Chapter Text
The hot LA afternoon sun beat down brutally on your car, making sweat gather in the crook of your neck and turning your brain sluggish. How much longer could those two idiots possibly take? You thought, blinking against the harsh light reflecting from your side mirror.
You had been sitting in your car for well over an hour now, observing the flashy establishment, and trying not to fall asleep. Your thighs kept sticking to the leather seat, and if one more passerby looked at you weirdly, you were going to start shooting.
You had been irritated ever since your boss told you what your next job would entail. When he had called you into his office yesterday to inform you, you had nearly stormed back out.
“You’re kidding.” You narrowed your eyes and your fingers dug into the orange upholstery of the chair you were sitting in.
Tiger—a large man with the kind of arrogance needed to christen himself with such a moniker—looked unimpressed at your demanding tone. “Don’t go buggin’ out now, baby. ‘S nothing personal, the job just needs to be done.”
But it was personal, you were sure of it. Ever since you had turned Tiger down, he had been handing you only less than desirable work. You stared irritated at the cigar hanging half out of his mouth, and you hoped that some of its ash would fall onto his too-tight leather pants.
“I’m too good for this shit, and you know it,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
He shrugged. “Someone needs to do it.”
“Make Nail do it. Or Petrol, or hell, I’m sure Skinny would love the opportunity.” God, what stupid fucking handles these men could come up with. It’s not like it actually protects their identity—get two drinks in them and they’ll freely hand out their government name to any woman unlucky enough to be around them.
“Baby,” Tiger sighed, rolling his eyes. He had given you that name himself in a desperate attempt to get you into his bed. Like a sucky nickname would ever actually make you suck his dick. “Close the shades and listen.”
You hated the way he used slang. As if a couple of up-to-date phrases would make people look away from his bald spot or his saggy cheeks.
“The men gotta do some other stuff. Figured you’d love the opportunity, being a strong modern woman and all that.” Some malice seeped through his voice at the end of the sentence, and you wanted to throw the framed painting of Tiger stroking an actual tiger at his head. “C’mon baby, it’s an easy gig. Just find out whether these two private dicks got their nose in my business, and if they do, bump them off. That’s it.”
You sighed, knowing that you didn’t have an actual choice, anyway. While Tiger’s business wasn’t one the largest out there, he had enough leverage over you to make it so that you would stick around until the bitter end—whatever that would entail. Plus, killing people was kind of the only thing you were good at, ever since you shot your first victim at the age of seventeen.
“Knew you’d see my way.” Tiger pulled a manila folder from his desk, throwing it into your lap. “Here’s all we got on them.”
You opened the folder and looked up, unimpressed. “It’s empty.”
“Can’t make it too easy for you, now can I, babygirl?” You wanted to retch. “Stakeout’s part of the gig. If you wanna have fun with it, have fun, but just make it quick.”
You nodded, stuffing the folder into your purse, and got up. “I at least gotta know their names.”
“Jackson Healy and Holland April.”
It was Holland March. You genuinely didn’t know whether Tiger had been trying to fuck with you or just was that stupid.
Ever since you got the job, you had been doing your research, finding out whatever you could about those two possibly soon-to-be-dead bastards.
Jackson Healy, 53 years old, former enforcer-for-hire turned private eye. Divorced, two-bedroom apartment, owner of two handguns according to the DROS. (Even though you never relied on those records—trusting either paperwork or law enforcement was a sure way to get a bullet between your eyes.) His only known associate came in the form of his business partner:
Holland March, 36 years old, a semi-reliable private eye who worked alone until last year when he and Healy joined together and started The Nice Guys Agency. Widowed, teenage daughter, rental house, one registered handgun.
You had looked away quickly when you noticed the young blonde girl walking up the driveway and letting herself into the house. You didn’t like messing with people who had kids, especially considering the girl had already lost her mother, but business was business. Maybe you’d slip the girl—Holly—some cash once you had killed her father.
Right now, the two self-declared ‘Nice Guys’ were hunting for information in a shady strip club. It was a rundown building, with windows covered by black shades and a neon pink sign reading ‘Tinseltown’ mounted over the entrance. On either side of the name was a glowing breast equipped with a nipple tassel, lighting up rhythmically.
