Rainmakers: Twerkers & Tippers - Book One

By Magevonna Magevonna

Sydney Summers is a former ace reporter based in Florida who fell from grace after filing cases against top anchors and network executives for harassment and negligence. Due to her acerbic nature and unwillingness to play with anyone's game, and her much publicized affair with a beloved NFL player, she was reduced to working a morning show and fluff pieces in Baltimore after the cases were settled.

Looking for a new start, she decides to pursue rumors of labor woes that supposedly lead to the nationwide recruitment drive of Club Foxxx Tails, a historically notorious strip club in Las Vegas. Sydney goes undercover to pursue the truth and finds out that she may have dug a deeper hole than she anticipated.

Will Sydney reclaim the glory she craves, or will she be drawn to a fate much grimmer than she could have possibly anticipated?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magevonna Magevonna
• Release date: Mar 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463520208

Magevonna Magevonna

Magevonna lives in Los Angeles, California. He's currently working on his second novel.

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Copyright

Copyright 2015 - 2019 by Magévonna

All rights reserved.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Coffee Ring Novels, P.O.Box 811742, Los Angeles, California 90081

Manufactured by Coffee Ring Novels L.L.C.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

M. Magévonna

Rainmakers - Magévonna

ISBN: 978-0-9900202-6-4

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book, prior permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you.

Coffee Ring Novels L.L.C.

P.O.Box 811742

Los Angeles, California 90081

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Two

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part Three

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part One

Bare Necessities

1

Zendaya

The smell of saffron, expensive musk, and vert de mandarin hung heavily in the frigid air of the conference room. Zendaya thought the smell would disappear, or at least thin out after a few minutes. She knew it was a silly thought. Prada, Le Labo Santal, and Tiffany and Co. were not cheap, watered-down eau de toilette.

Strong, sophisticated base notes with deep concentration of smells. Fragrance oils taking up more space in the bottle than alcohol. Skin well-moisturized and pumps concentrated on specific pulse points to retain the smell throughout the day.

This stench was unmistakably the expensive stink of high-rollers and whales. It’s a smell Zendaya’s nose has associated with a new bag, or a custom pair of heels, thanks to the loose lips those walking credit accounts have once she’s shaken her hips a little bit.

But stench was still stench at the end of the day. Zendaya’s just glad she’s not developing a headache from the myriad perfumes in the room.

Tell us a little bit about yourself, one of the three interviewers, whom Zendaya had nicknamed Baldy, said. Zendaya had never been to an interview that required three people to assess her worthiness for an office job. Granted, only two of the three interviewers in the room; the third was apparently arguing with another middle manager over parking space.

The other interviewer, nicknamed Botox for the skin stretched tightly across her skull, smiled at Zendaya encouragingly. Zendaya was sure she and Baldy had dentures. Well-made dentures, but fake teeth nonetheless. One of her regulars at a strip club she worked back at Redwood City accidentally spat his dentures out during one of her routines once. She disliked dentures on principal since then.

Well, Zendaya started with the kind of non-threatening sweetness that Baldy and Botox’s age and income bracket favored, I’m my daddy’s only girl. I got my mom’s looks and my daddy’s smarts. Helped me a lot with persuading folks about washing dishes or serving people’s coffees in diners when my parents kicked me out as a kid.

Right on cue, Baldy shook his head and Botox cooed. Zendaya almost laughed. There was a chance Baldy was the kind of 70-something manager who spent half his salary on clubs she used to work for. Thankfully, he was the same kind of person as Botox, the kind of privileged old rich you bumped into in L.A. who wore flowers in their hair at Haight-Ashbury and ignored the long, hot summer of 1967.

Should be a crime to kick out your kid like that, Baldy grumbled, If your parents took care of you, you wouldn’t have that stain on your record.

Botox made a noise of approval, and added, The state government too, ugh, dreadful on their part to kick you out of their program for a crime you didn’t even want to commit.

Of course they would know about Zendaya’s criminal record. There was no use trying to conceal information like that from a medium-sized business wealthy enough to rent two offices in a Century City high-rise. At least she was right in assessing these two as the kind of ex-hippies who wanted to look hip and down-to-earth by conducting the interviews for positions they never had to go through thanks to their connections.

Zendaya shrugged and affected the kind of grin she saw on white girls fresh from mid-west counties. She had worked with too many of them in diners and clubs that preyed on wannabe starlets. It’s nothing. I got used to fending for myself after a while. S’all good, thanks to my aunties and my six brothers.

The most Zendaya got on her aunties’ couches was a month before she was out in the streets again. Her six brothers were a little more generous. They had all secretly given her allowances when she still lived in Houston with him. If she had prodded, they would have probably sent her money when she moved to California. Zendaya had nothing but her pride at that point though, and refused all but a measly few thousands that ran out in the move. Still, they did beat her ex badly enough that he didn’t follow her to L.A.

