Page 11 of Jagger

“Well, good afternoon to you too,”Betty, the owner, greets me in her usual squaking voice as I stalk into the club the following weekend.

Freezing in my tracks, I turn my head toward her, an irate expression marring my features as it had been throughout the course of the entire week. It’s not directed at her and, clearly, she knows that but, nonetheless, her brow furrows curiously as she leans onto the bar, taking another drag from her cigarette.

“What the hell crawled up your ass?”

“Nothing,” I snap, raking a hand through my hair. “It’s just Calla and her usual bullshit.”

“So, if it’s usual, then why the shitty demeanor?”

“Because she has the ability to get under my skin like no one else.”

“Because you give her the power,” she counters, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“The fuck? No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You already know she’s vindictive. And she is so because, regardless of what she says, she wants your attention.”

“So because she wants my attention that means she can just keep Mila from me?”

“No,” Betty shakes her head, “that’s part of said vindictiveness, but she’ll take attention any way she can get it. Even if it’s negative.”

Probably true, but I just can’t believe it. “You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I was.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Ignore her and just let her bark at me?”

“Yep. Interact with her only where Mila is concerned,” she breezes, like it’s so fucking easy.

But Calla doesn’t make anything easy. She never will. The person she’d become didn’t allow that. I could honestly say I regretted every minute I spent with her, even the ones that, at one point in time, were good. The only thing—the only truly good thing—I ever got out of being with Calla was our daughter.

“Just live your life, Jagger,” Betty continues when I don’t answer. “I know there’s a kid involved, but don’t let her do this to you.”

I stand there, unmoving. Wordless.

Is Betty right? Could this constant back and forth with Calla possibly disappear if I just pay her no mind?

Would that provoke her to keep Mila from me all the more or would the lack of arguments and confrontation make her easier to deal with?

I guess the real question is, could I really do it?

“Jag, Betty.” Sinclair’s voice booms suddenly as he strolls in through the front doors.

I tip my chin at his greeting and turn back to Betty who’s now pulling a bottle of Jack from one of the shelves behind the bar. She then grabs three shot glasses, fills them to the brim, and pushes two our way with a smirk on her lips. Sin and I both know better than to decline a drink from her, so we shuffle forward and take the proffered whiskey, downing it with accustomed practice.

The burn rippling down my throat is more than welcome, a reminder of a not-so-distant past, too, but I could give three fucks as it hits the sore spot right at its core.

I got this, I’m good, I remind myself, but I have a feeling I’ll be back for more as the evening progresses.

Whoever pays for a dance tonight is in for a real-fucking-treat, that’s for sure.

As soon as our glasses hit the bar top, Betty collects them and waves us off, smashing her cigarette butt into the nearest ashtray. “Alright you two, shoo. Go get ready and do whatever the fuck you need to do not to blow a load on one of my customers. Doors open in thirty.”

Typical Betty.

Sin and I both chuckle and head through the club to the back in comfortable silence. The DJ is already behind the booth prepping his music for the evening, as are the cocktail waitresses who sit at a nearby table, chatting before they’ll be hustling on their feet till the wee hours of the morning. Their eyes sparkle when they see us, giggles and hums of approval following us as we flash them nearly identical slick grins.

“Hey, Jag. Hey, Sin.” Multiple voices coo salaciously.

---