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2 | Welcome to Treatz

Strip clubs weren’t some shocking, unfamiliar concept to Armando. He’d been to plenty of them during his training in Latin America and Eastern Europe – usually to observe or kill men who’d pissed off the wrong person.

For your sake, Armando hoped you actually worked here. The outcome of finding out you were an enemy who was using this place as a diversion would end your life. Armando could do without that on his conscience.

Or the little he had left of it.

After showing a fraudulent, but undetectable driver’s license, Armando got scanned and paid his cover fee. He could hear the bass vibrating through the doors.

“You good to go, young blood. Welcome to Treatz.” The bouncer let Armando in.

The aroma of buffalo marinade mixed with something smoky and citrus-like was the first thing to hit his senses. And despite there being blue light bars, the interior was still too dim for Armando to get a clear view of all of his surroundings.

How the fuck was he supposed to find you?

He spotted how plentiful the seating was around the large space. There were reflective surfaces on the stage and chrome poles that were being wiped down. A slew of dancers ogled him with interest as they passed by. None of them were you.

More and more people were filing in, so Armando chose a small table with the most panoramic view of the club. An upbeat woman in a sheer one piece and box braids approached him, offering to go over the food and drink menu. He declined. The plan for tonight didn’t include staying long.

The DJ cut into his set list to announce who’d have solo stages throughout the night. The names were Kisses, Lola, and Melody, and their performances would be evenly spread across time slots before midnight. One would be starting soon.

"Quieres un baile privado, papi?" Her flowery perfume was potent. Manicured hands rubbed gentle circles into Armando’s shoulders and he couldn’t have been more disinterested. Once again, she asked if he would like a private dance. "No," he muttered, without bothering to look at her. The woman sighed, but left him alone. Suddenly, the lights faded from blue to a deep red and the DJ hit the mic again. "Welcome to Treatz y’all, welcome in. I’m DJ Beemo and you are in the right motherfuckin’ place tonight!” He did a little spin of the record, vibing to the low backing track.

Armando’s eyes wandered. Still no you from the little he could make out. The venue was so packed for it to be this early in the night.

“I see we’ve got some return ballers in the building. I hope you brought some cash for the ass we’ve got in the chamber! And if you didn’t, hit us up at the front near security and we’ll get you right.” He peered around. “Ooh wee! There are some beautiful ladies in here tonight! What is that...a bachelorette party?” A group of women started cheering. “Huh! Ain’t your man lucky? Because if you’re in here, where’s the bachelor party at? Booby Trap?"

“Naw, he at Tootsie’s!!!” One woman yelled. Laughter erupted.

DJ Beemo looked bewildered. “Shiiiit...I guess it ain’t a marriage ‘til the wedding day.” A distant "I know that's right" echoed in agreement and the DJ started howling. “A lot of y’all ain’t shit!”

Armando relaxed in his seat, bored. This long intro was losing him, so he started checking his phone. Zway-Lo had an update for him on the encrypted messenger they used.

Zway-Lo: CBs are at it. Opportunity might come up.

His brows drew together. The biggest Cuban syndicate in North Miami had a Judas. This was a good thing. The civil war that would eventually occur within the Escarra family would provide Armando an opening to acquire more territory for the Aretas cartel.

Zway-Lo was finally good for something, bringing useful intel into the mix. Armando could respect that.

The DJ continued. "Anyway, y’all could have been anywhere in the damn world, but you’re here with us, and boy do we have the treats for you tonight. Just fine shit! Cornbread and motherfuckin’ fed. Our first lady has a love for shaking her sexy ass to slow jams and running that pole like it’s the Olympics.” Catcalls followed. Armando looked up briefly, then looked back down to the dimmed screen of his phone. "Y'all welcome our first baddie of the night…Kisses!" The sub woofers vibrated to the bass of "Loyalty" by Kendrick Lamar and you finally revealed yourself from behind the curtain on stage.

