The Song of David

“Eight.” Eight weeks until I fought Bruno Santos. The fight that would give me a shot at a Vegas title fight. The fight that would catapult the Tag Team brand into living rooms across the US. Eight weeks of perfect focus—no distractions, and no decisions beyond one fight. After I won the fight, I would face what came next. After I won that fight the world could end, for all I cared. After I won.

“Hey, Boss. Lou called in sick tonight. He usually makes sure the girls get to their cars. You wanna fill in? Since you’re here?”

All the women on my staff are escorted to their vehicles at the end of their shifts. Always. This part of town is changing, but it isn’t there yet. Tag’s is situated close to the old Grand Central train station in a refurbished district that is still caught somewhere between restoration and dilapidation. Two blocks north there is a row of mansions built in the early 1900s, two blocks south there’s a strip mall complete with bars on all the windows. A high-end day spa takes up the corner of the block to the left and a homeless shelter is two blocks down on the right. The area is a conglomeration of everything, and there are some elements that aren’t safe. I feel responsible for my employees, especially the girls. So I imposed some rules, even if it means I am sometimes accused of being overprotective, sexist, and old-fashioned.

“Yep. I can do that.”

“Good. That was their last set. I’d do it, but the drinks won’t fill themselves, ya know. Kelli’s boyfriend came in and picked her up ten minutes ago, and Marci and Stormy are closing with me, so I’ll walk them out. You’ve just got Justine and Lori and Amelie.”

“Ah–muh–lee?” I parroted, eyebrows quirked.

“Yeah. The new dancer. Amelie. Didn’t I say?”

“Nah. You didn’t. What is she, French?”

“Something like that,” Morg said, and I could see that he was trying not to laugh. “She lives close by and she walks, though. Lou complains about it, but it really is just around the block. I tell him it’ll do his fat ass some good.”

“Huh.” So that was the funny part. I would be walking the new girl home, and it was starting to snow. The French girl. Fine with me. I was too antsy to sleep anyway. I was considering hitting the speed bag until I could wear myself out enough to shut down for a few hours.

On cue, Justine and Lori appeared in the entryway between the lounge and the bar, winter coats belted, duffle bags in hand.

“Where’s Amelie?” Morgan asked, looking beyond them.

“She said she’d meet Lou out front,” Justine answered.

“Lou’s not in tonight. Tag is walking you out. Right, Boss?”

“Right, Morg.” I tamped down my irritation as Morgan laughed again and winked at the girls.

I escorted Justine and Lori to their vehicles in the back parking lot, watched as they pulled away, and then walked around to the front the building, opting not to go through the bar, eager to avoid Morg for the rest of the night. As I rounded the building, I could see the new girl waiting on the sidewalk, face tilted up, letting the fat flakes land on her cheeks as if she enjoyed the sensation. She waited for me, as if she weren’t in any hurry to get out of the cold, her hands wrapped around a long stick that, in the soft light spilling from the bar and the snow falling around her, made her look like a shepherdess in a Christmas pageant.

“Hello?” There was a question in her voice as I approached, and she slid her staff forward just a bit and nudged my foot as I halted. “Lou?”

“Lou’s sick, so I’ll be walking you home.” I answered slowly, flooded with shocked realization as she turned her face toward me. Her eyes were wide and fixed, and I felt a surprising pang from somewhere behind my heart. She had beautiful eyes. They were large and luminous, fringed by black lashes that swept her cheeks when she closed her eyes. But they were vacant, and looking in them made me inexplicably sad. So I looked away, studying her mouth and the straight dark hair that framed her face and spilled over her shoulders. Then she smiled, and the pang in my heart sliced through my chest once more and took my breath.

“Ah, the long pause. I always get those. My mom always said I was beautiful,” she said drily, “but just in case I’m not, will you promise to lie to me? I demand detailed lies regarding my appearance.” She said all this good-naturedly. No bitterness. Just acceptance. “So you pulled blind girl duty, huh? You don’t have to walk me home. I got here all by myself. But Morgan told me it’s the rule with all the girls. He said the boss insists.”

“He’s right. It’s a great neighborhood, but you and I both know it’s still pretty rough around the edges,” I responded, refusing to feel sheepish, refusing to apologize for staring.

She stuck out her hand and waited for me to grasp it.

“Well then, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Amelie. And I’m blind.” Her lips quirked, letting me know she was laughing as much at herself as at me. I reached out and wrapped her ungloved hand in my own. Her fingers were icy, and I didn’t release them immediately. So she wasn’t French, she was blind, and somehow Morg thought that was hysterically funny.