The sun was slowly setting behind the club, and the ultraviolet color palette painted the scene, turning it almost romantic. Then some man lurched out of the front door of the club, hurling on the sidewalk before stumbling back inside, and you let your eyes fall closed with a groan.
Either the two detectives were perverts and in the process of getting their rocks off while on duty, or they had actually found something interesting in the club. You didn’t care which one it was, you just wanted to not continue waiting here for them, so you made a decision: it was time for some close-up investigating.
You exited your car, stretched your stiff limbs, and then started striding over to the club. Steps confident, head held high. You were aware that establishments like Tinseltown weren’t the safest for women, but you were carrying two guns, and the ability to knock a man to the floor in less than three seconds.
The smell that greeted you when walking into the club was a delightful mixture of sweat, alcohol, and lube, so potent it stung your eyes. The air was filled with upbeat music and low chatter, interrupted by the occasional whistle or shout by one of the many men crowded around the stages and throughout the room. The overhead lights were so dim that most of the room was only visible because of the many glowing neon signs scattered along the walls or standing throughout the space. When you took a couple of steps forward, the floor was sticky under your boots, making you almost turn back around. The chestnut knee-high platform boots were one of your most treasured possessions, and no job in the world was worth ruining them over.
While you didn’t make bad money, there was not much you could do with it. You had your apartment—nicely furnished with everything you might need—and otherwise you invested in your wardrobe. Without a family to support, or a big social life outside of your job, there was not much else to do with the money, so clothes it was.
Lacy tops, suede suits, tight skirts, boots, sandals—whatever you wanted, you got. You didn’t have to work in a stuffy office, so there was no dress code to follow, and you could wear whatever you wanted. That was not just comfortable for you, but it also made it very easy for you to go undercover in places; however, sometimes it worked a little too well.
With your high-waisted tight sitting jeans shorts and orange blouse knotted over your navel, you fit in a little too well in the strip club. Then again, you were sure that any woman unlucky enough to stumble into this joint would get the same kind of looks you were currently receiving, after all while your clothes were on the shorter side, anyone with half a brain should understand that you weren’t one of the workers here.
But to the kind of men frequenting this place, a pretty girl was a pretty girl—whether she wore a bikini or a winter coat—therefore flesh to be consumed.
“Heya dolly,” a slurred voice came from your right. A man was leering up at you from the red leather couch he was half sprawled over it. His eyes were glazed and teeth stained yellow. “Don’t you look pretty?”
“If you say so.” You shrugged, eyes searching the many faces for your two targets. You thought you spotted one of them near the bar, but when you tried to get a closer look, a hand wrapped itself around your wrist.
“Now, wait a second.” The man hiccupped, and you wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating from him. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
You sighed, “Not really.” You tried to shake him off. It would be easy for you to knock his drunk ass to the floor, and while you certainly weren’t above hurting men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—in fact that might be one of your favorite parts of your life—you didn’t want to risk drawing too much attention on you.
“Just… c’mon, baby. Gimme a chance.”
You froze, now focusing on the man who seemed to perk up at your sudden attention.
“Baby?”
The man frowned but quickly shook it off, grinning widely. “Yeah, baby. You like that? You wanna be my baby, hm?”
“Oh, god.” You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off.”
Secretly, you were relieved, though. Tiger liked to sometimes send one of his men after you, just to ‘check in’. It was condescending, irritating, and on several occasions almost screwed up gigs for you. Plus, if he had men stationed here, it would mean that the club was one of his, or at least one he operated out of, and that thought didn’t sit right with you.
Sure, Tiger and his men did bad shit, you weren’t stupid, you knew that. Hell, you regularly killed people, a lot of whom didn’t really deserve it. But looking around you at the girls hanging off the poles or strutting around the room, with glassy eyes and worn-out smiles, you felt something burn in your chest. That wasn’t the look of women who were living out their dream lives, or at least who found some enjoyment in their work—those were the slumped shoulders and weary faces of women pushed to their limit.
And with a couple of those, the term ‘women’ might be an exaggeration; girls seemed more fitting.