Armando glanced up and did a double take. The innocent looking, pretty woman he’d snapped at not long ago had him frowning for a completely different reason now.

His eyes traced over how your supple skin was drenched by the red lighting. You were barely concealed by the fringed, mesh one piece that fit you like a glove. As you strutted towards the chrome pole in the middle of the stage, the tight coils framing your face slightly bounced as did the rest of your body. And Armando never thought he liked stilettos on a woman as much as he did right now on you.

He was spell bound.

Not to say that he didn’t find you beautiful the first time he saw you, but it was really hard to deny it now with how you sauntered in...looking like that.

Then you pulled your lips into a charming smile as you did a little twirl around the pole, revealing the shape of your ass, and all he felt was frustration. Right into main vein of his dick. He fucking hated it. The chair slid a little when he adjusted himself.

He had to get the fuck out of here.

It was the smart thing to do. Clearly, you were an actual stripper and not some undercover cop. He felt dumb to have even suspected that, being that you looked like you were around his age.

So that should have been it. Armando had his answer. You weren’t a threat and he should get up from his seat.

He should head over to the bar and leave your wallet with the bartender.

He should walk out those doors and never see you again.

But what he really wanted to do was to keep watching you. The way you commanded that pole was mesmerizing and made his mouth go dry.

So his feet stayed planted.

Armando didn’t move another muscle, except for the involuntary twitch in his pants.

***

Rude Asshole was here. Formerly known as Mr. Fine.

It was scary how quickly you recognized his handsome face through this crazy ass lighting. You also wanted to laugh because he was looking at you like he wanted to give you the fade.

That boy ain’t right, you thought to yourself as you continued to spin on the pole. What a shame it was, to be so damn fine and so damn off, with his uncouth self. A waste of dick, really. But he probably wasn’t much better than your piece of shit ex, so what did you care anyway?

It was weird to see him again so soon, but you reminded yourself that Miami could be a small world. You tried not to think the worst of it, even though you were smarter than that.

You returned to the present and gave your all into your performance. You wanted good tips tonight. Rent was due and your wallet was missing.

The lyrics of the song consumed you and you slowly gyrated your hips in a circular motion lower and lower into the floor as you held onto the long, silver beam with one hand. Girl, you look so good, it's to die for Ooh, that pussy good, it's to die for

You came back up and both of your hands went for the pole so you could air walk. The melody guided your movements.

For moments like this, you’d make up a whole fantasy about how every single man in this club desired you so badly, that they’d lick the floors clean just to get close to you. In that same fantasy, 2,000 of them couldn’t even come close to the worth of one you. A delusion was a delusion, but it was arousing to imagine a person being completely intoxicated by your existence. But the cold reality was that this was a strip club – a dealer really – and you were the quick fix for patrons until they had to go back to their girlfriends and wives. For the single men, you were simply the flavor of the night that would never be good enough to be taken home to meet mom.

You truly believed that these men didn’t respect you in or outside of this club.

If they “wanted” you, it was for your body and your body alone. It was sad, but the awareness kept your head on straight. As long as you had no illusions about their place in your life, nobody could hurt you ever again. Your heart could stay safe. I'm a savage, I'm an asshole, I'm a king You twerked and bounced around, earning cheers and bills in the air. You got more into the routine, pulling out more intermediate moves. You used your arm and core strength to climb the pole, then inverted yourself for a graceful spin. The move was repeated as you hiked further up, like the stage lights were at the top of Mount Everest.

