Shooting Dirty (6 page)

Courtney had retreated into that space, and it had consumed her.

Ace drove away from the casino at dusk, plagued with memories. He had one more stop to make before he called it a night. He took the 111 toward the Salton Sea.

Traveling this route always reminded him of his old stomping grounds in Slab City. He exited at Bombay Beach and drove closer to the shore, parking behind a tattered billboard advertising the old resort area. Forty years ago, the sea had been a popular tourist destination. Now it was a salt-crusted wasteland.

Ace had shot Shane Jackson here, on the ruins of an old playground. He’d fought Shane’s brother, Owen. He’d left Janelle, bound and stripped, in the shack nearby. He’d hung her by the wrists from a lag bolt and looked his fill.

He remembered everything. Every detail. Her trembling mouth. Pretty, natural breasts. Taut belly, quivering with anticipation. Smooth, bare pussy. The urge to touch her had been strong enough to make his teeth ache.

He exited the truck, his pulse racing.

He had a metal detector in the back. Grabbing the device, he strode toward the playground. Fish vertebrae crunched under his boots with every step. From a distance, the white material looked like sand. It wasn’t. Rather than crushed seashells, the shore was littered with bone fragments from millions of dead fish.

There were also dead birds, fresh fish carcasses, foamy brown algae blooms and various salt deposits. Not exactly a nice place to stretch out your towel.

Ace wasn’t here for leisure activities, but he’d waded into the sea more times than he could count. He’d never gotten sick. He’d eaten the fish—live caught—without incident. If the water was polluted, he was immune.

He pictured Janelle with his Colt, her cowboy boots braced wide. She’d been standing on a slope between the shack and the playground. If she’d dropped it and climbed up the slope, the bone fragments could have shifted with every step, burying the weapon.

After a quick glance around, he turned on the metal detector and began his search. He swept the device over every inch of the slope. It detected quite a lot of junk. Rusted nails, scrap metal, aluminum cans.

Then he hit the jackpot. He dug deep into the bones and there it was. His Colt 1911. Sweetest piece he’d ever held.

Still loaded.

He needed to clean it and test it, but the gun didn’t appear any worse for the wear. Removing the bullets, he shoved them into his front pocket and tucked the Colt into his waistband.

Hell yeah. Things were looking up.

It was a huge relief to have such a damning piece of evidence back in his possession. He’d killed three men with this gun. If the cops had lifted his fingerprints from the surface, he’d have been fucked.

Now he just had to decide who to kill with it—Bill or Jester.

Chapter Seven

“Ready?”

Janelle nodded at Tiffany, her blood pumping with adrenaline. After the DJ announced their special performance, they slipped through the velvet curtains and stepped onto the darkened stage together.

The usual routine at Vixen was one dancer at a time. It was a small club with a narrow runway-style platform and a single pole. On a typical weeknight, there were six to eight dancers who took turns on stage. They wore different outfits for each performance. Some varied their dance moves to keep it interesting. Others stuck with the same basic steps, and Janelle didn’t blame them. The men in the audience weren’t picky about skill or grace. They responded to tits. As long as the tops came off quickly, they didn’t complain.

On weekends, the club was always packed. There were as many as sixteen dancers who competed for space, stage time and dollar bills. The most popular dancer was selected to do the last performance of the evening, and she always pulled in extra money. Tiffany and Janelle had developed a sexy new duo in hopes of nabbing the coveted spot.

A folded chair had been placed behind the pole at center stage. Janelle took her mark in front of the pole, next to Tiffany.

It was a basic couple performance with a twist. Janelle was wearing a flirty red dress and heels. Tiffany, who was taller, had donned a man’s pinstriped suit and hat. As soon as the lights went up, they started dancing, cheek to cheek.

After an exaggerated dip, Janelle unbuttoned Tiffany’s jacket and pushed it off her shoulders. Tiffany was wearing suspenders and a snug vest that hardly contained her full breasts. She spun Janelle around and unzipped her dress. It pooled around her feet, leaving Janelle clad in a red bra and tiny black panties. She bent forward at the waist, swishing her bottom over Tiffany’s crotch.

“Show us your tits!” one of the men hollered.

Janelle didn’t take offense. The customers yelled rude things constantly, often out of impatience and anticipation, not because they weren’t enjoying the show.

She straightened and grabbed the chair, placing it near the pole. Tiffany sat down like a man, her legs braced wide. Janelle strutted her stuff for her “customer.” She twirled around the pole while Tiffany watched. Then Janelle stepped in front of Tiffany’s chair and unfastened her bra, letting it drop. Tiffany stared in slack-jawed approval, as if mesmerized. Janelle faced the crowd, hands covering her breasts. Bending over again, she wiggled her ass.

Tiffany stood and unfastened her vest. Janelle’s figure was nice enough, but it didn’t compare to Tiffany’s. The sight of the pretty blonde in men’s clothes with her breasts exposed was highly erotic.

There were several catcalls and whistles from the audience.

