Page 24 of The Gentleness of Rage

“Usually, they fight it out amongst themselves,” I replied, amused.

Slate looked beleaguered.

“I’ve got a meeting with them tomorrow. And all my brothers are busy. I’ve shanghaied two of the prospects because I’m not dealing with them alone,” Slate complained.

“It’s a mess over there,” I muttered.

Slate nodded. “You’re telling me. Half the fuckin’ security was raping the dancers when they were drugged up. I have a list of punters to show the women to identify if they were forced to sleep with them or not. The club is a cesspit. Everything needs ripping out, modernising, and making classy. Each of the staff requires a health check, who knows how many were abused. They also need paying while the joint is shut. Then the membership requires checking.

“Mac had discovered two accounts in Royce’s name that hold tons of cash. I’ve no doubt that’s money made off those women’s backs. And those that were chained up? Shit, them and the rest need counselling. James Washington is probably laughing himself sick right now,” Slate moaned.

“He didn’t want the club? Someone said he runs strip clubs,” I asked.

“No. Washington refused it. He had enough of his own. Drake didn’t want the women to suffer under somebody else, so he fuckin’ bought it. He should run the damn thing,” Slate complained.

“But he’s made you?”

“Yeah, and I sound like a whiny asshole,” Slate answered, and chuckled.

“Get Cayla on side. Everyone respected her, she’d be great as a manager,” I suggested.

“You think so?”

“The dancers never argue with her, and Cayla’s known to be fair. Speak to her first and offer her the role. If the waitresses and girls see Cayla at your back, you’ll have an easier go of it,” I said.

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind,” Slate replied.

???

I served up dinner, almost laughing as Slate kept sniffing the air. When I placed a pork chop on his plate, I swear he drooled.

Slate put the salad on the small dining table as I dished up the fries, corn, potato salad, and some fresh bread I’d bought.

“This looks amazing,” Slate said as he grabbed a slice and spread butter over it.

“It was easy to make. I enjoy cooking, and this didn’t take much fussing.”

“This is homemade?” Slate asked, scooping potato salad up and issuing a low moan.

“My Aunt Elsie’s recipe. She loves cooking and baking, I should be the size of a cherry barrel because of how she cooked. Dorothy has to jog to keep her weight down. It amuses Aunt Elsie,” I explained without thinking and bit my lip.

“Are they sisters?” Slate inquired. “Shit, this is fuckin’ amazing,” he added around a bite of pork chop.

“They’re married,” I replied and tensed up.

“Good for them. How long?”

“Ten years nearly. As soon as the ruling came in, Dorothy and Aunt Elise were up that courthouse and wed. They were so happy,” I answered cautiously.

Their marriage had offended Damien. He claimed it wasn’t legal in the eyes of God and said plenty of other homophobic things. Of course, I found his stash of lesbian porn; it seemed he didn’t mind hot young women going down on each other.

“Good for them, they sound like an amazing couple,” Slate stated and gazed at me. “Are they protected from what you’re running from? Rage has safe houses we can put them in.”

I stared at Slate before bursting into tears again.

Slate dropped his cutlery and reached out to grasp my hand. “What did I say?” he demanded, aghast.

“You offered to take care of my family. What the hell is wrong with me? I never cry like this,” I sobbed.

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