Bad Chemistry

A night out with a stripper is more than this average joe bargained for

Bad Chemistry

The orange hardware-store bucket scraped across the concrete, echoing like a hollow drum. My back was screaming as I sat, copper wire pressed in my hand. The podcast in my single earbud faded to a distant hum as I clamped down with the wire strippers.

It felt good having new tools. The jacket slipped off clean, sliding to the floor. Hot, neutral, ground—the clippings rained down as I tucked the strippers back into my belt.

Something thumped my hard hat. I followed the trajectory to the floor before looking for the culprit.

Caleb, my coworker, lounged thirty feet away at the classroom door.

Lanky. Mustached. Pale like he’d been carved out of drywall. Always wore that look—like the world owed him a favor, and he didn’t care if it didn’t.

“Quittin’ time, dude,” he droned, hurling another bolt at my head.

“Aw, shit. Didn’t even check the time,” I muttered. “I gotta clean this up.”

“Pfft. Just us for the next three months. School’s out,” he said, turning his back. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Yeah,” I said, more to fill the silence than agree.



It was still raining when I got out. Not a storm, just that endless, annoying drizzle. The wet asphalt glimmered under the streetlights, fractured like broken glass. The air smelled of wet concrete and exhaust, sharp and cold, biting through the seams of my jacket. Had to be some kind of anomaly—raining almost the whole month. Or maybe I was just thinking too damn hard.

Hard hat rattled as I tossed it on the seat next to me. I leaned back, head hitting the headrest, back screaming like a busted piston. Every movement was a reminder: getting old sucked.

“Fuck… getting old sucks,” I muttered. “Screw it. It’s Friday. Alcohol’ll make it go away.”

Yeah. That was the plan. Always the plan.

Another lonely bachelor weekend—drunkenly chasing ass or nursing the inevitable hangover, only to repeat it tomorrow. Such is life.

I got home.

Showered.

Ate.

Got myself dressed.

One last look in the bathroom mirror.

“Hmph. Good enough for government work,” I muttered, smoothing the black button-up.

The embroidered rose on my left pec caught the dim light, threads curling like smoke from a candle I’d never burn. Whole reason I bought the shirt. Loved it. Never got me much attention, though. Not that I cared.

The Block.

Seedy as hell, even for Baltimore. The air smelled of fried food, piss, and gasoline. Rowdy ghetto thugs shuffled along the sidewalks, arguing over nothing that mattered. Idiots raced cars up and down the wet streets, tires hissing through puddles. Neon signs flickered above, cheap light cutting through the drizzle like a knife. Only thing missing were the street-corner girls.

Course, they didn’t need to be out here—they were already working the titty bars. Not that I was here for them. Just figured I’d pre-game a little—eye candy on display—before hunting for something a little more substantial for the night.

Rubber dicks and mannequins in trashy lingerie peppered the window of the sex shop. Same shit I’d been passing for five years. Nothing worth a second glance. The police station sat at the end of the block, dark, brooding, like a big brother hiding in the shadows.

It always cracked me up—women hoeing out of the strip clubs right down the street from the cops. Hilarious.

Club Pussycat. My favorite of the bunch, or at least the one least likely to rob you blind. Girls were cleaner here too. But I wasn’t here for that. Not tonight.

Inside, the bar smelled of spilled whiskey and desperation. Half the crowd nursed drinks like talismans against the night. Mark was there, cordial old white dude, always treated me right—free drinks every once a while. A favor returned for good tips.

“Hey Miguel!” he greeted, cheer in his voice.

“Hey Mark,” I echoed. Yeah, maybe I’d been here too much.

“Long Island?”

“You already know.” I slapped a twenty on the counter.

Bass from some offensive-ass hip hop thudded in the speakers. Skinny blonde shaking what little ass she had on the stage behind the counter. Cute enough, I guess, but way too thin for me.

Still mostly empty. Nine o’clock. Nobody out this early.

Mark plopped the drink in front of me, took the cash.

“Keep the change,” I nodded.

“So what’s new in the neighborhood, man?” he asked. “Ain’t seen you in a while.”

“Same shit, different day,” I scoffed. “Job’s not so bad… for now. Just waiting for…”

The song changed. A new girl hit the stage. A baddy this time. Black hair, modest C—maybe D—thick thighs, and an ass.

She wiped down the pole, tossed the towel to the bar. Our eyes met, electric for a second. Ruby-red lips, piercing blue eyes, ghost-white skin.

She turned, gaze lingering. I lost myself in her dance, even though I shouldn’t have. Crawling across the stage, rolling back, platform shoes banging against the floor. Churning legs, slow, deliberate. Eyes locked again. Longer this time.

“Fuck…” I muttered.

Mark moved on, attending others, leaving me hypnotized.

“I didn’t come here to spend money,” I murmured under my breath.

Three songs later—I don’t even remember what played—I couldn’t look away. Even as she stepped down, she made a beeline for me. I must have smelled like desperation.

“Hey baby,” she said, rubbing my shoulders.

Firm breasts pressed against me, sweet perfume teasing my nostrils. I caught a glimpse of a bruise in the crook of her elbow. Barely visible, hidden under makeup. Damn shame.