The man was still holding on to your wrist, looking more hopeful by the second, as if ‘fuck off’ wasn’t enough of a hint. You twisted your hand in his grasp and were about to break his fingers—fuck the extra attention, he was starting to piss you off—when another voice spoke up from behind you.
“Hey man, she doesn’t seem interested.”
You turned, surprised, and came face to face with none other than Holland March. He wore a nice-looking maroon suit with a mustard-yellow tie, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He was looking at the grip the other man had on you, and while he didn’t have a very threatening aura, he stood close enough to signal that he wouldn’t leave before he was satisfied.
The other man did a quick once-over of March and then scoffed, “Fuck off.”
Funny, that's what I just said, too. Is what you wanted to say, but you bit back the retort, a plan forming in your head.
Every man loved a Damsel in Distress, whether because they want to put her in the aforementioned ‘Distress’ or because they want to save her from it didn’t really matter, as long as a woman was looking at them doe-eyed and trembling, they got their kicks from it. And if March was the kind of man who’d rather protect than threaten, then that was only the better for you; he was handsome after all, there was no reason in denying that.
“You fuck off,” March retorted, sounding genuinely offended.
“What’s your issue, pal? Just wanna relax for a bit and spend some time with this pretty thing,” he said, voice thick with annoyance and intoxication. He got off the couch, swaying a bit. March was a tall man, but the other man stood a couple of inches taller.
“I’m not your pal, pal. And she’s not an object,” March said, and his words landed somewhere they shouldn’t for you. Then he went and pushed the man.
That came as a surprise not just to the man who stumbled over his feet, tripping over the flank of the couch, but also to you. He still held you, so when he went down, he took you with him.
You hit the ground hard. Half catching yourself on the cushions of the couch, which, considering the kind of establishment you were in, wasn’t that much of a relief. At least the hold on your wrist was finally broken.
“Oh, fuck,” March yelped, threw his cigarette in the closest ashtray, and knelt down next to you, hands fluttering over your back. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—that didn’t go the way I hoped.”
While you did feel a twinge of annoyance, mainly because you were sure you had to burn these clothes now, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re fine. Got him off me at least.”
At that, you both looked up to where the man stood up from behind the couch. His gaze landed on you before he scoffed, muttering something about ‘teasing sluts’ before trailing over to the bar.
“That’s not—hey,” March yelled after the man before turning back to you with a dopey smile. “If you want, I’ll get someone to beat him up.”
“You’ll get someone to beat him up?”
“Yeah, I know someone. Actually, wait here a second, I’ll do that now.” March stood up, but you stopped him before he could walk away.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I—” you noticed you were still perched on the ground.
“Here.” March offered his hand, and you took it, getting up.
“Thank you.” You brushed off the crumbs from your clothes, trying not to shudder with disgust. “Seriously, though, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” he said and nodded as if trying to convince you of just how serious he was being. “Any time, any day. Just give me a call and I’ll be there.”
You laughed. “I don’t have your number.”
Yes, you did.
He started frantically searching his pockets but came up empty. “I swear I had one here. Healy always tells me to…” he mumbled, more to himself than you, before looking up with wide, regretful eyes. “I’ll ask Healy for a card quickly. Healy is my partner—business partner! He is my business partner.”
“Nothing wrong with the other kind, too.” You grinned.
“Of course!” March basically tripped over himself to agree with you. “Nothing wrong with it. Love is… love is beautiful, no matter who with whom, right?”
You nodded. Fuck, he was endearing.
“But we are private detectives. Worked with the DOJ last year. Well, kinda, but… anyway, lemme just get that card for you.”
You stopped him again. While you were certain he’d come back to you as quickly as humanly possible, you didn’t want Healy to get involved right now. From your prior research, it became clear that Healy was the more serious and reliable one of the two—if one of them was going to spill their secrets, it wasn’t going to be him.
“Do you have a pen?” You asked.
March started patting his jacket before taking out a silver pen.
“Perfect, just write your number on my arm,” you said, holding out your right arm toward him.
March first turned a shade paler and then three shades darker. A rosy flush spread over his cheeks. “You want me to… yeah, yeah, that works. It’s actually perfect!”
