It’s amazing how you can spend days, even weeks hating someone’s existence, but then a monumental discovery is made, and you’re reminded they’re just as broken as you.
I keep stealing glances at Angie, then looking away before she notices.
A soccer game plays on the TV while Jackson and I sit in the living room, and the ladies fry up breakfast. If a neighbor were to spy on us through the windows, we’d look like an average foursome having a get-together midweek. Instead, we’re talking murder while sipping mimosas.
“When Gino gets out of prison, he’ll be staying with his brother, who is a piece of shit like him,” Jackson says and marks an X on the map he just drew. “This is where we sneak into the house and take him.”
“You’ve been scoping the place out?” I snort, but frankly, I’m impressed.
“Yeah. On my nights off, I do a little recon, and his brother always leaves the house around eleven PM for work. So that's when we should grab Gino."
"We're going to need a van," I say.
"Already have it covered. Alma's cousin works at a car repo, so I was thinking we steal a van from there and then scrap it afterward. No one will notice.”
"That could work." I scratch my stubbly chin. "When Kay took me to that warehouse by the water, I spotted a building we can take Gino and Richie to. We should drive over there this weekend and scope the place out."
"Not a bad idea, but I'm on call at the fire station, so I'll keep you posted." Jackson’s gaze drifts over to the kitchen where Alma and Angie are cooking. “I swear, I shit myself every time Angie opens a drawer. If she finds those documents…”
“Let’s do a sting operation. We go in there, pretend we’re stealing bites of the food, and while you distract them, I swipe the contraband.”
“Deal.”
Rising from the couch, Jackson stretches and heads for the kitchen. I wait for a few beats so it looks less planned, then stroll behind him. Bacon sizzles in a pan while Alma poaches eggs over the stove, and Angie slices fruit.
“How are you beautiful little chefs doing?” Jackson tosses his arms around them and glances at me, his eyes pointing to the drawer.
“Fantastic!” Alma kisses the tips of her fingers. “Look at how perfect these eggs are turning out and the hollandaise sauce.”
“You know I love a yummy Eggs Benedict. Smells delicious,” Jackson inhales deeply. “And are you cutting the fruit into little star-shapes!”
Angie shrugs as she arranges the kiwi on a platter. “I thought it would be a nice touch.”
“Look at the two of you being brilliant." Jackson squeezes their shoulders and kisses each of their heads. "How did we get so lucky, Miguel?”
My back stiffens in the middle of sliding the documents out of the drawer. The last thing we need is for him to put attention on me. So I shove the folder inside the front of my pants, and when I spin, Angie collides into my chest.
“Watch it!” she growls, her hands full of fruit scraps as she walks them over to the sink.
“My bad.”
“I’m surprised you’re here,” she says, turning on the garbage disposal. The kitchen fills with its grinding as she washes the scraps down the drain. Then she flicks the switch and turns to me, her expression full of sass. “Where’s your precious Mindy?”
“Working… for the Abramovitz sisters.”
I don’t know why I share that information, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back, and Angie’s jaw drops.
“Who?” Jackson peers over his shoulder, her arms still wrapped around Alma.
“The Sisters. Abramovitz is their surname,” I reply.
“Oh. Shit.” Jackson releases her and faces me.
“Well, how the hell did that happen, Miguel!” Alma tears her apron off and tosses it onto the counter. I think I’ve struck a nerve. “That’s some pretty epic information to keep to yourself.”
“I just found out.”
“When.” Angie folds her arms.
“Sunday.”
“That was two fucking days ago!” Alma shouts.
“Babe…” Jackson says, but Alma isn’t having it.
“No. This isn’t ok.” She motions to me. “This asshole is fucking a woman who now works for the Sisters."
"Mindy isn't just some woman," Jackson says. "She's our friend."
"I don't care. That’s a big deal, and he’s just now telling us?”
“Listen..." I rub my temples. "A lot of shit has happened since Sunday, alright. Give me a fucking break.”
"I can't!" Alma throws her hands in the air. “What other shit have you gotten yourself into, Miguel?”
Sighing, I turn to Angie. “Did you tell her about Sunday?”
“No…”
Alma furrows her brows at Angie and places her hands on her hips. “What happened Sunday?”
“Miguel and I were hauled off to a warehouse on one of the piers, and Kay, who works for the Sisters, told us we had to kill these two pedophiles.”
“What?” Alma shakes her head. “That’s absurd! Did you do it?”
“I did," I say. "But Angie didn’t."
“Interesting. So you do have a set of balls…” Alma smirks at me. “This Kay guy isn’t gonna force Jackson and me to do stuff like that. Like, I shouldn’t have to worry about leaving the grocery store and him pointing a gun at my head?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Great. So not only do I have to worry about Gino getting out of prison, I now have to worry about this Kay asshole? What about my kids?”
"Your kids will be fine." Jackson rubs her back.
"But how do you know? Just because Gino's shitty parents have custody of them doesn't mean they're safe. No one can protect my kids as I can. I'm their mom!"
"Alma..." Jackson pulls her into a hug. "We're not going to let anything happen to them. I promise you."
I sigh, “This will make me sound like an asshole, but it needs to be said."
"Or not," Angie sneers.
"We knew this would be dangerous, yet we went ahead with our plans anyway. But unlike Angie and me, you guys didn't sign a contract with the Sisters. So, if you want to back out, now is the time.”