When Tiffany sat down again, Janelle climbed onto her lap. She took off Tiffany’s hat and tossed it aside. Tiffany’s blond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Tiffany put her hands on Janelle’s hips and motorboated her breasts.

That was improv—Janelle smothered a giggle.

After some heavy grinding, Janelle leaned back all the way to the floor, bracing her palms against it.

More shouts and whistles, along with raunchy suggestions.

They both stood to finish the dance. Janelle did another spin around the pole. Tiffany stripped off her pants and suspenders, revealing a pair of snug white briefs. They circled each other like cat-and-mouse. At the end of the song, Janelle leaped into Tiffany’s arms and twined her fingers through her hair. When their mouths almost touched, the lights went down and the crowd went wild.

Applause followed them as they collected the tips and headed backstage. Janelle was excited by their strong performance. They’d worked hard on the routine and the customers had responded well. Janelle was the best dancer in the club and Tiffany had a knockout figure. Surely they’d get the finale spot.

The manager met them backstage. Janelle held her breath in anticipation of his reaction. She didn’t love this job, but she needed it. She needed the extra money and extra shifts.

“It was good,” Kevin said.

“It was fucking awesome and you know it,” Tiffany said, rolling her eyes. “We deserve the finale.”

Kevin glanced at Dolores, otherwise known as Desiree, the dancer who’d been blowing him earlier. “I’m staying with Desiree for the finale. You can do that routine at the end of the night, right before her.”

Tiffany’s lips parted in shock. “Are you serious?”

Janelle pinched Tiffany’s arm to shut her up. Janelle had told Tiffany about the office incident. Everyone knew that Desiree was having an affair with Kevin, but complaining about it would only piss him off.

“This is a strip club, not an art show,” Kevin said. “The customers want to see more skin and less sass.”

Desiree smirked at this criticism.

“Someone wants a double from you two,” Kevin added on his way out. “Hop to it.”

A double lap dance featured two women instead of one. The girls made twice the money in the same amount of time, and so did the club. It was clear that their performance had inspired the request, which made Kevin’s decision seem even more unfair.

“This is bullshit,” Tiffany said to Janelle in a low voice. “I don’t want to warm up the crowd for Thunder Tits.”

Janelle didn’t either. She wished she could tell Kevin to take this job and shove it. Their routine hadn’t been too highbrow for the target audience. It was sexy and unique and polished. Then again, she should have expected Kevin’s reaction. Creativity was rarely rewarded in this business.

After Kevin left the backstage area, Tiffany pumped her fist toward her mouth and thrust her tongue against her cheek, mocking Desiree with a pantomimed blowjob.

“Screw you,” Desiree said.

“Instead of sucking off Kevin, you’d better suck in that gut,” Tiffany said.

Janelle had noticed that Desiree had gained a little weight, but the customers loved her large breasts. Instead of insulting Tiffany in return, like usual, Desiree went pale. She headed for the nearest trashcan and vomited quietly.

“Oh my God,” Tiffany said. “Are you pregnant?”

“Shut up,” Desiree moaned.

“Is it Kevin’s?”

Desiree wiped her mouth with a napkin, grimacing.

Janelle felt a pang of sympathy for her, despite their rivalry. Kevin was married, and a worthless asshole. If Desiree was knocked up, her days were numbered. She couldn’t work here with a baby bump, and Kevin probably wouldn’t support her.

Tiffany pulled Janelle through the curtains and they headed toward the VIP room. Janelle pushed aside the drama and put on a smiling face. Lap dances were yet another downside to working at Vixen. Onstage, she was a star. In the VIP room, she was just another writhing body, a combination of eye-pleasing female parts.

The customer who’d paid for a double didn’t look much older than a high school student, so that was awkward. Janelle grinded to the music, her mind elsewhere. A few weeks ago she’d heard two bachelor party guests snickering about her age. She wasn’t even thirty yet, and she was already over the hill.

When the song was over, Janelle had several solo customers lined up. So did Tiffany. They went their separate ways, performing on the stage at regular intervals. It was a typical weeknight. Janelle hustled baby-faced college students and gray-haired grandfathers, peddling lap dances and overpriced drinks.

At closing time, she paid out a percentage of her tips to the bartender and bouncer. Then she donned her street clothes, gathered her tote bag, and met Tiffany at the exit. They always walked out together for safety reasons. As Janelle approached her car, Tiffany held up two bottles of beer, obviously snagged from the bar.

“Care for a nightcap?”

Janelle nodded gratefully. It had been a hell of a week already. She climbed into the passenger seat of Tiffany’s Jeep and accepted the beer, taking a long drink. Then she reached for her pack of cigarettes. There was only one left. She lit it up with a shaking hand, inhaling as if the substance was lifesaving rather than life-taking.

Tiffany had another vice: marijuana. She sparked a joint from her ashtray while the parking lot cleared.

They sat side by side, indulging their addictions.

“Jamie found out about my job,” Janelle said.

“Oh shit,” Tiffany said, holding in the smoke. “What happened?”

“He tried to defend me and got beat up by a group of older boys.”

“How bad?”

