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.

“Are you nervous, handsome?”

“Nah. Nothing scares me.”

“Right.” Angie winks, her wine-red lips stretching into a smirk. “Shall we?”

She extends her hand to me, and I finally notice the fresh paint on her nails. It matches her lips, and it’s an intentional effort — she wants me to see that she went all out for this occasion. My gaze scrolls down to her closed-toe stilettos, and it’s as if she can hear my thoughts.

“The toes match too.” 

“It’s about time you get a proper mani-pedi.” I take her hand.

“Oh, fuck no. I don’t pay for that shit. Not when I have a steady hand and can paint them myself!” 

“Well, I can testify about you having steady hands.”

“Gasp,” Angie says as we begin descending the stairs. “Are you flirting?”

“Never.”

“Well, if you’re a good boy, maybe after this, we can pick up where we left off?”

“Maybe,” I tease as we reach the bottom, and Angie gives me a side stare. “Let’s just see where this meeting takes us.”

“I shall wait in suspense.” She rolls her eyes.

Truthfully, I wouldn't mind banging her brains out again since it would help relieve the stress, but this meeting — this fucking meeting, has shelved the horny goblin for the remainder of this dreadful night. 

We take a shortcut across the dancefloor, with her hand in mine as she trails me, and I force people to make way for us with one frosty stare. Those who know who I am, move without being asked, but others insist on scowling. Except, they don’t have the balls to object because my height and physical build yell, try me. 

And it was all going so well until I feel a tug, followed by Angie’s hand ripping from mine.

One glance over my shoulder puts me right into bouncer mode as I spot some playboy trying to spit game at Angie and completely ignoring her body language to back off. Seriously, who does this guy think he is wrapping his sausage fingers around her arms like that? I pinch the bridge of my nose because not tonight, not tofuckingnight. 

“YOU.” I grab the dude by his sweaty collar, and I will need antibacterial after this. “Back. The. Fuck. Off.” 

“Make me.” He shoves my chest, prying himself free, and fuuuuck because this isn’t the night for this shit.

Swallow your pride, swallow your pride… 

However, I notice Angie’s gaze sweeping between us, and there's mischief in her eyes. In fact, it might be a challenge, which means I can’t swallow it. Is she enjoying this? Does she want to see how I get when I’m triggered? But it’s too late to turn back now because Mr. Bozo’s meaty fist flies towards me, so I step left and follow it up with quick uppercuts to his ribs. It’s obvious this clown has never been in a proper fistfight, and he should really work on his core muscles to strengthen his balance because then he would’ve stood a chance against my hard shove. Instead, he buckles as if I’ve kicked him in the junk.

The people dancing around us back up several feet as it dawns on them that there’s a rumble in the jungle. But no, this was never a fight — it was me swatting a pesky fly since Homeboy’s dumbass brought a figurative knife to a figurative gunfight and lost. Word to the stupid: thou shall not try me. 

“Don’t you dare get up,” I snarl at the sorry sack of shit, and I take Angie’s hand. “I will eighty-six you from this club if you attempt another lame-ass move. Understand?” 

“He’s one of the bouncers,” his friend hisses at him, and shit-for-brains mutters an apology, but I don’t give a damn as I tug Angie through the crowd. 

“What does eighty-six mean?” Angie asks.

“It means he gets tossed from the club and forbidden to return.”

“And… that’s supposed to be a threat?” she snorts, so I halt to face her.

“Listen up, little one. You’re standing in the top nightclub in the entire Bay Area. When celebrities are in town, this is where they come to boogie away from riff-raff and paparazzi. So this place is a status. Telling people you spent Saturday night at Penthouse lets everyone know you're made of money. So getting eighty-sixed is a huge deal.”

“Noted. I also noticed that the Sisters partially own this place,” she adds.

“Yeah…” I scratch my head. “That’s information I wish I didn’t learn tonight.”

“Well, buttercup, time to buckle up because their pit bull, Kay, is coming this way.”