He gently took hold of your elbow with his left hand, holding it steady while he started to write with his other hand . His hand was warm on your arm, and he was lightly moving his thumb back and forth, seemingly subconsciously. He had large hands, and you—you have to get your mind out of the gutter.
“Your skin is so soft,” March whispered and then flinched, smudging some of his writing. “Oh, Jesus, that wasn’t—” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m not usually this…”
“You’re fine.” You smiled, and then, as if just getting an idea, bit your lip, looking away coyly.
“What?” March asked. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you to make up for all of this?”
“No, it’s nothing.” You almost started dragging your foot across the floor, but then figured that’d be a bit overkill. “Really, it’s—whatever.”
“No, c’mon. Now you've gotta tell me.” He was grinning widely now.
Hook, line and sinker. It’s so easy.
“I, um, well, the reason why I’m even in here is that my car kind of broke down,” you said. “And I was just going to ask to use a phone to call… well, someone—I wouldn’t even know who to call, to be honest. But it’s already getting late and it’ll be dark soon, so maybe you could—”
“Yes!” he said, nodding vigorously. “This is not a good place for a woman to be stuck, believe me. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“That’s really kind, thank you.” You smiled bashfully up at him, and he practically started swooning.
“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing, really.” He waved you off and then held out his hand as if to say, ‘Lead the way’.
When the sweaty evening air hit your face, you took a deep breath. LA air was passable on its best days, and while today definitely wasn’t one of those, everything beat the stench of desperation wafting out of the men present in Tinseltown—present company mostly excluded.
You walked over to your car, March hot on your heels.
“This really isn’t the best place to get stuck for a beautiful woman. I mean, this whole side of town, honestly.”
“I should pick a better one next time, I know.”
“Probably. I mean, it worked out great this time, but who knows who’ll be around if it happens again.”
You hold out your arm. “I figured you’d be, now that I have your number.”
He chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t have to under those circumstances. But, sure, call me and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You turned and winked at him. He winked right back, and you had the sudden urge to grab him by the tie and pull him closer.
But luckily, at that moment you reached your car, and now had to focus on the bigger issue, which was that you had to fake a car emergency with him right there, watching you closely. You opened the hood of your car, and he stepped up next to you.
“Can I be honest for a second?” March asked, looking between the car and you.
“Sure.”
“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admitted and patted the hood lightly.
Perfect, you thought.
“You can’t be any worse than me.” You noticed a square shape in the pocket of his pants. “You got a cigarette?”
He pulled the packet out of his pocket, and while he was occupied, you quickly pulled one of the wires from its place, tearing it. Fuck, I hope I didn’t just ruin my car.
“Here.” He handed you a cigarette, also taking one for himself. He lit up his first and then motioned for you to get closer to him so that he could light yours. You inhaled, relishing the slight burn of the nicotine.
“Alright,” March said, and clapped his hands. “Let’s see what we can do here.”
────────
Nothing; you couldn’t do anything there, and neither could he, as it turned out. March even dragged Healy out of the club to take a look at your car, but when he saw the torn wire, he just shook his head and explained to you with narrowed eyes that in whatever way that happened, it couldn’t simply be reversed.
Healy had left to call AAA and hadn’t returned yet, which left you and March sitting in your car, talking. Sure, you had ruined your car for it, but this was the ideal situation you had hoped for.
“—and then we just handed over the por—the film, and our job was done.” March looked proud detailing the gig that had led him and Healy to start their own business. It all sounded rather chaotic, and more like they had a bunch of dumb luck instead of actual investigative prowess, but who were you to judge?
“Wow, that sounds dangerous.” Your voice was thickly sweet, and you almost couldn’t believe that March was buying the act—Healy certainly hadn’t. But March was eating up every one of your honeyed words; you could almost see his ego growing by the second.
The worst part, however, was that it worked in reverse, too. With every heavy-handed but delightful brag, all the little grins, and his seemingly real and well-intended attentiveness for your safety, you could feel yourself melt into the seat of your car. Every now and then you had to pinch yourself to remind yourself that it wasn’t unlikely that you had to kill him soon.
“Ah,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal and then continued talking in a voice that made it clear that actually it really was, “Sure, but we’re professionals.”