“Just scrapes and bruises,” Janelle said. “It might have been worse, but someone intervened.”

“A neighbor?”

She shook her head. “The guy who shot Shane.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. His name is Ace.”

Tiffany frowned at this news. She knew that Ace had fixed Janelle’s car window and left money in her mailbox. “What the fuck? Is he stalking you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he act creepy?”

“Not really.”

“Not
really
?”

Janelle wasn’t sure how to describe his behavior. “He acted interested. Whether that’s creepy or not, considering our history, is up for debate.”

“I need more information,” Tiffany said, squinting into the darkness.

Janelle stubbed out her cigarette and told Tiffany everything, from the interview at Loma Santa Fe to Ace leaving his business card.

“You like him,” Tiffany said.

Warmth suffused her cheeks. She was attracted to him—against her better judgment. “Do you think that’s messed up?”

“Totally. You should fuck him.”

She laughed at Tiffany’s suggestion.

“He’s hot, right?”

“He’s a criminal.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Would you date a hired killer?”

“How do you know that’s what he is? Maybe it was just a one-time thing.”

Janelle finished her beer, contemplative. “He’s very calculated. You don’t get that way without practice.”

“You should fuck him,” she repeated.

“Be serious.”

“I’ll fuck him first, and tell you if he’s worth the trouble.”

Janelle smothered another laugh. “Okay.”

“Somebody needs to fuck somebody,” Tiffany said, gesturing with her bottle. “It’s dry as the Sahara around here.”

“Why haven’t you gone out with anyone lately?”

Tiffany just sighed, leaning back in her seat.

Janelle remembered the threesome Tiffany had engaged in a few months ago. “Did that couple ruin you for everyone else?”

Tiffany shook her head, wistful. “They were crazy in love with each other. I could tell. That’s what was special about it. He was totally whipped on her. I can’t stop wishing someone would love me like that.”

Janelle was stunned by the sound of tears in her voice. Tiffany never got choked up. “What do you mean? Everyone loves you.”

“Nice guys don’t.”

“Sure they do.”

“Your cute brother-in-law never called me back.”

Janelle put her arms around Tiffany, stroking her golden hair. Owen had gone out with her once, about a year ago. Janelle suspected that he’d been in love with Penny, his current girlfriend, at the time. He just hadn’t realized it yet. “You’re young and beautiful and funny. You’ll meet someone.”

“I only attract jerks,” Tiffany said. “I’m a jerk-magnet.”

Janelle wondered if that was true. They said blondes had more fun, but maybe Tiffany was too pretty for her own good. That kind of beauty acted as a beacon, drawing bad men from miles around. A few years ago, Janelle had watched a television documentary about a Playmate who’d been killed by her jealous boyfriend. Tiffany strongly resembled her.

“Who’s that?” Tiffany asked, looking over Janelle’s shoulder.

Janelle followed her gaze. The only remaining vehicles in the parking lot were theirs, along with an old work truck.

“It’s your stalker.”

She stared across the space with trepidation. Maybe it
was
him. The truck looked familiar. There was a man inside. He was slumped over the steering wheel with his head resting on his bent arms.

Tiffany honked her horn.

Janelle jumped at the sudden sound, swearing.

The man in the truck startled also. He straightened and glanced their direction, dragging a hand down his face. Although the parking lot lights were dim, she could make out his tattooed knuckles.

“Is that him?” Tiffany asked.

“Yeah.”

“See what he wants. I’ll wait here and make sure you’re okay.”

Janelle hesitated, her pulse racing. She felt like a teenager at a stop sign, gaping at the cute boy in the next lane. Only she was no teenager, and Ace wasn’t a boy. He was a grown man with dangerous connections.

Although she found his actions disturbing, she sensed that he knew right from wrong. He’d killed a fellow criminal and left her unharmed. He’d stepped in to prevent her son from being beaten up by bullies. Ace followed some kind of moral code. That didn’t mean he was an appropriate bed partner, of course.

If she was smart, she wouldn’t go anywhere near him. But she wasn’t that smart, as Jamie had reminded her earlier. Making wise decisions had never been her strong suit. She’d struggled to be a responsible parent and come up short. She was a disappointment to her mother. An embarrassment to Jamie. The admissions panel had rejected her. Even Kevin had dismissed her as unworthy of the finale performance.

She was tired of failing. She was tired of
trying
. Tired of caring.

Engaging in a flirtation with a professional criminal was a bad idea. It was irresponsible and self-destructive. But it felt good to be wanted by a non-customer, outside of the club. There was something between them that went beyond sexual chemistry, too. She liked the way he looked her in the eye when they spoke.

He saw her. He saw more than her body.

That was incredibly appealing.

She got out of the Jeep and strode toward him, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Her cowboy boots clicked across the asphalt. He watched her approach, seeming wary. His hands were locked around the steering wheel, his hair disheveled.

He nodded hello.

She stopped about two feet from his open window. Although the lights from the parking lot didn’t illuminate the interior, she could see a pack of cigarettes on the dash and what appeared to be a coffee mug. He didn’t smell like alcohol.