“Are you tipping the dancers?” she asked sweetly. Of course I was—half my wallet had gone up while she was on stage. Couldn’t tell her that.

“Actually, how about a drink?” I offered.

She sat, signaled Mark. Our eyes locked again, a quick bite of her lip before returning her gaze to me.

“So what’s your name?” she asked, voice shaky.

I chuckled. “Are you nervous? Don’t you do this all day?”

“Not nervous,” she said, clutching my hand with both of hers. “You’re kinda… I can tell you’re not a creep. I’d rather deal with you than anyone else here.”

“You mean you know I’m an idiot you can milk for cash,” I quipped, glancing at Mark, who had our drinks. “Yeah, yeah… fifty.”

I handed him my card, wincing on the inside.

“It’s my job,” she said with a hearty laugh. “But I’m not that bad. Destiny.”

“Hmm?” I turned back to her, eyebrow raised.

“My name. Ever gonna tell me yours?” She took a swig of her drink.

“Miguel,” I said finally. “Real name or stage name?”

“Katia.”

Her hand slid into my lap, creeping up my leg. My eyes followed it, then snapped back to hers.

“Wanna go upstairs?” Her tone low, breathy… inviting.

“Just like that, huh?” I shot back, matching her tone.

No answer. Just a tight squeeze downstairs.

Goddamn, it was fantastic. Of course it would be—she was a stripper. Daddy issues. Crazy by default.

Wouldn’t be dealing with that. First, last, only time.

But I was kicking myself. This wasn’t the plan.

“I don’t suppose I can get your number?” I asked foolishly, buttoning my pants, trying to ignore the ridiculous amount of money I just spent. Wasted, more like it.

“How about I do you one better?” she said, not missing a beat, pulling her black panties back into place.

I looked at her, though my attention kept wandering to her dark nipples.

“I need a ride,” she said shamelessly.

“The fuck? A ride?” I shook my head. “To where?”

“To your place.”

“My pl—wait.” I paused, throwing my shirt over me. “I don’t have enough money for that.”

She sat on the couch, leaning onto her knees, eyes glassy, like she might cry.

Bang! Bang!

“Time’s up!” the bouncer yelled through the door.

“We’re getting dressed!” Katia shouted.

She paused again, breath trembling.

“I don’t have a place to stay,” she admitted.

“Are you serious?!” I balked. “I don’t even know you!”

“Look, I know it’s a lot to ask…” She shot up, clutching my shoulders, staring into my eyes. “I can’t go back home. My boyfriend’s on some new drug and—”

“Boyfriend?! No, no! I’m not getting in the middle of that shit!” I protested.

“Look, just… don’t leave, ok?” Katia pleaded, pulling back slightly. “We can talk about it later.”

“Talk… ok,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m serious. Please?”

I finished dressing, locking eyes with her one last time. The door swung open, and deep bass hit me like a punch as we stepped into the hallway.

3:15 am.

Five minutes. Thats all i was giving her.

Rain was coming down hard now, wipers were working overtime clearing the windshield.

Red and blue flashed through the deluge on my windshield. Cops, busy clearing the street. Five minutes.

I cant believe i even agreed to do this shit in the first place. At least she didnt ask me for money.

God i felt like such an idiot.

I should have just left. But there i was, simping for some hot, semi-goth ass.

Some really, really hot goth ass...

Her five minutes were up. I shifted into gear and was ready to leave when i saw her.

Black trench coat, barely dressed beneath it, holding a magazine over her head to shield her from the rain.

She saw my car from down the block, her pace quickened. She caught the eye of some random nere-do-well. He kicked off the wall, hooting in her direction, but she ignored him.

The door slammed shut after she got it. Huffing, flinging water everywhere

“Oh my god i appreciate this so much!” She thanked me, clutching my face and planting a quick peck on my lips. She grabbed my crotch again, smiling mischievously. “I promise, ill make it up to you.”

I shook my head as my finger jammed the ignition button. More disappointed in myself than anything else. She relented, sensing my displeasure, probably thinking it was aimed at her.

Click!

As she popped the latch, the briefcase cracked open with a hiss, and a curl of fog slithered out like dry ice from hell. Nestled in black foam, two glass vials pulsed faintly, glowing red under a halo of frost.

“The fuck?!” I barked, jerking the wheel slightly. “What, are we cooking meth for NASA now?”

Katia giggled nervously, turning the case toward me. “Chill. It’s just a K-analog. My guy says it’s fine—”

She removed the vial, and in a split second the top blew. A geyser of crimson vapor roared out, and in two breaths it felt like I was drowning. My throat clamped shut. The taste was metallic, like licking a 9-volt battery, my lungs clawing for air that wasn’t there.

Katia panicked, knocking the case off her lap. The second vial tumbled free, cracked against the console, and exploded into another crimson bloom. The fog was everywhere now—thick, chemical, alive. My vision tunneled.

I couldn’t even scream. Just scratch at my throat and curse every stupid decision I’d ever made. This was it. Not a bullet, not a bar fight.

I was going to die in a parked car with a stripper, smothered by some sci-fi bullshit.

I knew these damn women would be the death of me.