What about your work experiences? Botox said. She had what Zendaya privately thought of as an I’m serious now look on her face.

Like I said, I worked mostly service jobs for the past four years, Zendaya said.

This was only a partial lie. She had tried to only work service jobs since she was kicked out of the house for being 17 and supposedly self-sufficient. On occasion, when things got desperate, she did retail for small mom-and-pop shops and Walmart.

The pay from those jobs never satisfied her. Sure, the pay from two normal serving jobs would have worked for her in another lifetime, but not this one. Not when there are Miu Miu and Blahniks to snatch, and definitely not when her skin only deserves to be touched by Shisheido, Armani, and Kypris.

She did her best to stay out of the skin trade for so long, and to this day she’s proud to say that no man has touched her in exchange for cash. Men, and occasionally women, have paid her to take her clothes off though.

Zendaya, like many other young people down on their luck, shed their apron after working a shift at a family restaurant to twirl around a pole after hours. It had frustrated her in her first year dancing, to be reduced to her looks again, but that ill will quickly dissipated when she realized that her tips alone had afforded her rent and upgraded her from $1 fast food menus.

If she had to be objectified, at least it was for good reason. Her long legs curved upwards to her thick thighs and bubble butt, dipped in size around her 25-inch waist, and bubbled up again to her natural 34Bs. She had good muscle on her thanks to her pole work, and her dark skin was untouched by any bleaching products. She had to thank Viola Davis for her confidence in her skin.

Botox and Baldy would not have been surprised if she told them of her night work. They were rich old liberals in the City of Angels, this was a tale as old as time for these codgers. But that didn’t mean that they had to know all about it.

It says here that you worked for a library once? And did a mighty fine job at it, like you did for that diner in Van Nuys, Botox said, her rheumatic eyes scanning the resume Zendaya printed in the office of De Acapulco, the strip club she did shifts at.

For the first time that morning, Zendaya gave them a genuine smile. Yeah, she said, voice gentle, A librarian from Robert Louis Stevenson Library had me do a paid internship for them over a summer and the conquistadora of La Conquistadora over at Van Nuys gave me a good deal too.

The librarian was actually a customer of hers at De Acapulco. She was there with her ex-boyfriend and got the surprise of her life when Zendaya spotted her reading Barbarians at the Gate and started chatting with her about junk bonds and the subprime crisis. Zendaya was not shy about knowing her shit. She’s fished out enough stories from lustsick businessmen about the myriad problems their auditors and accountants had over CDOs during the recent recession that she can probably write a best-selling tell-all.

Zendaya had what Tolkien would probably call dragon sickness. She loved going home to a bed full of cash. She was not, however, stupid. Only the owner of La Conquistadora heard about her Wall Street stories from these dull men.

She missed Mrs. Cortés.

Botox, whom Zendaya was slowly starting to recognize as the smarter of the two stooges, perked up at her answer. She arranged the papers in front of her again and opened her mouth to ask a question, when the door to the conference room burst open.

—passive aggressive tactics will not work in this ecosystem, Gary! half-shouted the man who busted into the room like he owned the place. Judging from the blonde quaff, casual blue polo and sporty slacks, Zendaya thought he would own the place after his daddy dearest keeled over.

Gary give you parking troubles again? asked Baldy wearily.

It’s nothing, groused the newcomer, who Zendaya had mentally dubbed as Frat Boy. He turned to look at Baldy and Botox. This the interviewee?

Frat Boy turned to look at Zendaya after a nod from Botox. Pleasure to meet you, he said, veneers gleaming brightly as he extended a hand to Zendaya. I’m—

He stopped, hand mid-way to Zendaya. It was a second too late when Zendaya realized why he had paused like that.

You’re that b—young woman from De Acapulco! shouted Frat Boy, the hand almost offered to Zendaya now pointing at her accusatorily.

So much for having a nice job interview, she thought.

2

Lynn

The hallway was quiet, except for the tiny squeaks of rubber shoes on polished tiles. It was a stroke of luck for the owner of the shoes that no one else was in the hallway to hear the ruckus she was raising. Although, she thought, it would have been luckier if she did not have to run at all.

The squeaking stopped once the owner of the shoes reached the end of the hall. She was about to open the door right at the end of the corridor when she stopped to consider the time. The digital numbers blinking underneath the cracked glass of her gold Nixon Re-Run read 07:15 a.m. She bit her lip, took her hand off the doorknob, and edged to the other set of doors to her left.

She opened the doors quietly. She tiptoed behind the heavy curtains that obscured the rest of the amphitheater-style lecture room from the tall windows embedded in the double doors. She made her way through the back row of seats beyond the curtain, crouched low behind the high backed plastic seats and wooden desks. She scanned the room briefly before she stepped down one level, slid across the seats to her right, and settled behind a desk a few empty seats beside the nearest student, and above a row of clustered heads. She was lucky that this class was popular; her sudden addition to the sea of students shouldn’t be too noticeable.

