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For awhile, my extreme success had made me accept my human flaws. I was making boatloads of money. Growing up, I'd been brainwashed into thinking that was the only sign of success. Human relationships were bad. Bank accounts bursting with cash were good. Those were the two simple concepts that made up the golden rule in my dad's house.
The sun was just starting to drop down over the horizon, and a chill rushed up from the coast. I pulled my bike off the highway and headed along the mostly deserted street leading to the Fantasm Strip Club. It was the place Jack and I went when we just wanted to drink a beer without having to be social or glaze over listening to chatter about real estate, stocks and the latest hot vacation spot for people with too much time and money.
It was still early. There wouldn't be any dancers or music or loud, annoying customers until nightfall, which was perfect. I just needed a beer and a place to sit and not think about anything.
The parking lot was nearly empty. The owner, Rocky, had parked his truck at the side door. He was rolling a handcart filled with wine crates into the storeroom. A beat up small car that was more dents than fenders was sitting near the front door. I pulled my bike up next to it and climbed off. I yanked off my helmet and sunglasses and headed to the entrance. My gaze swept past the shabby little car. Laundry and boxes were piled in the backseat. Two college textbooks and a notebook and pen were sitting on the passenger seat. A toothbrush and rolled up tube of paste were sitting in the cup holder between the seats. It seemed someone was living out of their car.
Rocky heard the front door open and shut. He poked his head out from the back room. "Hey, Nash, we'll be right with you. I'm just stocking some inventory."
"No problem." The beer counter was empty. I'd never been in the club during the day. With the natural sunlight streaming in through the tinted windows and the open back door, the place looked more inviting. The neon lights weren't flashing from every corner, and the counter was still clean and free of sticky smudges, dirty glasses and broken peanut shells.
Footsteps pattered across the barroom floor. They sounded too light for a beast of a man like Rocky. I glanced back over my shoulder. It was Rocky's newest dancer, Shay. She looked considerably less like a stripper and more like a college coed with her silky, white-blonde hair pushed back off her face by a blue headband. She was wearing a light purple sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that had holes at both knees. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her skin was flawless. Her almost too wide lips looked just as luscious without lipstick. She offered me a quick, half-smile as she circled around to the back of the bar.
Shay had been dancing the night I sat in Fantasm with Jack drowning my sorrows after getting the boot from MG Enterprises. She'd had a profound effect on every man in the audience, Jack and me included. After watching her dance, I'd come up with the crazy idea to hire Shay to help me cool my heels when it came to my out of control sex life. Jack had suggested I use my dad's draconian, self-denial style punishment on myself. At the time, it seemed like a plausible plan. Hire an incredibly irresistible woman to hang around the house for a few weeks, all the while denying myself any physical contact. It was the smoker's equivalent to 'cold turkey'. Only it was more hard core because people trying to quit smoking didn't keep cigarettes around the house to tempt them to light up. But by the time I sobered up, I'd talked myself out of the stupid plan. I was sure any woman I offered the proposal to would laugh in my face or call the cops. Or both.
So I brushed off the idea, and I went right back to fucking like a madman. But the short, grim visit to my childhood home made me realize that I needed to do something. Dad was sure I didn't have the stamina to stay relevant in the world of high finance, and it seemed I was proving him right. I’d had huge success so far, but I was slowly losing control of things and myself. The last thing I wanted was for Dad to go to his grave satisfied with himself for being right.
"What can I get you?" Shay asked as she reached for a glass. Her sweatshirt rose up as she stretched her arm forward, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her waist. Jack and I had been drunk as hell that night, but I remembered us trying to pinpoint exactly why she was so damn sexy. Only there wasn't one thing. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, she was a picture from head to toe, a vision that sucked in your attention and held it. She wasn't without flaws, too wide a mouth and a nose that was slightly crooked, but it seemed it was those imperfections that made her that much more fun to look at. And then, of course, she had a body that made a man's mind go straight to mind-blowing sex.
