I smiled and tugged a strand of her hair to get her attention. I loved blowjobs as much as the next guy, but I didn’t have time to sample all of this girl’s talents, at least not tonight.
“I’d love that, doll, but I’ve gotta see a guy about a job.”
“I just gave you a job,” she said.
“Sorry, not tonight.”
“Fine,” she said with a pouty smile. She planted one last kiss on the tip of my cock and let it go. I stuffed it back into my jeans before she opted to try again.
“Rain check then,” she said as she got off her knees. She tugged her tight red mini dress down to cover her ass. It was a nice ass, and she was probably a nice girl, but I never dated any girl who hung out in dive bars and gave blowjobs in a back alley. Not good for my wellbeing or survival. It wouldn’t pay for anyone to put together that Danny O’Shea, bad boy renegade and criminal opportunist, was actually Detective Daniel Dutton, Vice Division, Chicago P.D.
I zipped up my jeans then dug in my pocket for some money. I held out a twenty.
Another pout. Her cherry lipstick was smeared all over her mouth. Not a good look for her. She plucked the money from my fingers.
“I was hoping we could at least have a drink together,” she said softly as she caressed the money over her face.
“No can’t do, sweetheart. Not tonight.”
“Are you sure?” She took a step toward me, but I held up my hands. Man, this chick didn’t know when to quit. I wasn’t used to women not taking no for an answer. I gave her a firm look and shook my head.
“Maybe another night,” I said. “Like I said, I’ve gotta see a guy about a job.”
She shoved the money into her swollen cleavage. Nice tits to go with that tight ass. Still, a skank was a skank. I could never take her home to meet Pops, or my siblings—all seven of them in the tradition of good Irish folks—would have a field day with this girl, although my brother Paddy would have tapped that ass in a New York minute.
“I thought you really liked me, Danny,” she said, trying to sound hurt. Her voice had taken on an annoying, whining tone, and that did it. I needed her gone. No blowjob out there was worth putting up with a whining woman.
I dug in my pocket and yanked out another twenty. What difference did it make? I was going to expense it anyway. Her eyes brightened, and her lashes fluttered in her excitement as she held out her hand.
The crash inside the bar came right on cue, and a beer bottle came flying through the door to smash against the opposite wall of the alley. She flinched and ducked as she glanced toward the open door.
Inwardly, I smiled. Things were progressing right on cue.
Another bottle hurtled through the door, hitting the dumpster and shattering into glistening shards. A body spilled into the alley and rolled several feet to land in the glass.
The girl snatched the money from my hand, and stuffed it into her cleavage with the other bill. “Gotta go before the cops get here. See ya soon, Danny. My pussy will be hot and ready when you are.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Now, scram.”
She could run fast in those five-inch stilettos. I took a moment to watch her ass flex and shake as she rounded the corner onto the sidewalk, then rubbed my hands together and took a deep breath.
“It’s show time, folks,” I said.
I headed into the Rack ’Em Up Bar to begin tonight’s act two in the life as Dirty Danny O’Shea.
Chapter Two: Hannah Silvestri
The sounds and smells of the city filtered through the gauzy curtains over my windows when a whisper of a breeze came through. The night was hot and mostly still, one of those nights in Chicago where everyone and everything seems a hairsbreadth away from melting. The ancient air conditioner jammed into the other window had died two days before, and though I’d asked three or four times, no one had come to fix it yet.
The rhythmic thump of Girls, Girls, Girls filtered through the floor from the club below. Lucky me, I lived above Pussy Whipped, my brother’s strip club. Any money my brother made went back into the club or into his pocket, not in the areas no one saw. It was a shithole apartment and he let me live there free, so in his mind, I had little right to bitch about anything. The paint was peeling on every wall, and the ceiling had a crack that leaked water in a heavy rain. This had caused a huge stain that looked disgusting and was probably festering into deadly mole, but at least it was on the ceiling, so I never looked up and tried not to think about the tiny spores burrowing not my lungs.
A tiny bedroom lay off the living room, and the adjoining bathroom had been remodeled sometime in the eighties. The puke green was a lovely color. All in all, not a decorator’s dream, but I did have a small kitchenette, which served my purposes because all I really needed was a small fridge and a microwave. I got most of my meals from the club’s kitchen, and when I was ready for take-out, almost anyone in the neighborhood would deliver to the club, hoping for a free peepshow.
I was comfortable enough, but the noise level of the music, not to mention the sounds of the catcalls made by its illustrious patrons and the city noise outside, made it hard to concentrate, one of the many prices I paid for being the sister of Richie Silvestri.
I guess I should have been grateful he refused to allow m
e to dance. Such a good brother to keep his sister from stripping. As it was, I bartended the day shift, mostly because Richie thought the classier men came in during the day. There was nothing classier than a man who spent his hard-earned money going to a strip club during lunch hour and happy hour. And they all leered at me like I was a piece of meat in a butcher’s front window. Not in my most terrible nightmares would I give any of them the time of day, much less allow them into my bed. I wanted a man who wanted me, not some body dancing around a pole.