Her professor, at least, seemed to have not noticed her entry. It helped that her back was turned to the class and her eyes focused on the tangled words she scribbled on the blackboard.

Lynn, hissed a voice.

Lynn turned her gaze from the professor to the source of the voice, a gangly student with bronze skin who looked up at her from the row of seats in front of her.

Did you even comb your hair? Tristan asked. His own coiffed pompadour swayed alarmingly as he shook his head.

Lynn had done her best to clean up on the bus to college. All but a little old lady who had stared at her with reproach did not bat an eyelash when she nearly ran through a packet of wet wipes scrubbing down every inch of her skin not covered by her tank top or shorts. Living in Atlantic City meant seeing all sorts of stragglers slink bank into normalcy after last night’s revelry, even ones who were clearly going commando.

Partying until two in the morning even on a Sunday was, after all, a standard for a certain demographic in the city. Partying until three on a Sunday, hours before a Monday 7 a.m. lecture was the same for college students in the area. The real problem was that her friends, all of whom wisely did not have morning lectures, turned off the five alarms she set to wake her up from her nap. By the time Brandon, the manager who allowed her and her friends to sleep in the stock room of the club they ended up in last night, woke her up, Lynn had less than an hour to make it to school. She was extraordinarily lucky to have made it before the lecture kicked off.

Tristan handed her a comb and said, I told you to ditch by 11. You’re lucky we’re doing the readings from last week. The part of the class who can’t understand Kierkegaard and Schelling’s bullshit like you flunked the last paper, so we’re discussing German idealism again before a re-take.

Ugh, Lynn groaned. She combed her hair with one hand and fished out a pen and the notepad she took from the club from her purse with the other. What is this, freshman psych? I should have taken that psych class instead.

The rest of the class passed without the professor, Ms. Schreiber, picking up on Lynn’s late appearance. True to Tristan’s word, Ms. Schreiber mostly repeated her lecture last week. This left Lynn with time to catch up on her coursework in other lectures, and answer a few urgent questions from her co-workers at her first part-time job. The questions were mostly related to the copy machine Lynn swore was haunted.

When the bell rang, Lynn shoved her notebook and pen inside her purse and stood to exit with Tristan.

That was what she planned on doing, until Ms. Schreiber called for her.

Good morning, Ms. Schreiber, Lynn greeted her professor politely. She was vaguely aware of the hoodie Tristan handed her on her way down to Ms. Schreiber’s desk. She tied the hoodie to her waist instead of covering up. Atlantic College didn’t have a prescribed dress code anyway.

To her credit, Ms. Schreiber didn’t flinch at her clothing. Teaching students in proximity of casinos and all sorts of clubs for 20 years in Las Vegas, and now Atlantic City, had left her with a high tolerance for promiscuity. Lynn had to admire her for that. Other professors would have raised an eyebrow at her obviously bra-less appearance and the way her twin tails made her look like she’s one of the kids forced along by their grandparents to Sunny Fruits and Vegetables Market.

Are you aware that the school’s review for scholarships is in a week? Ms. Schreiber asked.

Lynn flinched. She was aware of it, alright; the school email informing her of the evaluations had stressed her out to the point that she partied until 3 a.m. last night.

Yes, Ms. Schreiber? Lynn said cautiously.

Then you’re aware that you almost missed my class for a fifth time? Ms. Schreiber pressed on. One minute later and you would be facing another withdrawn class.

Lynn flinched. So you noticed.

Ms. Schreiber tilted her head. For the briefest of seconds, her impassive face creased into what passed for sadness — at least, what passed for sadness for Ms. Schreiber. I know my class was a last minute decision for you, but I’d hate for it to be the reason you lose your scholarship.

I can do extra-credit work, Lynn blurted out before her brain could catch up. She silently cursed herself. When could she even do that extra work?

Ms. Schreiber shook her head. Her face smoothed into an unreadable expression again. Lakes, I have no problem with your grades, she started, and Lynn could feel a familiar sort of dread pooling in her stomach, What I have a problem with is your attendance. I hear that I’m not the only one here who has problems with it.

I’m trying.

We can see that.

I promise I’ll make class next time, Lynn stressed, And my other classes too.

Ms. Schreiber sighed. She turned around to her desk, straightened out the files there, and waved at the students filing in through the door for her next class. That’s what you said last semester, Ms. Schreiber said over her shoulder. You have to back those words up with actions, or you’ll lose your scholarship, and none of us want that.

Lynn waited for a few seconds after that, and when Ms. Schreiber turned around to raise an eyebrow at her, she took it as a sign that she was dismissed.

The dread Lynn felt curling in her stomach had made its way into her chest. She hated this feeling, this cold, clammy