The Divorcee Murder Club

Diecinueve ~ 19

                Bass thumps the masonry walls of Penthouse with the echo of people chit-chatting in a line that wraps around the block. The susurrous of their voices float towards the raven sky, where a full moon glows and blinks behind drifting clouds, as a stray black cat scampers in front of us. 

Great. That’s all I need—bad luck.

The club is going off, as usual, but tonight isn’t just any other night. The Sisters are here. Tension digs its claws into my shoulders, and everything about this, especially having Angie by my side, screams this meeting won’t go well. At least not for me. Because down, down, down, the rabbit hole I go. Meanwhile, Angie is reveling in her fur coat draped over a lacy lingerie top paired with waxy leather leggings and red bottom stilettos. She looks like money tonight as her voluminous curls bounce about. Salma Hayek would be jealous of her strut.

“Listen, when we get to the front, let me do the talking so that I can get you past the rope,” I say as we cut past the line.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever, handsome.” 

“I mean it. Regardless of our meeting, this is my place of employment, so I still gotta play by the rules.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You worry too much.”

We approach the entrance, and the club's owner, Gavin, is standing next to my coworker. Cigar smoke slithers from his mouth in coils and dissipates into the chilly air as he checks the expensive silver pocket watch attached to his Gucci vest. When he sees us, the watch snaps shut, and he parts the velvet rope. I’m expecting him to hand me a badge, a tablet, and an earpiece, but instead, he motions inside.

This is perplexing, so I stare at the opening he’s created, then back at him again, and say, “This is my friend Angie. She—”

“They’re already inside,” he cuts me off. 

“What?”

“You’re not here to work. You’re here because the Sisters summoned you.”

My eyes widen. “Wait, you know who the Sisters are?”

“Everyone knows who the fuck they are! Now stop holding up the line and get your ass in there. The last thing I need is for them to breathe down my neck and demand a larger percentage of their cut.”

“They… you…” I furrow my brows because, holy shit. Do the Sisters own part of Penthouse?

“Just get in there!” Gavin grabs my arm and shoves me inside. “Do me a favor and say something nice to them about me. Ok?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say over my shoulder before disappearing into the dark corridor. 

Music pulses with a tempo as erratic as my thoughts, but Angie takes everything in as her brown eyes bounce over the black and metallic decor. The crystal chandeliers twinkling above us cast a shimmer over her skin, and I must admit, she’s sparkling in this atmosphere. If I didn’t know what a nutcase she is, I’d think she’s some sort of heiress.

“Want to hand over the roadkill strapped to your back?” I motion to the hottie managing all the luxurious coats on the rotating rack at the guest check-in area. 

“Nobody touches my fur,” Angie says with a hair toss and continues past me. In this lighting, the coat looks expensive, with its fine strands of fur shifting ever so slightly, like a field of wheat in the breeze from her movement. Yet, I still wonder if she ever gets it dry-cleaned. At least it’s not raining tonight.

Fog from the dance floor rises to the overlook where the staircase begins, and Angie pauses to gaze down at the sea of twerking hips. White laser lights whip to the song's beat and bounce off the chandeliers, bathing the club in an illusion of glitter. I slide in next to her, my hand resting on the small of her back, and I wish this were a normal date — just a guy and girl out dancing on a Friday. But it isn’t. We’re about to walk into a den of Alpha wolves who make Angie look like a Beta.