Page 1 of Obsession

Chapter 1

Table 21

MEGAN

Istare at the body of a man sprawled in the middle of the alleyway.

Trash bags in hand, I stand there frozen, not knowing whether to go back inside and pretend I saw nothing or casually walk past the body and dump the trash bags in the dumpster.

The answer is beyond obvious.

I quietly step back inside and close the door. Locking it, I drop the key on the kitchen floor and kick it under one of the metal counters before calling out to Billy, the line cook, “Well, damn, the door’s locked.”

Billy’s large afro peeks from behind the wall where he’s been taking his break. “Where’s the key?”

I squint at the long key holder attached to the wall as if I’ve suddenly gone half-blind. “I don’t know. Should’ve been hanging right here.”

Billy stares at me.

I stare back.

“What’re you looking at me for?” I say, mustering up an annoyed voice. “I can't produce another key out of my ass.” When he leers at my behind, I flip him off with a quick grin. “Tell Ralph to throw these out when he comes in the morning. He knows where the extra key is. I’ve got to start my shift.”

As I dump the bags next to the door and walk away, I call out, "Stop staring at my ass, Billy, and go call your pregnant girlfriend.”

I don't have to look at him to see the guilt on his face before I push the door open to walk into ear-splitting music that almost vibrates in my bones. People are screaming and laughing as sweaty bodies grind and dance against each other with loose movements, the strobe lights working the crowd, and the DJ swaying with the beats.

I slip through the go-between of the bar, nodding to Harry, who quickly hands over a drink to a waiting customer before hurrying away for his break.

“Megan!” comes a familiar shout of my name, and I turn to smile at the greasy-looking man, one of my oldest patrons.

“You want the regular, Charlie?” I ask, seeing that his hand is empty.

“Make it two,” He lifts his fingers to show me the number before shouting loudly over the music, "For me and my girl!”

His girl turns out to be a familiar-looking face from the neighborhood with badly dyed lavender hair, fake lashes that look like they hurt, and a body clearly built on a surgical table. I feel sorry for Charlie, but I'm not going to hurt Cookie’s chance of landing a score. She's got two kids to feed at home and Charlie probably has a week’s pay burning a hole in his pocket.

So I smile, "Well, good for you!”

They both disappear into the crowd, and I already know where Cookie is leading him.

“Poor bastard,” a man sitting close to me comments.

I wipe down the counter, shrugging, “At least he’ll go home a happy man.”

“With a lighter wallet.”

I just grin.

What I’ve just witnessed over the last ten minutes is par for the course. The Blue Whiskey Lounge isn’t your average nightclub. The reason why my salary is pretty good is that the kind of clientele this place attracts isn’t the safest or the classiest, so we’re well compensated for the risk involved.

That’s not the first sex worker I’ve seen pretending that she’s just a party girl looking for a good time. And that's not the first dead body I've seen in the alleyway behind this club, and it probably won’t be the last. The first time, I was foolish enough to call the police, but now I know better. Last time, it nearly cost me my hard-earned scholarship.

Nobody will bother me here as long as I keep my head down and focus on my work. The midnight shift isn't the best or safest, but it's the highest-paid one. And if I want to make rent for a one-room apartment in the seediest part of Los Angeles and be able to afford groceries, I have to gamble with my safety. Those are the breaks.

I notice as one of the servers approaches me, “Two whiskeys and scotch for Table 21.”

My hand, which is already reaching for the glasses, freezes in mid-air before I deliberately relax it. I cast a quick look in the direction of the table and see three men sitting there in expensive suits. After six months of working in this club, I already know that Table 21 is reserved for special clients. The kind you really don’t want to mess with.

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