Through the sea of swaying bodies their giant bodyguard rooster-struts towards us. I’m tall, but he’s taller. Although, I still believe I can whoop his ass in a fight. Hopefully, my theory is never tested. I hate fighting. The adrenaline makes me want to puke, and it unfurls terrible memories from childhood. Bouncing assholes from the club is one thing, but feeling in danger is another. It doesn’t help that I blackout during fights and become a green Hulk. 

“Come with me,” Kay grunts and spins on his heels, his arms sweeping aside anyone in our path. 

We follow in his wake to a set of stairs and climb to the VIP area with a private balcony only the very wealthy can afford. It has its own bartender and waitress, as well as a bouncer who makes sure no one ascends the stairs without permission. Yet, for this occasion, the Sisters brought their security guards since I recognize two of them from their mansion as they step aside for us. 

The ladies of the hour look glamorous in their sleek cocktail outfits. Augusta could set ablaze the entire club in her black jumpsuit with a plunging neckline down to her abdomen. She brushes aside her glossy, blonde waves and presses her ruby lips to a martini as we approach.

“Your guests,” the Goliath grunts, and Augusta slides her gaze to Jocelyn, leaning against the balcony with wing-tipped eyes studying the minions on the dance floor. 

They amuse her. I can tell by the smirk twisting her mouth before she faces us, and she’s just as radiant as her sister. The sequence on her little black dress shift, and her legs are a mile high in stilettos as she makes her way to the oversized lounger Augusta relaxes on. 

“Thank you, Kay,” they say in unison, and Jocelyn snaps her fingers at the waitress.

“Get them whatever they want,” she says.

This prompts Erica to hurry over in the impossibly tight cocktail dress she’s forced to wear. Out of all the wait staff to serve the VIP area, she’s the one you want. Erica is used to working in some of the finest, most elite clubs in Las Vegas and making bank every night. But, in this environment, with the Sisters, she looks like a damn amateur as her nervous smile points at me. 

“What can I have the bartender mix for you, Sir?” 

Erica isn’t stupid. She knows neither of us has any business breathing the same air as these women, but here we are.

“Erica, you can drop the formality with me. Call me by my name.” I wink, but that nervous smile doesn’t waver as she shifts to Angie. 

“And what can I get for you, ma’am?” 

“An Old Fashioned with whatever top-shelf whiskey this place has.”

“Excellent choice.” Erica nods and returns her attention to me. “Have you decided, Sir?”

“Uh, just a beer.” 

But tonight isn’t about my drink of choice. It’s about the Sisters slipping a rope around my neck. So it’s time we get down to business and proceed with this freight train to hell. Or the insane asylum because all of this is fucked and I’ll be even more fucked by the time this meeting is over. 

“So…” I sit on a cushioned ottoman facing the Sisters while Angie makes herself at home in an oversized leather chair. She fusses with her fur coat like a child — undecided on whether she wants it on or off, so instead, she shimmies it down her shoulders like a shawl. If she’s nervous, I can’t tell since this is her usual annoying self. However, I need to do something with my hands to hide the tremble. So, I lean in and light Augusta’s fancy cigarette. 

“Shall we get down to business?” I ask, hoping the following words out of their mouths aren't about me holding Richie captive.

“Not yet.” Augusta sits back, crossing a leg over the other, and blows smoke toward the chandeliers. 

“I want to dance first,” Jocelyn says.

“What?” My eyes dart to her, and she stares at me as if I’m a cherry she wants to pop into her mouth and then yank the stem. 

“I feel like dancing,” she repeats.

Rising to her feet, she extends her hand, and the diamonds around her wrist glitter under the laser lights. This is a reminder that these women control the time when we’re around them. They call the shots. Not a mere peasant like me. So, I stand and, like a good boy, escort her to the dance floor while my heart threatens to rip through my chest like some alien creature. 

Because I’m not just signing my death sentence tonight. I’ve also become a dancing monkey. 

Fuck. Me.