Chapter Text
It is currently four-thirty in the morning. Matt is kept awake by a surge of adrenaline, lounging openly on the red velour couch in the living space of Mello’s two-bedroom apartment. He’s wearing a gymicky Tetris t-shirt, and pyjamas that just didn’t quite fit him properly, leaving about three inches of pale, hairy ankle exposed in his sprawl. Mello’s pants, he managed to borrow.
“And that was the last time you saw him?”
The Man Upstairs was standing directly square in front of Matt — no, not God, but to Mello, worshipped just the same. He and Mello went wayyy back together, or so he said, so when he settled into the club business, he had no issues borrowing a hefty sum of cash from some loser with knuckle tattoos, because, well, his narcissism made him trust the sonofabitch, or at least, the part of him with a death wish did.
The man was garbed in a tight, scuffed leather jacket, a shiny gold chain, with matching gold teeth and all the ego to prove it. He had beady little brown eyes encased in crows' feet, and every time Matt tried to look into them, he was sure he could catch his reflection.
“Yes, that was the last time I saw him,” Matt affirmed, the tail end of a whine catching in his throat. He was exhausted.
Matt had spent hours crunching the numbers to determine the necessary funds to improve the club, as per Mello’s slurred request. With no attempts for the blond to kick the coke habit, they were looking at less than two thousand dollars left of their loan, excluding utilities for Mello’s apartment, let alone the club. They were flat broke.
The Man Upstairs nodded, then pointed beyond an arched window to the garage.
“He was driving?”
“Yes,”
“Driving his bike?”
“Yes, I just said that.” Matt snapped. The Man Upstairs pulled a gun and shot a lavish red vase on the nearby table, shattering it to smithereens. Matt’s ears rang, the smell of gunpowder pungent in the otherwise stuffy room.
“Jesus—!”
Matt flinched and plucked himself up from his slouched position, folding one of his lengthy legs over the other one. He massaged his temples and sighed.
“Mello sometimes gets a little ansty after…” Matt rubbed his nose inconspicuously. “I’m sure he’s just maintaining business affairs… have you checked The Snake Pit?”
“Yes, I’ve checked The Snake Pit!” The Man Upstairs returned in hysterics. “How stupid do you think I am? You think I’m not gonna check the damn club I loaned you the goddamn money for!?” he clicked his teeth and shook his head.
“Look, maybe you can leave your number here, man? But I’m not sure when Mello will be back—”
“Mello owes me 42 fucking thousand dollars,” he waved the gun in Matt’s face, right between the eyes. Matt held his breath. “You think I’ve got time to wait around for 42 fucking thousand dollars!?”
“N-No!” Matt chirped and smiled passively, big, wide, white teeth on display. The left front one was chipped a little, a seesaw accident in his youth.
“I think not!” The Man Upstairs affirmed. “Now get his skinny ass back here with my money! You ain't gotta make complications!”
“N-no, no complications.” Matt lifted his hips from the couch and slowly removed his red flip phone, a small nervous breath escaping his chapped lips as he did so. “I'll call him now,”
“On speakerphone!”
“On speakerphone,” Matt repeated. He flicked through his list of contacts. Mello was always at the top, but he was just buying more time, hoping that maybe Mello was throwing up somewhere, and he would be finished by now and ready to take his call.
The phone rang aloud into the quiet living room. Matt blinked slowly, green eyes floating nervously up to The Man Upstairs, who continued to peer at him.
Ring ring ring…. Ring ring ring…
“He's not picking up,” Matt whispered.
“Call again then.”
Matt nodded mousily, quick and quiet. He dialled him again.
Ring, ring, ring. Mello was nowhere to be found.
Matt couldn’t help but boil with rage beneath the surface. Matt was left here alone to manage Mello’s finances, to clean the house, to help himself to whatever was in the cabinets but not in the wine cellar. Don’t charge up the phone bill, no dark liquid in the living room; Matt wasn’t trusted with the white rabbit fur rug.
Essentially, Matt was a child, allowed to be home alone under certain circumstances—under Mello’s circumstances—while Mello got to party, high out of his mind, watching girls in skimpy clothes move up and down the special spinning dance poles he had installed. Not cheap.
Mello was both the overbearing mom and the alcoholic dad who ceased to exist in his youth.
