Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story

the building and motioned for the bartender as he commandeered his seat.
“What’ll it be?” The bartender wasted no time with silly things like meaningless chit chat. He knew better than to bother with it since most of the clientele was mesmerized by the gigantic bags of silicone bouncing every which way from the moment they paid their cover charge until the moment they realized they had blown their whole paycheck in a matter of hours because of the blossoming of a love which existed only in their minds.
“Liquid Cocaine; a double shot.” The last twenty-four hours had been anything but relaxing for Micah. What better way to unwind than to drink some hard liquor and watch supposedly loose women parade around in their birthday suits for a couple bucks-per-shake of the twins?
“You got it.”
Micah swiveled around on the stool and faced the primary stage. A slender, yet voluptuous, brunette dancer stepped onto the platform with the sort of demeanor that demanded the attention of every man and woman in the room. They introduced her as Citron. Apparently, the club wasn’t one to follow the norm of naming its dancers after luxury automobile manufacturers. That or she was one to break the mold from time to time. The music began somewhat abruptly, and Micah watched as her clothes came off in a set cadence, to the changing beat of the song, with the sole purpose of getting the men around the stage to loosen whatever grip they still had on their money.
The beat picked up, and she was down to a thin strip of fabric that might pass in some places for actual underwear. Her dance was hypnotic, locking Micah into a trance. The bartender placed the drink next to Micah’s arm and walked away. As though it were second nature, Micah slipped a twenty under a nearby napkin holder and grabbed hold of the drink; all without taking his eyes off Citron. He stood up, careful not to miss a moment of the action, and walked over to a recently vacated seat at the primary stage. Some poor sap had chosen an inopportune moment to relieve himself.
He took a sip of the drink and, despite the potent mixture, his mind failed to register the burning sensation as the liquid meandered down his esophagus. The beat of the track gradually picked up and Citron removed the last piece of fabric rather casually before tossing it into some seats near one of the smaller stages, drawing an angry glare from the other dancer still moving about on the platform. Citron’s eyes bounced from one gentleman to the next until her gaze locked onto Micah’s. she took a couple steps over to where he was sitting and kneeled, smiling.
“Hey, sugar,” she said. The words came out like a whisper amongst the pulsing bass of the speakers overhead.
“What’s up?” Micah didn’t do this sort of thing often enough to have a pre-made line at the ready, so he just went with his go-to for conversing with just about anyone.
She leaned in, pressed her breasts against his face, and said, “You can be. If you want a special session once I’m done up here, that is.”
“That sounds good.” Calm, cool and collected; the ladies always ate that up. At least, that’s what he always told himself. The strong possibility that Citron’s involvement was merely part of a grander charade to cause him to part ways with his money hadn’t yet created within Micah any sense of unease.
“I thought it would.” She stood up and Micah slipped a ten-dollar bill in the strap of one of her heels.
Citron continued her set as a group of men on the other side of the stage, desperate for a woman’s attention, no matter how insincere, prepared to pull off the dollar bill trick. They each placed a half-folded dollar bill in their mouths and rested the backs of their heads on the stage, looking at her upside down. She reluctantly made her way over to them, leaned down, and grabbed the dollars by squeezing her breasts together around their faces, snatching the money from their mouths on the way up. For some, the affection is all they need, even if it’s strained.
The music faded to nothing as Citron’s set ended and another dancer made her way toward the primary stage. The DJ then announced the next participant in this week’s episode of How to Disappoint Your Father, a petite blond woman with implants that would make a pair of watermelons blush. Citron put her clothes back on and casually strolled over to Micah.
“Let’s go, sugar.”
He gulped down the last bit of his drink and left the glass on the table, following along behind Citron like a lost puppy eager to be taken in by a loving family. They went over to a stairway near the back of the club and walked up the steps to a landing where an oddly muscular man in all black stood guard. He nodded at Citron as she led Micah to an empty room at the end of a long hallway. He stepped in after her and shut the door.
The small room was lined from floor to ceiling in red velvet and sparsely decorated. A black leather sofa and an end table sat empty in the center of the room. Micah walked over to the sofa and plopped down, stretching his arms out completely. Citron followed and stopped in front of him, her legs between his.
“So, how much fun did you want to have?” Her voice had a playful quality to it as she tried to gauge his interest in what was to come. She didn’t bring him up here for nothing, but it wasn’t always easy to tell how far some guys will go once they stepped out from underneath the safety of the neon lights.
“What did you have in mind?”
“That all depends on what you feel like spending, sweetheart.” Citron had learned early on that many guys enjoyed being referred to as