

I pause when I look up to see Sally leaning towards one of the drunk men who lifts her skirt and stuffs a few dollar bills in the lining of her panties.

My heart nearly stops. "I didn't tell her to work overtime, but I think she's working that table."

Steve immediately looks to his right, and he goes still before hissing, "Has she lost her fucking mind?"

But he doesn't move to go toward her; he just stands there and watches as the other man grabs a willing Sally who has hundred-dollar bills peeking out from her low-cut top and her crotch. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks a little tipsy.

"What do we do?" I ask quietly.

But Steve's face is white with fear as he stares at their sober companion. "We ain't doing shit. She's fucked. Oh, fuck."

One of the men grabs Sally's skirt, and I can hear a ripping sound. My heart nearly stops in its chest. No matter how I planned to stay out of any altercation over at Table 21, I can't watch something like this unfold.

The giddy smile on Sally's face has disappeared, and she suddenly looks frightened as she pushes the man away. My heart is pounding as I realize that Steve isn't going to do anything. A familiar fear rises up in my throat and I try to block out a memory that seems to be overlapping with the scene playing out in front of me.

"Steve, do something!" I hiss in alarm, but Steve is just frozen solid.

Sally is screaming now, trying to stop them from groping her, and bile rises up in my throat as I whisper, "I'm sorry."

I can see Steve turning towards me, his voice sounding confused. "What?"

But I block it out, grabbing two full bottles of wine and sliding through the go-between. I hear Steve calling my name in a panic, but I can't stop myself. "Megan–"

The grey-eyed man watches me in interest as I stride over, my face set. He hasn't lifted a finger to help Sally, who is screaming hysterically as she tries to escape his disgusting companions.

If I die, I die.

At least I won't have to pay rent once I'm dead.

There's always an upside to every situation.

I've already reached them, and without stopping, I lift up one heavy bottle and smash it down on the head of the man in front of me. He goes down, crumpling to the floor. His companion sees me and sneers, reaching out to me.

"I don't think so, fuck face," I growl, ignoring the other bottle in my hand and kneeing him in the crotch.

His scream is the best sound I've heard all day. When he joins his companion on the ground, I make it a point to kick him in the balls again.

Sally is crying, trying to fix her ruined clothes, and I scowl at her, "What are you doing standing there like an idiot? Run!"

Her eyes widen, and then, for the first time, she actually obeys me, sprinting towards the front door and out. No one tries to stop her. The first man that I hit with the bottle grabs my ankle, and I stumble forward onto the table. The grey-eyed asshole sitting there, watching me in amusement, blinks when my flailing hand hits him, and I spill his entire drink on his suit.

His small smile disappears, and out of nowhere, I see the men sitting on the surrounding tables jump to their feet. I freeze when I realize that there are more than ten guns pointed in my direction while I lay splattered on a table, my face nearly at crotch level with this stranger who is still watching me.

The entire club has gone silent at this point, and even the man who had grabbed my ankle is frozen in fear. Grey-eyes tilts his head slightly, and two of the men put back their guns and move forward. I hear grunts from behind me and then a pained moan, and I realize they're dragging away his companions from the table.

I swallow, asking in a meek voice, "If I move, will they shoot me?"

He stares at me and then the corner of his lips quirks up again. "Would you like for them to shoot you?"

His voice is raspy and deep, and a shiver runs down my spine at the sound. This time, it's not just fear. I can feel my lower muscles tighten in a spasm of need that I didn't anticipate, and horror washes over me at my reaction.

"No," I squeak and then quickly add, for politeness's sake, "Sir."

I see a dark emotion move behind his eyes, and it's almost hypnotizing. "Bang, bang."

I don't know if he's teasing me or if it's a directive for someone in the room, so my mouth turns dry. "Excuse me?"

His hand suddenly reaches out and puts a finger under my jaw, tilting my head back to face him. My heart is pounding so fiercely that I wonder if he can hear it.

"You ruined my suit."

I blink at him, "What?"

He gestures towards his suit. "How will you pay me back for the damage?"

"It's a suit," I say slowly. "You're going to shoot me over a suit?"

He gives me a steady look.

A smart idea would be to apologize, beg for forgiveness, and swear on everyone's life but my own that I will pay for dry cleaning. However, the fact that to him, his suit is more valuable than my life is pissing me off. So, I don't do the smart thing.

I do the stupid thing and say, "It's not my fault your hand was in the way."

From behind me, at the bar, I hear Steve moan, "Megan, no!"

But I've already said it.

And since I've already aggravated the lion, there's no harm in going out with a bang. So, I glare at the man and say, "I'm not sorry, and your suit is ugly. Now, at least you have a reason to throw it away."

I hear a thump on the ground and wonder if Steve has passed out. The adrenaline running through my veins is pushing away the fear.

"My life is shitty enough," I say to the man. "Go ahead and shoot me. At least I know I saved a girl's life in the process. What did you do? Sit in your expensive suit and watch her get assaulted! What kind of man even does that? And you know what else?"

I don't know why I can't shut my mouth, but it's like I'm on a roll. Perhaps, if I piss him off enough, he'll just shoot me quickly and get this over with. I hope he doesn't dump me out back, though. I deserve at least a small funeral.

"What?" he asks in a dangerous tone, his voice silky and rubbing against my nipples, making them ache under my shirt. "Do go on."

"I'm glad I ruined your fucking ass suit!"

The man stares at me, and then he smirks, his thumb coming to rub my lower lip, as he murmurs, "You have quite a mouth on you, don't you?"

This is the part where he's supposed to shoot me dead. Why isn't he telling them to kill me?

"What's your point?" I try not to let my fear show.

The look in his eyes tells me he's almost considering it, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment that seems endless. Finally, he mutters, "I think I've scared you enough for today."

I freeze, and this time, my voice is small, as if my brain has suddenly remembered the situation I'm in. "So, you're not going to kill me?"

His smirk is lazy and spells all kinds of trouble. "Over my ugly suit? Didn't you say that now I have a reason to throw it away?"

I wet my dry lips and mutter, "I just said that to hasten the killing process."

He blinks, "Do you want to die?"

"No?"

"Okay, then." He jerks his chin, and the men suddenly put away their guns and move back to their seats as if nothing had ever happened.

I'm still frozen in my position, and the man says smoothly, "Do you need some help getting up?"

My muscles feel stiff, and I get to my feet slowly. It's then that I register the shaking in my hands. The adrenaline is fading away, only to be replaced by the stark realization that I nearly just got myself killed.

"Um–" I stare at him, and he looks at me with a small smile. "I can't afford to pay for your dry cleaning."

I should be thanking him for not murdering me, not reminding him of his ruined suit, but his lazy question takes me aback. "Oh, do they not pay you enough here?"

I glance back at where Steve is lying unconscious, and I mutter, "They pay me, okay."

"I see."

My eyes feel wet, and I blink.

His smile disappears as I rub my eyes.

"I have to..." I take a step back slowly. "I have to go cry now. I'll replace your drink in a minute."

And with that, I dart off into the kitchen like a speeding bullet, relieved that at least I'm still breathing.