“I'm not tapping out, so don't give me that shit, Miguel!” Alma wiggles from Jackson's embrace and picks up a wooden spoon to continue stirring the hollandaise sauce. “This should be ready in five minutes.”
By the time we all sit down to enjoy the Eggs Benedict, neither of us has uttered more than five words to each other. We chew in silence while the soccer game plays in the background, and I still have the documents about Angie stuffed down my pants. We’re halfway through our awkward meal when Jackson tries breaking the ice.
“So, Miguel. You working at the club later?”
“Yeah,” I say, chewing my food. “The event coordinator started doing themed nights, so tonight is Tequila Tuesday.”
Alma stops chewing, and there’s a slight twinkle in her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“A specialty menu with tequila-themed drinks, a salsa band, catered food with bite-sized tacos, and Dia de Los Muertos decor. Basically, a stereotypical nightmare.”
“Sounds like it.” Alma turns to Jackson. “Can we go?”
“You have work tomorrow morning,” Jackson says.
"Whatever. I’m a hairstylist. Not a surgeon. I can bump my clients to later in the afternoon. Easy.”
“It’s expensive,” I say. “On themed nights, the price for entry and drinks is doubled.”
Alma snorts, “Yeah, and you’re the doorman. Certainly, you can get us in for free.”
Jackson and Angie stop cutting into their food and look up at me. I’m not a mind reader, but the glimmer in their eyes and the way they bite back a smile says they really want to go to Penthouse.
“Fuck off!” I laugh, but Alma grins and claps her hands.
“Sounds like we’re going to Penthouse tonight!” Taking Angie’s elbow, she rises from the table. “Come on. Let’s go plan our outfits.”
∆∆∆
It’s early in the evening when I get to the club, and Jude, the head of security, slaps a tablet into my hands. I’m usually scheduled to arrive later, but a new security system was installed this morning, so we’re all standing around the dancefloor in the empty club, having a meeting about the changes.
Now, a live stream of footage from the cameras throughout the club goes directly to our tablets. With this software, we can zoom in, use infrared and night vision, and snap screenshots.
It’s very James Bond.
“And now we can stop the fuckers who try selling drugs in the club,” Jude says.
“They’ll always find a way,” my coworker scoffs, and he’s right. There’s always some dark corner where some asshole is handing off a little bag of blow to a drunk heiress.
“Listen.” Jude burns him with a glare. “I know we’ll never stop every douchebag selling drugs, but I need us to be one hundred percent on keeping this place safe. Especially for the ladies. Diamond Nightclub recently had a case where three women at a bachelorette party had roofies slipped into their drinks, and… well… you can guess what happened after that.”
“Christ…” I drop my head into my hands. That’s some scary shit.
“We do not want that happening here,” Jude continues. “We are Penthouse, damn it! Date rapers will get fucking stomped if they try that shit here, and if you happen to catch one of them, you bring them to me. I’ll make sure they leave here on a gurney.”
“Hell yeah!” everyone cheers.
After the meeting, I head to the swanky bar, where tiled mirrors cover the back wall with shelves nearly reaching the ceiling. It’s honestly ridiculous how high the shelves are. When patrons order liquor from the top shelf, the bartenders have to use a fancy wooden ladder. I’m surprised no one has fallen yet, but from an aesthetic standpoint, the wall of booze looks extraordinary when you walk down the grand staircase from the entrance.
The crystal chandeliers cast a shimmer like glitter across the glossy wooden bar top, and in a few hours, it’ll be surrounded by people in flashy outfits. So, I might as well take advantage of the empty club and grab a drink. I swipe a pint glass from the dishwasher, fill it with ice, and grab the soda gun, but freeze.
Fuck me, running.
I swivel my gaze to look at Lucas. He's one the lead bartenders and rapidly tapping his thumbs across his phone’s screen, but I swear to God I heard him say, Richie Reddy.
Who’s this asshole talking to?
He tucks his phone into his pocket, then turns around to get back to work but spots me.
“What’s up, Miguel?”
“Did I hear you say, Richie Reddy?”
“Uh… no,” Lucas says, but the way his eyes shift, like he’s silently recalling the last few seconds, I think he’s lying to me.
“Pretty sure I heard you say it.”
“What’s it to you?” he asks.
“I’m dating his ex-wife. We met at that divorcee support group I go to.”
“I see…” Lucas nods, and I swear this fucker knows more than he’s letting on, but two can play this game.
“Anyway, he’s a piece of shit,” I say and finally press the button on the soda gun to pour the Coke. “So I was just curious about how you know him.”
“I don’t. I just know he’s a prick whenever he comes here.”
“Well, I don’t think he’ll be coming around anymore.”
Lucas tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. “What makes you think that?”
“Just a guess.” I shrug and walk away with my soda.
If I know Lucas, he’ll probe me later on about Richie, but he’ll be slick about it and not make it obvious he’s digging for intel. That’s how he rolls. We don’t talk much, but in the years Lucas and I have worked at Penthouse, he’s always had this calm yet dark and suave way about him—as if nothing ever gets under his skin. The entire building could catch fire, and he’d probably stroll out, shake off the flames on his coat, then light a cigar while everyone else rushes out in a frenzy.
So he can play dumb all he wants, but I know he said Richie Dumbfuck’s name.
However, that’s a worry for later.
Because tonight, Angie will be here, so I need to be ready for whatever storm she brings.