Page 71 of Long Way Down

Melissa gripped his sleeve for some sort of moral support, turned, sat, and dragged him down beside her.

He got settled with anah, legs spread, arms stretched out across the back of the sofa. “Now. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“I have hepatitis now,” she deadpanned.

“Nah. That’ll take a few days to show up on a blood test.”

Someone had used an obscene amount of air freshener to try and cover up the room’s odor situation, but it accomplished nothing besides burning the insides of her nostrils. She waved her hand in front of her face, which accomplished nothing.

“Please tell me you don’t come into these sorts of places all the time.”

“Nah. It’s comfier at the clubhouse.”

She’d never been in one of those, but had seen photos in the documentaries she’d forced herself to watch when she first found out Pongo was a Lean Dog. She’d ensconced herself on the sofa with a half-bottle of wine, a box of Triscuits, and fully-loaded streaming queue, subjecting herself to tale after tale of debauchery and violence. Hazing, beat-downs, murders; pimping, and woman-branding and turf-warring. The seventies and eighties had been a dark time for the outlaw clubs of the American west. Clubhouses were small, unremarkable buildings with fleets of bikes parked outside, the interiors done up in wood paneling and club memorabilia, bikini-clad and topless women dancing on tables and sitting on laps.

She’d taken a long, hard look at her life choices after that documentary binge. Told herself that being lonely and horny was better than being affiliated with any of that, and sworn off all bikers.

Of course, the next time she found herself in the bar, he’d slid onto the neighboring stool, and the sense-memory in her skin of their night together had outstripped all logic and caution.

And now here she sat with him, in a disgusting VIP room in a disgusting strip club, her badge and gun in her bag, her panties regrettably damp after the things he’d said out on the main floor.

“Follow my lead when she comes in,” he said, and before she could tell him to fuck off, the curtains parted.

April Showers still wore her strappy blue getup from the stage, the straps that crossed and lifted her breasts back in place over the pasties, a diaphanous, open-front skirt belted around her waist that glimmered and flashed as she stepped inside and made a show of sealing the curtains shut behind her. The light was low, and she didn’t seem to recognize Pongo right away if her lascivious smirk was anything to go by. She worked her hips as she stalked toward them, stiletto heels sinking into the carpet.

“Mm, I love it when I get to dance for a couple,” she purred in an over-the-top, affected drawl. She kept coming and didn’t slow; planted a foot on the edge of the couch between Pongo’s spread thighs and leaned forward to brace a hand on the back of the sofa beside his head. “You want me to dance with your girl and let you watch? Maybe teach her a few things?” She grinned. “I bet…” Then her eyes widened, and Melissa knew the penny had dropped.

Her face transformed completely. Snarling, the lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed her true age, and the flush that rushed to her cheeks highlighted the fact that her makeup was a shade too light for her skin tone. “You,” she hissed, and made to jerk back.

Pongo snatched her wrist before she could withdraw, and Melissa watched, shocked, as the tendons leaped in the back of his hand, proving that he’d gripped herhard. His lazy smile stayed firmly in place, but his voice was all business when he said, “Listen. Stay still and stop freaking out. I’m here to help – I brought someone who can help you.”

April bared all her teeth as she twisted her wrist in an unsuccessful bid to get away. Her gaze darted to Melissa. “I don’t care. I’m not saying shit to you.”

Pongo refused to let go, smile still fixed. “There’s cameras in here, right? No sound, but if somebody in the booth sees you struggling to get away from a paying customer, security’ll come back here and ask what’s going on. If your pay gets docked, after you’ve already had to sit out waiting on your back to heal, Titus is gonna bepissed.”

She froze, eyes going even wider.

“What sort of boss is he, April?” Pongo said. “When he’s pissed, does he withhold your money? Or does he punish you with his fists?”

Her throat jumped as she swallowed. Her pulse throbbed visibly in the hollow of her throat.

“It won’t cost you anything to talk to us for fifteen minutes. I already paid for the time. What could it hurt to hear us out?”

She wet her lips, considering, and her gaze darted again to Melissa. “You’re a cop, huh?” she asked in a defeated voice.

“Not the kind who cares how you earn a living,” Melissa said. “I’m a Sex Crimes detective and I’m hunting a rapist with a very particular calling card. Pongo here thinks you can help me find him.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I ain’t testifying in a trial. I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Hopefully, you won’t have to. Right now, the most important thing is getting him off the streets.” She wouldn’t tell the poor girl that cases fell apart on the stand when working girls refused to testify; that all too often prostitution arrests were made as coercion. Didn’t say that they might get him off the streets for a few weeks, and could end up losing him again thanks to a technicality.

If she was working this job, April likely already knew all that.

“Please,” Melissa pressed. “Just tell us what you know.”

She was still deciding, lip caught between her teeth and wrist still in Pongo’s – now relaxed – hand, when the curtains parted and a bull-necked security guy frowned in at them. “Problem?”

“Nah, man,” Pongo called, releasing April and tossing a friendly wave his way. “Just trying to decide on a song. My girl, she likes that K-Pop shit, you know. I’m trying to convince her R&B is better to dance to.”

---