Ring Ring ring…
Matt bit his lip; his heart was loud in the silence. He thought, This is where I go. Tonight, here, on this couch he never liked. In these run-down pyjamas, the last gust of his earlier joint still ghosting on his warm breath, the scent of denial. Denial that his life was attached to Mello’s like a moth to a flame, and that indefinitely, whatever misfortune Mello strode into, Matt was dragged along tooth and nail.
He didn’t even get to live yet, really. Not on his own, not without Mello sucking up all the life in his orbit.
It rang once more. The Man Upstairs clenched his gun, finger on the trigger, barrel to Matt’s pale, freckled, forehead.
“Say your goodbyes,” he smiled widely, gold teeth glistening in the light, and then…
“Hello?”
“Hey! Mello, I need you to come home right now, okay?” Matt’s words left his mouth so fast, so jumbled, the man on the other end stalled. Matt swallowed thickly, opened his mouth to speak again, when he was cut off.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Mello, hi—” Matt’s panic overshadowed the deep twist in his gut that appeared the second time the man spoke, because the man was not in fact Mello; it was someone else.
“I’m not Mello,” the man responded, the gravely edged to his voice suggested he had been a little more than inebriated, too. Matt was a fool for suspecting that Mello was the only one who partied excessively on a Tuesday night. “I found this phone outside the club. Finders keepers, man.”
“Wait!” Matt yelped, hands shaking as he gripped his phone tighter. “Do you remember a blond guy? At the club?”
“Plenty of blond guys in LA—”
“No, I mean, blond shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, dark clothing… he’s kind of short? He sits at the back of the club, sometimes wanders around yelling at the staff—”
“Nope… never seen ‘em. Don’t call again.”
The phone hung up, dial tone played as Matt slowly looked toward The Man Upstairs, who was no longer smiling ear to ear. Matt swallowed thickly.
“W-Wait, I can get your money, okay? I’ve got half of it here, and I'm still collecting.”
Matt slowly raised from his seat, hands up as he grabbed a thin silver laptop, fingers flying over the keys as he queued up the bank account.
“See that? It's all yours.”
“I said 42 thousand,” The Man Upstairs pressed the gun to his temple again, the barrel still warm against his throbbing head.
“And you’ll get it. I just need some more time for the video to circulate…”
“Video?”
***
Meanwhile, Mello sat at a rounded glass table, two black leather chairs with peeling backs sat on a swivel, no armrests because it made things complicated for the dancers. His toes, encased in black studded leather Louboutin’s grazed the polished marble floor as his chair turned, one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped before his mouth as he stared at the stage.
“Would you like another one, Boss?” The waitress asked as she paused by his table, a mirror tray currently stacked with five glasses of champagne, filled to the top. It was someone’s 21st birthday, and what better way to celebrate legality than getting shitfaced at a strip joint?
“No, thank you,” he muttered almost intelligibly, gunmetal blue glued to the stage as purple and blue lights faded to black. The show was starting; this was important. For someone who never intended to be a businessman, his work was important.
The music changed, and the stage was set for my opening performance. The lights strobed red as Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus began to play, and cheers erupted from the crowd as some overgrown goth kids began to jump from their seats, proceeding toward the stage. I took the center stage, hair loose, expression determined, as the curtains of black velvet parted. I quickly scanned the crowd before I raised my chin away from them.
The bass thrummed through the stage and up through the four-inch heels of my boots as I tried not to blush at the immediate response of a room full of eyes on me. I stared upwards, above the bobbing heads of the crowd, as the ceiling light dangled down in the shape of a coiled snake, luminescent and see-through, hovering above everyone like the sun.
The outfit of the night looked cheap, the sides of the shorts were cinched with ribbon laces, so slick a single movement could send them down unchoreographed, and send me toppling off the stage in too-high heels. The jacket was worse, pleather—the lovechild of actual leather and plastic, I supposed. Maybe the owner was vegan, it was a goth club after all, but then again, that same man ordered his steak rare, and had no problem wearing about forty rabbits around his torso in an overdone fur coat.
Maybe he was just cheap, I thought, my hips moving in titillating circles to the beat, back against the cold metal of the pole, hands chalked—too chalked. I brushed my inner thigh to the rhythm and left a noticeable handprint behind.
