The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta Y Tres ~ 33

                 Streetlights shimmer across the damp pavement outside of Penthouse, and fog escapes with my breaths as salsa music pumps out of the entrance behind me. For a Tuesday night, there’s a line wrapped around the building, and the women look like disco balls in their sparkly dresses, ready to slay the dancefloor with their salsa moves. 

Jimmy is working the door with me. He’s not as tall or built as me, but if some asshole attempted to sneak past the velvet ropes, Jimmy has the reflexes of a ninja. On several occasions, I’ve witnessed him body slam a few creepos into the ground for getting pervy with the ladies in line.

Number one rule: no touching the women without consent. It’s the quickest way to get banned from the club.

With the new tablet in hand, I’m checking names off the VIP list when I spot Jackson dressed like a stud in black slacks, a navy blue button-down shirt with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows, and his famous black ostrich skin shoes. If I didn’t know him, I’d say he looks like a wealthy social media influencer, with Alma and Angie draped on his arms like candy. 

This is the first time I’ve seen Alma in anything revealing, and I’m glad she’s showing off her legs because poetry should be written about them as they peek-a-boo from the slit in her leather mini-dress. Jackson is a lucky fella. No wonder Gino refused to sign divorce papers. Yet, despite how gorgeous she looks with her sleek black hair swept across one bronze shoulder, I can’t take my eyes off Angie. 

Blush pink was made for her, as a sequence dress swathes her curves. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline showing off some cleavage. However, it’s not excessive, like some of the deep necklines on the women in line. No, Angie looks classy, with just the right amount of skin showing. 

Blowing out a breath, I rub the back of my head and think about Mindy.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. 

My sweet Mindy.

“Are these your friends?” Jimmy nods in their direction.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll look the other way while you let them pass,” Jimmy says, then pretends to occupy himself with the tablet in his hands. 

“My man!” Jackson steps forward, and we slap hands, then bump knuckles. 

“Alma.” I nod. “You look lovely.”

“I know.” She does a hair toss with one hand on her hip. 

“Angie...” I flash a glance her way, then back to Jackson and Alma. “Have fun in there.”

Stepping aside, I part the velvet rope, allowing them to pass, and I wish I could follow, but I’ll have to figure out an excuse to see them later. So I focus on crossing out names on the VIP list, checking IDs, letting some people in, and sending others away when their names don't appear on the roster. Some even try slipping money into my pocket, thinking I’ll hustle a reserved area for them or comp their drinks, but they're dead wrong. I'm not their pal.

I’ll never understand the audacity of waving money in someone’s face, thinking they’ll bend to your will. It reminds me of the night Richie’s arrogant ass pulled three hundred dollars out of his wallet and told me to buy a clue because I didn’t know who the fuck he was. 

So I take pleasure in sending assholes like that to the back of the line, and when they push back, I don’t let them in at all. Thankfully, Jude always backs me up when a complaint is made.

After an hour of holding the line, I bump Jimmy’s elbow. “Mind if I take a little break?”

“Nah, man. Things are chill right now,” he says and switches spots with me. “I’ve got the line. You go do your thing.”