Page 2 of Wreckin' Amethyst

“Transaction approved,” I bop him on the nose. “You’ve been credited for the VIP treatment.” A few strides back put me beside the exit, and upon rasping my knuckles on the door, it promptly opens. The pair of gorgeous blonde twins I had waiting outside stride in and with the flurry of excitement, I duck out into the hallway. What the old man is desperate for, those girls will provide on my behalf. In return, I’m fronting their entire bachelor degrees to get them the fuck out of here by morning. One last job and they’re free. Mine, however, is ongoing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You get it?” a younger version of the man I’ve just scammed grunts. Six foot with slicked back hair, suited, booted and glowering at me. I pick the credit card from my cleavage, the tablet from beneath my corset, the phone out from the netted tights waistband and hand them all over.

“Pin number is six-four-two-zero, passcode to his tablet is five-five-zero-six and his phone’s is seven-three-nine-one. You’d better move your inheritance quick; he’s not going to last much longer in there.” Moving to leave, Bill Stanford Jr grabs my arm and roughly pulls me to a halt.

“We’ve been back and forth with this for weeks, and suddenly you were able to get all that information so fast? You were barely in there for fifteen minutes.”Tell me about it – fifteen long excruciating minutes of blackening my soul.“Whore or not, no one’s that good.” I jerk my arm free. Of course this asshole thinks all dancers are complete sluts too. I am, but it’s a choice.

“If you must know,” I stomp my heel into his dress shoe and shove him back into the wall, holding him there by my forearm across his chest. He’s a fair amount taller than me, but I’m not easily intimidated. “The phone is his birth year backwards, because I knew he’d be a cantankerous old bastard. The tablet is his favorite cigar, number five with the dial code for Costa Rica and the pin…well he told me that one for free.” Blue eyes similar to his father glare back until he shoves me away and straightens his jacket.

“No way,” he chuckles, ducking his head when a few more of the dancers walk by. Witnesses aren’t good for the future congressman who is swindling his father out of millions. “There’s no way in hell you’re that smart.” Bill huffs, trying the codes I gave him on each device. I fold my arms, waiting for the astonished look he gives when everything works exactly as it should. Clenching his jaw, he doesn’t mutter any compliments, pushing a pre-signed cheque and pen into my hand. He watches me add two more zeros to the figure in the box, before writing the name of a local orphanage on the line.

“You don’t seem like the charitable type,” Bill grunts over my shoulder. My eyes roll of their own accord, landing on his sharp jaw. It really is a shame to waste such a good pussy eater on someone so clueless.

“I don’t want your money, or anyone’s for that matter. I had a personal vendetta to settle here,” I sigh, pushing the pen into his jacket pocket for him. Folding the cheque, I push it between my cleavage for safe keeping.

“See, not smart after all,” he grins, daring to touch a rogue strand of my violet hair. Just like I have it on good authority he does to the girls who clean his house. That’s the only reason I accepted his job offer, sensing I could kill two birds with one stone – so to speak. “At least you’re hot.” Pushing away from the wall, Bill leaves in one direction and I take the other, his wallet twirling between my fingers.That’s right – all I am is a hot, dumb stripper. Not the cunning, undercover con-woman who just robbed your slimy pocket.

Heading through a red velvet curtain, the bar and club beyond fall into view. Tacky gold adornments on crimson walls, sticky patches on the sparkly black floor. A stage split into three catwalks with poles on each end, all highlighted by churning strobe lights and hosting tonight’s entertainers. Tuesday’s theme is burlesque, meaning there’s the extra foreplay of shedding many,manyruffled and feathery layers.

Navigating the low-slung armchairs and booths, I round the end of the bar where my Charley is waiting, as instructed. She says we’re besties, although the concept of friends is a strange notion to me. More like bitches who are tolerable enough to keep around for an extended amount of time. But Charley has wormed her way into my soul, remained loyal to me for years and has yet to give me a reason not to trust her. That’s a strong case towards a best friend if there ever was one.

The rough scratch of a tongue licks at my ankles, so I kneel, stroking the overly large head of my two-year-old pup hidden in a hatch amongst the beer cases. As beautiful as the day I rescued her, Pig - the blue and white English bulldog - is my one true love. Six months we’ve been undercover at the Thirsty Kirsty, and the owner is still yet to realize I’ve broken his no pet policy. Art is non-existent these days anyways, barely a glimpse of his white cowboy hat and protruding belly and that suits me fine.

Pig jumps up at me in excitement, eager to leave the confines of the crate. Nudging back thick folds of skin that hang over her eyes, I press kisses to her forehead whilst ruffling the loose wrinkles at her neck. She nuzzles into me with slobbery licks, a series of grunts rumbling from her stunted nose. That’s my sweet girl.