You were so high up, now. Hooking your legs through the metal scaffolds of the ceiling, you hung upside down and jiggled your ass cheeks. The crowd went wilder. But they faded quickly because your head was swimming now. Your biggest move of the night was coming. The jade drop had been hard one to master for awhile. The slow slide back down to Earth began. You unhooked yourself and returned to the pole, upside down with your legs wide open. Left hand gripping your right calf to even out the weight; your other arm snaked around the pole to support and control your descent. You allowed yourself to slip down a little. Your breath hitched. The fear was unavoidable. The immense amount of core strength required for this was critical because one wrong move could result in a life threatening injury. Yes, your ankle healed but there would always be that fear of getting hurt again. Breathe. You slipped down again, keeping your position steady. You could do this. You wanted to do this. Breathe. Another slip down and a spin. Your lashes fluttered. Almost there. You flipped yourself upright again, did a carousel spin, and ended your return to the stage floor in a clean split. The rain of cash coming down became a full blown hurricane. The hype fueled you as you worked the floor. Feeling yourself up, you ignored when some guy hollered "shake that ass bitch" and other phrases that never really did much for you. You just tried to ride the high of being the center of attention. 10-4, no switching sides You acting shifty, you don't vibe With me no more, I need Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty For the final part, you slowly crawled to the front of the stage, grinding into the floor to every other bass drop.

Somewhere in the middle of that, you caught his gaze. Like you were the only two people who existed in this club.

Your eyes stayed locked on each other, as you gyrated and fondled your barely covered breasts to the beat. The men closest to the stage were showering you with bills, but all you could focus on was him. You wished you knew what he was thinking. You couldn’t tell from here. The song ended and you smiled, finishing off with a sexy pose. You looked around at the mess of bills on stage and even spotted 20s! There was so much money on stage that you had no doubt this was your best night of all time. The lights faded back to blue as the DJ did his outro to your performance. Floor men came in to sweep up your cash, so you hopped offstage. And like a shadow your boss, TJ, appeared beside you with extra pep in his step.

As per usual, he looked a mess in his Hawaiian shirts, beige slacks, and lemon pepper steppers. Like he had to split his day between a Carnival Cruise and church brunch. And to think he was only 38.

“Shit was amazing, girl. Get yourself a drink on the house,” TJ chirped, like he was doing something special. Of course he was in a happy mood. He took 45% of your tips every single night. A drink on the house wasn’t shit!

“Wow! Thanks so much TJ!” Your sarcasm landed and he side eyed you before going about his business. You shrugged and headed to the bar.

The sting of tequila hit your throat when you gulped down your shot. At least the drinks at Treatz weren't weak. "Excuse me, brown sugar…" You turned to the voice and was met with a sly smile of an older gentleman. "Can I get a private dance, baby? Three songs?" "‘Course," you grinned. "Just give me five minutes, okay? The privacy rooms are just down there," you directed. He nodded and you walked back to the bar to hand in your empty shot glass. "Hey." One word.

This was getting pathetic. He’d only said one line to you before this and you were already able to recognize the source of that deep, tempting voice just from a “hey”.

You turned around to be met with your wallet. The little black card case with the Taurus insignia was in your face. Your debit card and your license were in their usual slots. A few things ran through your mind as you glanced from the wallet back to the handsome asshole who was holding it out to you. The first thing was, yay! Obviously. You didn't need to go to the DMV or cancel your card anymore. Second was, that's so nice of him to come all the way out here to give me my stuff back. What a gentleman! The third was why he got it in my face like that?

Fourth was hold up. Did he follow me? The address on your license was not the address of Treatz. You didn't live at your place of work. So how did he end up here? Your eyes turned into slits as you mentally played out different self defense techniques for the worst possible scenario, and Rude Asshole looked more impatient by the second.

"You don’t want it or what?" He used the same disrespectful tone from when he slammed that gate in your face, and it set you all the way off. "Tch, give me my shit." You snatched it right out of his hand and his glare darkened.

“What?” You tilted your head. “I mean, that’s how you like to communicate right?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Really? Like you forgot! You slam shit, I snatch shit. I match energy! Because I didn’t do anything for you to be so rude to me. All I did was deliver food to your home boy. Maybe that man was hungry because your broke ass couldn’t buy or cook anything in that dusty waterfront trap house. But you’re mad at me? Me? And then you follow me from my home to my place of work, give me the death stare from a dark ass corner, then stick my shit in my face all rude-like? How is any of that normal? What is wrong with you, sir? Are you okay?”