With that, he shot you a grin that made you glad you were already sitting. You needed to get back to your original topic, and quickly!
“Is that what you were doing in there?” You tilted your head toward the club. “Working on a case?”
He nodded, brushing nonexistent dust off his jacket. “Been working on this case for quite a while.”
“What’s it about?”
The answer to his question would either lead him to your bed or his coffin, and you tried not to show how that affected you.
“I probably shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, chuckling.
“Oh, come on. Who am I gonna tell?”
“Alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There is this semi-successful gang running business through this side of the town. At first, it was just drugs and booze, that sorta thing. Then last month we were approached by a woman who swore up and down that her daughter had been taken, and guess who some of the last known associates of the girl were?”
Your stomach turned a bit, and you looked away from March’s eyes to gaze out at the night sky. Before you could answer him, he continued talking, which you were more than okay with.
Yeah, take a fucking guess with whom, baby.
“The Stripes—that’s the name of the gang.” God, I hate that fucking name. “Apparently, she hung around them quite a lot. Healy and I then did some of our own investigating, and it seems like The Stripes progressed from drugs to ladies rather quickly. Turns out she’s not the only young pretty girl gone missing in the last couple of months.”
“Yeah, but it’s LA,” you said weakly, not knowing what you were trying to prove, and to whom.
“Sure, but four of the seven girls had ties to at least one member of The Stripes that we know of. Now, we’re mainly trying to find the girls and get them home safe. If we take down the gang while we’re at it, that’s a bonus, of course, but mainly there are a lot of mothers missing their daughters,” March said.
The atmosphere in the car was heavy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Shame was gnawing at your insides, to the point where you were sure that if you were to open your mouth, you were going to start spewing blood all over his nice suit.
He seemed to notice the tense mood as well and shrugged playfully. “And grateful people pay well, so there’s that.”
You could only nod, lips pressed together.
“Oh, shit,” March groaned. “That was probably a lot for you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… you asked, and most of the time there are only two people who I talk with about this stuff, and they love all the horrible parts.” He grimaced, hand coming to pat your shoulder. “You good, sweetheart? Deep breaths, that’s it. You don’t gotta worry though, me and Healy will get this under control. Just maybe avoid this side of town for a while, yeah?”
Headlights suddenly blinded you. It was AAA pulling up in a truck, and you gritted your jaw. Get it the fuck together; it’s a job, nothing more.
You turned to him, trying to ignore how good his hand on your shoulder felt. “Why are you here, though? At the club, I mean.”
March looked surprised at the sudden shift in your mood, but went along with it happily enough. “Oh, that’s one of theirs. You see that orange wriggle over there on the side of the club? That’s their calling card. An S for Stripes but also a tiger’s tail. Creative bunch, those guys.” He chuckled again, but you couldn’t join him, gaze frozen on the all too familiar signal.
This seedy, bottom of the barrel club, where the women looked dead and the men all too ready to indulge in that, was part of the same group of associates as you were. Well, kind of. Sure, you were a contractor but then again, Tiger had given you a name, a contract that couldn’t possibly be legal in any way, and tried to make you get the tattoo all members of the gang shared—and when was the last time you worked for anyone outside of The Stripes?
The next couple of minutes happened, but you couldn’t really say what transpired. March talked with the mechanic while you stood quietly next to him, eyes continuously trailing back to Tinseltown. While your car was getting hooked up, March led you to the passenger side of the tow truck, a soothing hand on your back.
“I mean it, I can give you a ride home. Don’t need to get into any cars with strangers if you don’t wanna.”
“You’re a stranger,” you mumbled.
“Well, not really.” He pointed to your arm. “You got my number.” He said it in a way that made it clear that he wasn’t just joking, you could call him if you needed anything. That fact only made you feel more nauseous. Because as you got in the truck, and watched March close the door for you, you knew two things for sure: firstly, The Stripes were partaking in the kind of illicit behavior where it was almost impossible to turn a blind eye to, and secondly, you now knew for sure that you had to kill March and Healy.
March grinned at you through the open window, tilting his head toward your arm. “Call me, and stay out of trouble, yeah, sweetheart?”