Crown of Sins - Chaelisa

-Chapter Twenty One-

*Roseanne's POV*

I wish I could have seen Lisa's reaction when she woke up and read my note this morning. I wish a lot of things about Lisa today, but that's the one I'm focused on in this current moment while I sit in a booth down in my club.

I've been putting off paperwork for days, and, after last night, it seemed really important to try and focus on something today. So here I sit, sifting through receipts and permits and all sorts of boring shit in the dim lights coming from the stage.

All while Caleb stands stiffly near me, his thick arms crossed over his chest, very obviously brooding while he also acts as bodyguard. He's been hovering around or over me since I came out of my apartment this morning.

I'm pretty sure he's still salty that I kicked him out without letting him get his dick wet last night. Not that he's ever been offended by my independence. But I'd guess he needed more from me than I could give him.

But his attitude in reaction is one I'd expect from myself, not Caleb.

Personally, I'm distracted by spite-or maybe fueled by it; I don't know, maybe both-all the time, so spite is pretty much my constant state of affairs. And it works. Normally it works fucking great.

So I do the only mature thing I can. Looking to Caleb, I stick my tongue out at him before flipping my current document over, moving onto the next piece of business. I know he sees too, even though he's doing his best to guard me without actually looking at or even noticing me. Which makes a whole lot of sense.

But whatever.

I ignore him ignoring me, trying to focus on whatever this thing says that needs my signature. Though it gets harder as Caleb goes completely still. So tense he isn't even breathing for a moment.

He's always stiff when he's in protection mode. But this is different. I can feel it before I look up. And when I do, there's a part of me wondering if he's still being a jerk. Because there's nothing out of order in the club.

The neon lights are pulsing right on cue with pinks and purples and blues. There's glittering skin-both from actual glitter, but also from the sweat as the babes walking around or dancing their tight asses off as usual.

There's money coming in at the bar and the stage and in the back rooms. I can't see whatever has Caleb's panties in a twist.

That is, until my eyes do another sweep. At the same time as I notice someone walking toward the stage where Jennie is dancing, Caleb's fingers land on my shoulder. And he takes step even closer than before, half blocking me.

"Is that?" Caleb asks, though, I know he knows the answer anyway. Of course it is.

Sitting with his elbows on the stage, fists of cash near his chin, is Christopher Wirth. His skin so pale, it's almost see-through-which makes his black hair stand out even more, especially the deep v of his widow's peak. The skin of his face is pockmarked, little divots that he unintentionally draws more attention to every time he touches his face, giving him a menacing look-but that look likely comes from genetics, not poor choices that mark his skin. Either way, it would be hard not to recognize him.

As Liam's second-hand man, it hits me how obvious it should have been that he'd take over The Scions. I just didn't really think about how quickly that would be. Or that he'd be asserting some kind of formal announcement to me, in person no less. It could be an announcement and warning all in one, which is probably most likely.

But his eyes never leave Jennie's body as she slides down the pole, using her core like I never would have believed possible before knowing strippers.

And I may be far away, but those eyes don't seem very appreciative, like most of the men sitting near him right up at the stage as she moves in ways that they'll dream about for days.

No. His eyes look like he's taking in information. Like he's seeing past her, and to the potential of...something. I don't like it.

I wish it was someone else on stage. Someone else's club. Someone else sitting there. Not that I can change any of it. But I don't like him, and the room feels too hot and ice cold at the same time.

"I think he's here to make an appearance for The Princess. Paying a visit. Maybe his respects?" Caleb says. The last part is all hope from him, and I know he doesn't think it's any more possible than I do. "What do you want to do here? Just tell me the plan," he adds, handing over all responsibility.

"Let's wait. He knows we've seen him," I say as Christopher's shark smile stays fixed on his face, like it was painted there. "If he wants to talk, he can come over. If not, then there's nothing for me to say. He's made his point, if it's the only one he has."

Caleb keeps his hand on my shoulder, his other fisted. He agrees, silently, even though I know he doesn't like it. Sitting back and waiting isn't really Caleb's strength.

"Besides," I add, hoping to give him more confidence in my plan, "there's no need to make the first move. I keep more of my hand all to myself this way, since I very much doubt he's only here to pay his respect," I add.

That gets another nod from Caleb but no easing of his tense stance.

And we watch him, both Caleb and I. Two sets of eyes fix on Christopher and the way he picks at his nails-first biting them and then peeling back skin at the edges-the way he looks first at Jennie, and then the other girls who walk around like possessions with his beady, dark eyes.

And then we don't have to watch anymore. Because, just before Jennie's last song for her set finishes, Christopher stands, leaving an entire stack of bills for her, then straightening a tie that's far too skinny and leaving.

He never even glances my way. He doesn't come over. He doesn't say a single word to me.

But as I watch Jennie pick up her tips, I can see just how well he paid her for her time. She catches my eye and gives me a meaningful look before walking backstage.

All of it leaves an awful feeling in my gut and sour taste in my mouth. Like I've just thrown up, but it's not over and I will again before too long.

It's not a feeling I'm used to or one I can appreciate. Just because there wasn't an incident tonight doesn't mean there won't be. I can pretty much guarantee there will be. This wasn't a peace gesture, though I'd bank on him trying to claim it was. It's not the end of anything, but only the beginning of something I really don't want to deal with.

So I scoot my ass over, deeper into the booth, and pat the spot of leather I just vacated.

"Want to talk?" I ask Caleb. He doesn't nod, doesn't speak, but he sits down almost rushing to get closer to me.

"Guess we need to strategize," I say.