You were surprised you’d even kept that whole diatribe to a hushed tone. It wasn’t even that deep for you to unload on him like this, but you were still coming down from the adrenaline of the performance and his lack of manners was fucking annoying.

And he was most likely stalking you. That couldn’t be ignored.

“I ain’t fuckin’ broke. And I wasn’t following you,” he countered. He sounded pissed, and you couldn’t help but notice a slight accent spilling out.

Awww...him mad...him upset.

“You absolutely followed me here.”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it. I’d follow me too.” You gave him a peek of your ass then shrugged. “It is what it is.”

He stepped back, as if he couldn’t fully process your audacity. He chuckled, then massaged the bridge of his nose. It pleased you that he was showing signs of you getting under his skin. That’s what his trifling ass deserved. You were willing to bet money that he wasn’t used to any type of push back. Maybe he was accustomed to girls being stuck on stupid for his fine self.

Not today!

“My bad,” he finally offered.

“About which part? The ‘don’t come around here’,” you mocked, using an exaggerated gruff with a puffed chest. “...the rudeness just now, the stalking—”

“I didn’t stalk—”

“Which part, sir?” You weren’t letting him off the hook that easily.

He was quiet for a minute, then blinked once. “For all of it.”

You rolled your eyes to mask just how much you liked that that he’d folded. Maybe you weren’t right in the head either, because why were you enjoying this shit?

So you kept going. “Are you apologizing because you mean it or because my goodies are out?”

The disappointment on his face was so subtle that you had to cover your mouth to laugh.

“I kid, I kid,” you assured, still quietly giggling at his not-so-amused expression. “I accept your apology...er...” you craned your neck, trying to get his name. You decided Rude Asshole would no longer do.

“Armando.”

“Armando,” you repeated, feeling it on your tongue. “Well, I’m sure you know my real name, because who isn’t nosy?” He probably went through everything in your wallet, which wasn’t much. Him not denying it was your answer, but you stuck out your hand anyway for a firm shake. “Thank you for bringing my wallet back. I appreciate it. But don’t follow me around no more or I’ll light your ass up.” You gave him a genuine smile and he just stared at you.

When you let go of each other, you were about to go give that private dance but Armando stopped you.

“Wait.”

He reached into one of his pockets and handed you several hundred dollar notes like it was nothing.

“Oh-uh...thank you.” Your eyes nearly bugged out when you counted a grand. He liked your performance that much?!

Enough to tip you...after all the shit you just said?

You were confused, but he was already headed for the exit without another word.

taglist: @xprettyprincess21 @etheralmiamor @cursivespell

1 | First Take

Great.

Traffic was just what you needed during another sweltering day in Miami, Florida. You were on your way to deliver some food because the hustle never stopped. You were in a lot of debt and your gig as a stripper wasn't cutting it lately.

So, Postmates it was. You were determined to not let the shitty circumstances of your life swallow you whole.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Messages from your boss, TJ, kept flooding in and you rolled your eyes. He was going off in the group chat again and you knew it was over some bullshit, because he was just that dramatic. You swiped away the messages quickly so you wouldn't lose focus.

"Turn right after the motel," the GPS directed, and you followed suit.

The food from a fancy steakhouse had to be delivered somewhere in Biscayne Bay, near Miami Harbor, and it was a massive order. Damn near $200 worth and the customer had already tipped a good 40%. You didn't usually hang around Biscayne since you lived on the other side of the Causeway, but you were in the area to say a final goodbye to a girlfriend who was moving out of state. You were already here, so you figured there would be no harm in taking some orders. It was tourist season after all. But this part of the Harbor looked a little…unkempt.