I wasn’t on top of my game anymore; these nights, dancing felt less like a necessary thrilling way to earn cash and more like work. Punch in and watch the clock tick by type of work.
I moved my arms up the pole behind me, letting it spin me.
A man in his late forties stood. He scoffed under his breath and made a beeline for the back door and exited.
The shorts came off with a tiny tug of the ribbon lace, knotted so good on one side it didn’t fall. I tugged it anyway, down the thigh, the calf, the foot, hooked on the heel for a moment and then kicked into the audience.
The boss was watching, and people were leaving. I needed to crank it up a notch.
The jacket came next. Thank god, it smelled similarly to that of a school bus interior on a day past ninety degrees, hot and artificial. It landed on the stage with a rude slap, thankfully in time with the steamy vocals caressing the room from every crevice.
I took to the pole, hooked my leg, spun, moved up, moved down again, and sprawled across the floor.
Another man left, this time, he took two others with him, pointing and snickering, then pointing at their phones. These men weren’t so hard to look at; maybe they were only a few years past thirty.
I unhooked the black lace bra, hooks rusted with age as I tugged and tugged to the music, and once it was off, I was on my knees again, crawling to the front row, hair whipped in a circle, back extended, ass up.
Here came the tips. I was starting to worry.
Bills fluttered to the stage like autumn leaves, crinkling under me as I turned in a full rotation, then hands, some cold, frigidly so, and others warmer, as they ventured closer to tuck the bills into the side of my thong.
And then, one hand lingered a little too long, hesitant at first as he pawed and grabbed within eyesight of at least twenty other people, shameless as ever.
I pulled away, back up on my knees, disgust evident on my features.
The man followed me, his skin yellowed, liver spots on his cheeks, as he reached out again, grabbing air, then my arm and yanking. I pulled back before security jumped in.
The man was whisked away without further word, and then another climbed the stage, reaching, chasing in a drunken stupor. The music thudded in time with my beating heart as I stood to escape him, the poor security guard working overtime to keep the men from jumping on the stage.
And then, Mello.
Blond hair dusted the shoulders of his black fur coat, glinting in the light as his tan, lithe torso poked out bare between the lapels. He was wearing low-rise leather pants, V-line on full display, as he snapped his ringed fingers and whistled at his employees.
“What is going on here!?” he hissed. “Turn the music off! Get her out of here!”
I stumbled backwards, grabbing my jacket from the stage to throw around my shoulders as I sauntered off.
Behind the curtain, a young man trilled.
“SLUT! DON’T THINK WE DON’T THINK WE DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”
Then another.
“More like who she did.”
“More like who she didn’t—”
“HOW ABOUT YOU GIVE ME A PRIVATE SHOWING!? I PROMISE I’LL BE GOOD!”
I recoiled and slid into the back room, face flushed and streaked with sweat, tears burning behind my eyes as I mindlessly strode into the back room.
I managed to hurry past the other dancers, ignoring the looks of concern I got over my shoulder as I was quick to shed the jacket and tug on a hoodie from my locker instead. Going through the motions as I tried to slow my breath, tried ot do anything but let their words get to me.
Behind me, the door whipped open, and girls commented under their breath about privacy as the scent of vanilla and cocoa floated through the room.
“What was that?” Mello asked, breathing down my neck. “Second time I let you dance, and the second time people have grab-assed you?”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, unravelling my jeans and stepping into them. I had to jump to get the thick heels of my boots through the cuffs. Mello grabbed my shoulder and glared at me, a few inches below eye level thanks to my heels.
“It's breaking up the flow of the shows. If you're going to be a distraction, I’m taking you out.”
“I thought I was supposed to be a distraction. Isn’t that my job?”
“Your job is to dance.” Mello gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed on mine, alcohol and menthol cigarettes heavy on his breath. I shook my head and turned around, but he didn’t leave.
“What?” I asked over my shoulder.
“I’ve got something to show you. Change your shoes and come with me,” he ordered, barging back through the door he came in and nearly knocking out a younger dancer in the process. She squealed and covered her bare ample chest, as if an entire club hadn’t seen it moments ago, and Mello disappeared with a cloud of smoke.
I took my time removing my boots, avoiding the zipper and taking them off lace by lace, dissociating. Once they were off, I set them aside and followed my boss in rundown black DC sneakers.