Tucking Pig back into her hidey hole, I grab my laptop from the shelf and place it onto the bar. The handful of clients we do have in are regulars, all facing the girls on stage lazily spinning around their poles. Midweek shifts are the worst. No hype, no energy. But that’s what Charley and I signed up for when we decided to lay low here for a while. Including the free room and board.

“So, did you get all the details you needed?” Charley whispers, leaning in to avoid the nearby matron from overhearing. Being an ex-dancer herself, Shelia tends to busy herself in the sewing room or behind the bar when one of us isn’t having a dilemma. I merely side-grin at Charley, shedding my bunny head piece and before long, my fingers are flying across the keyboard.

“Watch,” is my only instruction. Pulling up a series of windows, I display the bank account of Bill Stanford Jr beside the clone copy I made. All we need to do is wait for him to start the transfer and watch my offshore account soar. Simple flicks of numbers which mean oh so much more. His balance doesn’t shift a cent. Charley gasps, suddenly realizing what I’ve done.

“Wait,” her chocolate brown eyes widen in shock. “Did you just con the con?!” My arm drops around her shoulder as I push the cheque into her hand.

“Who, me?” I flutter my lashes innocently. “Why, I’m just the performing circus monkey. A bimbo such as myself could never pull off something so complex,” a smile stretches across my painted lips as Charley starts to giggle. Like my appearance, beauty is a weapon, and knowledge is my blade of choice.

“Oh Ami, this is everything,” Charley gushes at the words on the cheque. I was never inclined to stay at an orphanage after my mom passed, but when I found Charley sleeping on the streets to avoid going home, I convinced her to stay at this particular one. It’s where she developed a thirst for playing a character, living life as whoever she wanted to be that day. Gave the owner absolute hell, and now she can consider her debt repaid.

With Charley tugging on my arm and Pig getting overexcited, I turn away before letting my smile fall. I’ve perfected this mask a little too well. I had almost convinced myself this is what happiness feels like, but there’s something missing. Watching the sickening amount of dollars being transferred gives me no satisfaction. It’s all for a purpose, but still. Knowing I’ve just made myself technically richer than eighty percent of the state makes my skin crawl. With money comes greed. A never-ending cycle of wanting more, bigger, better. Of taking what isn’t yours and losing your humanity in the process.

I reckon I’ll never know happiness like when I lived on the streets; just me, Charley and Pig sneaking into the botanic gardens project to sleep under the stars. No debts, no connections, no pressure to conform to society’s rules. But it’s naïve to think those times could last. Not when I have a score to settle, and a mysterious bastard to find and punish. All of this, it’s practice. Foreplay, if you like.

Bill Stanford and his father are just the beginning. The very first to feel the retribution from years of seething rage. But it’s not enough. Robbing them of their undeserved riches hasn’t made one drop in the vast ocean of retribution in the pit of my soul. Even as a stunned roar reverberates through the club, Bill storming back inside, there’s no hint of delight to be felt. It’s time to admit, I’m dead inside.

“You fucking bitch!” Bill screams and I snap back into reality. Grabbing my laptop, Charley’s wrist and Pig, we drop down behind the bar. Shelia doesn’t hesitate, lifting the floor hatch to the basement while reaching for a concealed shotgun. Now there’s a woman who would defend her girls to the death. My heels hit the stone floor at the base of a rickety ladder, an icy chill claiming my netted legs and bare arms. There’s a network of walkways down here, leading to our dank dressing rooms and the emergency fire exit beyond, ensuring a quick getaway. But I can’t force my feet to move.

“Ami,” Charley hisses my nickname, taking Pig from my arms. “We have to go!” Thumping sounds overhead as the music cuts out, Shelia screaming for the bouncers posted out front. There’s a commotion, bottles smashing against the ground, a whole host of grunts before Bill’s voice breaks through.

“I’ll find you, you little slut! You’re going to be sorry you ever messed with me!” A shot splits the air in two.

Thu-thump.

And there it is. A trickle of excitement causing my heart to flutter. I hold my breath, frozen still until I hear his voice once more.Oh thank fuck. I briefly thought the chance of an elaborate retaliation had been stolen from me. Bill’s threats grace my ears like a smooth caress, a flirty stimulating stroke. Butterflies ignite in my stomach, the same kind I used to rely on to see me from one day into the next. I made myself a promise once to rid the world of the type of bastards who use their status as a weapon. At least until I can locate whoever did just that to me.

Dress shoes kick out and skid across the floor above our heads, as I track Bill all the way to the front door. He’s still hollering, making sweet promises he doesn’t have the balls to see through. I do though.

Charley is already shaking her head, reading my intentions all over my face. Pig, however, is grinning wide, her tongue hanging free and dripping saliva. I nod along with my pup, a smile also growing on my face. The cops laughed me out of the station all those years ago, and from that instant, I knew I would be my own savior. That the girl I reinvented myself into would be their ultimate downfall.

“I agree, Miss Piggy. Robbing these assholes isn’t enough. I’m going to have to get a little more creative.”

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