You expected to see at least one yacht in the distance, but there was none. Just cracked concrete and no signs of life. A long coated chain held the sign "Keep Out" restricting access to the pier. So you did as your GPS instructed and turned into an abandoned-looking gas station just before it.

The grass was overgrown, the roads were cracked, and everything felt so desolate. There hadn't been a human being present in the last several miles.

"You have arrived."

You frowned. There was nothing to arrive to. Just graffiti and trash.

"Bitch…what the...that can't be right," you groaned. You put your car in park to message your customer. Hopefully, they wouldn't be agitated.

A reply quickly came in.

Stephen: Sorry, mami. There's a gate just after the pump. Just wait there, I will come out.

You read it twice more and sighed.

It was slightly giving a lead up to The First 48.

You looked over at the big bag of food in the passenger seat and slowly blinked in frustration. The tip was too good to pass up. And you wanted a good delivery rating. If it turned out that this wasn't some human trafficking ploy, your account could definitely get shutdown for not delivering what this man paid for.

"Get rich or die tryin', I guess," you murmured hopping out of the car. You had your keys, wallet, and pepper spray in one hand and food in the other. You did as instructed and walked down less than a block to get to the rusted, sheet metal gate.

Male voices that were conversing in Spanish started approaching. The gate pushed open and you peeked inside like a mischievous cat testing the waters to see how safe it was to proceed.

You were met by a very nice looking guy.

He seemed to be your age, with sun kissed skin, full lips, and the most enticing dark brown eyes. He was dressed in all black, his biceps peeking out of his fitted shirt nicely.

Then your eyes dipped to the gun tucked in his waistband. Each guy on either side of him had the same. All three looked menacing.

Oh, okay. You were delivering to traffickers of some kind. Criminals, either way.

You weren’t too nervous...but there was always the possibility of this going all the way left.

"Delivery for Stephen?" You held up the heavy bag to show you came in peace.

The fine one narrowed his eyes at you then looked over at the man on his right.

"Es comida," the one you assumed to be your customer, shrugged. He leaned around Mr. Fine, who was still giving him the death stare and took the bag from you. "Thank you, mami."

"You're welcome. Have a nice day and enjoy your meal," you beamed, because your friendliness always earned you a five star rating. Before you were about to leave, Mr. Fine spoke.

"Don't come 'round here again." He slammed the rusted gate shut before you could respond.

There was a wrinkle in your brow when you turned to leave.

What a fucking asshole. Why did it always have to be the fine ones that had no home training?

The walk back to your car was a blur. You weren’t a stranger to rude customers, be it food delivery or at the strip club so you let it go because at least you got a fat tip out of it.

That had to count for something.

***

"Perdón, jefe! Please!" Esteban wailed, his face leaking blood onto the concrete. Armando punched the shit out of him again anyway.

Esteban was one of many in Zway Lo's crew who had been working under Aretas for the last few days.

A few days too long. Armando was ready to send Esteban to meet his maker.

"Pinche cabrón!" Armando yanked Esteban up by the collar and angled the glock to the underside of his jaw. "You don't put the address of a fucking drug operation into a fucking app!" His growling of the last several words made the other man cower. Everyone else was dead silent as they watched.

"I didn't put the exact address. I put the gas station! I put the gas station!" Esteban pleaded. "I used a fake name!!!"

This motherfucker is stupid, Armando presumed. Any person with half a brain cell could link a Stephen to an Esteban. It was Miami of all fucking places, the unofficial capital of Latin America. Nobody on Miami PD was on their payroll yet, so they had to be careful. One wrong move and everything he’d been working hard on to re-establish his mother and the family name would be for nothing.

Armando shoved him into the ground, disgusted.

His right hand, still cradling his glock, ticked with irritation before he padded toward Zway-Lo. He pointed his gun at Zway's temple. This would be the second time Armando had threatened his life. The lack of tact from everybody agitated Isabel Aretas's son greatly.

