Page 9 of Judge's Mercy

“Good. Now you try.” Satyr hands me his ID.

“Ian Morgan?”

He smirks. “You didn’t think my parents named me Satyr, did you?”

“At least Ian is a normal name. My real name is Dirk.” Dutch winces.

I look between the two men flanking me. “So what’s the story behind your road names?”

“Mine’s a really good one.” Dutch chuckles, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out.

“Tell me.”

“Well, you see, I’m Dutch.”

“As in, from the Netherlands?” I ask.

“Yep. The guys got real creative with that one.”

I laugh, turning to Satyr. “And you?”

He mumbles something incoherent that has Dutch rolling with laughter.

“What was that?” I ask.

He sighs loudly. “Fine, but I’m giving you the backstory too.”

“There is no back story, bro. Just tell her you have chick?—”

“Shut the fuck up and let me say it my own way.”

“Is ‘your way’ the way that makes you sound like less of a pussy?” Dutch wipes his watery eyes as he recovers from his hysterics.

I smile, realizing that today has been the best day I’ve had in a long time. Even if it didn’t start out that way, Dutch and Satyr have turned everything around for me. Regardless of my motives behind wanting this job, I think it’s the best place for me right now.

Satyr ignores him and grips the arms of my office chair, turning me to face him. “I was a scrawny kid when I was in high school. Got made fun of and all that shit. Well, one day, I woke up and decided I was gonna change that. I got a gym membership and started lifting.”

“I can tell,” I say, checking out his muscular arms. He smirks and flexes, making the black T-shirt he’s wearing stretch across his bulging biceps. Add in the black and gray sleeves he has, and he looks the part of a scary biker.

“Anyway, no one told me I had to put time into my legs to keep things even,” he says defensively. “My dad split when I was young, so I didn’t have a mentor or nothing.”

“The idiot looked like an actual satyr! All big and bulky up top, but skinny little goat legs down below,” Dutch chimes in.

“Oh no.” I cringe.

“Not anymore,” Satyr defends, standing and moving to unbuckle his belt. “I’m all evened out. If you don’t believe me?—”

“No, no. You don’t have to show me. I believe you.” I burst into a fit of giggles.

“You sure? Because I can squat three hundred now. My thighs are thick.”

“I can tell through your jeans.”

He reclaims his seat. “Maybe I’ll show you some other time. When we don’t have an audience.”

Dutch cracks up again. “As if you have a chance with her.”

My smile falls. A couple months ago, I would’ve been flattered. I might’ve even taken him up on that offer. Being a sex worker did amazing things for my sexuality. Growing up in what I consider to be a cult, I was taught that my body was shameful. I didn’t even feel right looking at myself in the mirror when I got out of the shower. It was quite a shock to go from that to pole dancing, but I’m grateful for that experience because it forced me to challenge everything I’d been taught.

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