I didn’t see him at first; the lights were out aside from a few overhead potlights, shining down on his golden hair like tinsel. He was speaking to Terry—the security guard—and handing over a healthy wad of cash before he brushed a hand on his shoulder, speaking proactively of the ongoing issue.
All because of one little slip-up. How foolish of me to think the cameras were for the security of the dancers, not to further exploit them.
I paused a few feet away from their conversation, let Mello notice me, and Terry sent me a wave as he headed out. My boss crossed his arms, brows furrowed.
“I didn’t think hiring you would lose me so much money,” he commented dryly.
I shuffled begrudgingly toward him, crossing my own arms to mirror him as he took off, leading me toward the back of the club where the private rooms were. Now that my shoes had been switched, our dynamic seemed to as well; Mello was no longer shorter than me.
“This is all yours,” he tossed the door open, letting it slam into the wall as he exposed a single room. In the center was a large round mattress, leather, no sheets, but with thin tulle drapery hanging from an overhead circular frame, like fog sitting on the water.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t play coy, I know you know what it is,” Mello grunted, hands in his front pockets, tugging his leather pants lower and lower down his hips. “It’s time you start bringing in some money.”
I felt my face fall, eyes fluttering shut in denial.
“I don’t give private dances—”
“I’m not asking you to fuck them, I’m asking you to pull your weight.” He ran a hand through his hair, the front strands greasy with sweat. He seemed to be cooking in that fur coat; maybe he should take it off.
“I told you I had one boundary!” I scoffed.
“Don't worry, there aren't any cameras in here.” Mello winked. “So if you do decide to cross your one boundary again, this time the world won't witness it.”
He guffawed at his own joke, then turned on his ridiculously overpriced heel and strutted toward the back door, swinging open in the night beneath the red EXIT sign.
I had bosses like this before, the type who would extort your services and take advantage.
My previous boss, The Man Upstairs, didn’t seem so Holy after all. He must have thought he was so high and mighty, distributing my sex tape like that. Who else would have seen the footage?
It wasn't my fault, the girls in the backroom said getting high helped with nerves, but I guess it helped a little too much, and an old fling was in town, wanting a private dance…
Need I say more?
I clenched my teeth and stormed after Mello, whipping the door open roughly enough that it bounced against the frame and came back to hit me in the face. I winced as my nose burned, vision blurring, and Mello just stood there, mounting his bike, leather pants and his tight little shiny ass reflecting the neon lights as he looked over his shoulder at me, helmet on, visor down.
He paused, revved his bike, watching as I recoiled and pushed out of the doors again.
“It takes some kind of chauvinistic pig to run a club and treat their dancers like shit—!”
“Easy, Feisty,” Mello crooned, motorcycle helmet removed in one foul swoop, blond hair mussing, dusting his shoulders and being picked up in the wind. He smirked, his sharp white teeth poking out, and I felt the flush to my core.
This man was insufferable.
“Easy—what? Did you just give me a nickname?” I guffawed, blood from my nose trickling to my lips as I screamed at him, feet stomping on wet pavement as he stood, smirking, watching me explode long overdue from when the real pain started.
“It suits you.”
“I'm going to call the BBB! I'll have your club torn down!”
“Over a nickname?” Mello searched my eyes, allowing himself a momentary smile with sharp teeth. Something far back in his mouth glimmered, a decorative tooth gem, I think.
“Over the private dances!”
Mello tilted his head, brows furrowed, inches from my face. I growled with gritted teeth
“You know what? I quit.” I hissed in his face, inhaling his chocolaty cologne.
“Then quit.” Mello shoved his hands in his pockets again, and beneath the dim flickering street lamp, a small trail of blond hair illuminated beneath his naval, travelling down to a prominent bulge in his leather pants. So tight, I could see the outline.
I felt my mouth go dry, eyes forcibly glued to his as I straightened my hand and went in for a slap across his stupid tan, unblemished skin.
Mello saw me coming, he grabbed my wrist, stopping me mid-way, and left us, gazes ignited, in the damp alley behind the club.
Mello arched a brow as I swallowed thickly. He let me free from his grasp as his fingers brushed from my wrist down to my fingertips before he let it drop limply at my side. Without thinking, his hand darted to the blood beneath my nose, smoothing it away with his warm, gloved thumb. He smirked again, cocky and wry.
“See you at work tomorrow, Feisty."