"The next time one of your guys fucks up," he said slowly, "you'll be sinking to the bottom of the fucking ocean with them. Claro?"

"Claro."

A moment passed. Zway-Lo breathed a sigh of relief when the gun was pulled back and holstered.

"And clean yourself up," Armando barked at Esteban, who was still on the ground. He was whimpering and nursing what might have been a broken nose. "Deja de estar chingando."

Armando strode to a backroom that was now his makeshift place of rest. All that decorated the small area was an air mattress, a few go bags of carefully folded clothes, and a door that led to a utility bathroom. A hanging punching bag was there for Armando to de-stress during moments like this. He began laying into it. When he was done, he did fifty push ups, then another fifty one-handed. Huffing, he stripped himself naked and got into the shower stall.

The cold spray hit him and he closed his eyes, replaying the last 24 hours.

Besides being surround by a bunch of amateurs, his mother was angry with him. Apparently he'd fucked up by trying to take out that cop first instead of going down the list as his mother requested. For some reason, she wanted Mike Lowrey to watch the list dwindle, and Armando had foiled that plan. He'd planned to remedy it by continuing as she instructed, but now he had another problem.

You.

Nobody, except for those who worked for and directly with his cartel, should've known about this area.

When he saw you, what he should have done was yank you inside, threaten your life, and interrogate you until he knew for sure that you weren't law enforcement or one of their honey traps. But he didn't and he felt fucking stupid for it. He followed his instinct that you were innocent, and now he was regretting it. He didn't know what to do. This shit could come crashing down at any moment and he wanted to do nothing more than fulfill his mother's wishes and avenge his father.

Armando leaned his head against the wall as the water ran the soap suds down his body. His mind was racing a million miles a minute and he couldn’t relax. He was a perfectionist and prided himself in that. What was going on right now wasn’t what he was used to and it bothered the fuck out of him.

After getting dressed and collecting his thoughts, he walked out of the base without a word of where he was going. But he made sure to stare down a bandaged up Esteban who refused to meet his eyes.

“Try not to fuck anything else up.”

He planned to get some food in the city, and his car, like the others in the crew, was parked in a free for all lot that was several blocks down. But as soon as he closed the gate, Armando spotted a little card wallet on the ground. He picked it up carefully, observing its contents. There were loose $1 bills, a weathered debit card, and something else that made him feel like his luck was turning.

It was your license.

***

A day after finding your wallet, Armando finally found time to watch you. It was the logical thing to do before he could move on to anymore targets on his mother’s list. He had to make sure you weren’t a problem. And maybe he was paranoid, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. Your information had come into his possession for a reason, and he chose not to ignore it. His meticulousness with these things had kept him alive over the years.

You lived in a rundown apartment in Liberty City and he’d arrived just in time that early morning to you hopping into your Honda Civic.

He stayed two cars behind you as you both waited in the worst hour of Miami traffic. Armando much preferred his motorcycle, or his array of sports cars back home, but the Camry did its job. It was unremarkable, with tints that would barely raise suspicion and fake plates that were taken care of by his connect in the DMV. He used his blacked out bike for his executions and the Camry for everything else.

He watched you attempt to do some shopping at a thrift store in Little Haiti, which was cut short because you must have have realized you'd lost your wallet. Your sagging shoulders and pronounced pout gave it away as you walked out. You looked so defeated. When you drove back home, Armando patiently waited in his car. Hours passed and night came, and you finally emerged from your apartment again. He gazed at your little tube top and tight shorts until you got your car. It was unlike him to deny that he liked what he saw, but it was the wrong time for him to be distracted by the female form.

He tailed you again, right up to when you got into the parking lot of a strip club named Treatz.

Armando sat there unblinking, wondering if you were going there to be entertained or to work. His question was answered when you disappeared through the clearly labeled employee entrance.

The club was set to open just an hour from now.

Perfect.