“Why?” I ask, my tone blunt and straight to the point. “If you want to throw your trust fund into an empty pit, toss it this way.”
He smirks against the rim of his dirty glass before downing another nip. After running the edge of his hand along his mouth, he says, “Unless you look past the surface, you’ll never find the diamond hidden beneath the rubble.”
“Hey, I’m all for finding a diamond in the rough, but this place isn’t it. Even if you throw a bucket load of money into this project and had her sparkling like Mariah Carey in a sequined mini dress, you will still be throwing money away.”
He places his glass onto the countertop and angles his body to the side. “Why?”
“For one, the demographic is all wrong. The average age in this region is 25-47. Even if they haven’t been tied down with the standard 2.5 kids most people in this county have, they are either unemployed or financially strangled by the housing market. Before the stock market crashed, house prices in this area were astronomical. People went nuts, buying any partial of land they could get their mitts on. Once the market crashed, so did the land value. You may get people walking through the doors, wanting to escape the misery of life for a few hours, but they are going to be the patrons who arrive already drunk, and leave once the buzz wears off.”
I stop talking and gesture my hand around the space. Even with fifty plus people on the dance floor, including me and the mystery stranger, only four people are gathered around the bar, ordering drinks.
“This place will never be anything more than a money pit. In my opinion, you’d be better off investing in another fancy watch than this dump.”
My scotch-drinking comrade gathers his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair and places a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter before turning his eyes to me.
“Do you have any plans tonight?” he queries.
I grin before taking a swig out of my bottle of beer. “I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”
I gesture my head to the ensemble of girls formed at the side of us. Their lips pucker when they noticed they have secured our attention.
“I’m sure walking up with one of them on your arm would still give your mommy dearest the shock factor you are after.”
My focus is pulled from the pretty brunette in the middle of the group when a low chuckle rumbles out of my drinking companion’s lips. “I’m not gay. But I can assure you if I were, your long-haired,Mills and Boonsromance book cover appearance you’retryingto pull off isn’t tickling my fancy.”
My mouth gapes, surprised by Mr. Trust Fund’s witty comeback. I knew there was something hidden in his eyes, I just had no clue it was a personality.
He puts on his suit jacket and adjusts the gold links on the cuffs before his gray eyes lock with mine. “So what do you say, Fabio, five hundred dollars for an hour of your time?”
I leap off the barstool. “Hell, if you’d mentioned the five hundred dollars at the start, I wouldn’t have even made you buy me a drink first.”
Winking farewell to the gathering of women floundering around the bar, I follow the smirking stranger out to an awaiting black town car idling at the curb.
“Corner of 57th and Welsh,” he instructs the driver as he gestures for me to slide into the backseat before him.
Forty minutes later, we are pulling into another nightclub on the other side of the city. Since Mr. Trust Fund isn’t the talkative type, preferring to interact with his cell phone instead of the real-life person sitting next to him, the entire trip was made in silence.
“Go inside and have a look around, I’ll meet you in there in a few minutes,” he instructs.
I nod my head, acknowledging I heard him before exiting the vehicle. My eyes lift from the cracked white pavement. Although not as rundown as our previous establishment, this club has still seen better days. After the driver of the town car has a quiet word with the rake-thin gentleman standing at the door, I'm ushered inside the building, forgoing the moderate size line waiting to enter.
My lips purse as my eyes absorb the space. With the poor lighting, dark furnishings and black carpeted floors, it feels like I’m entering a seedy strip club more than a dance club. Although the floor space surrounding the bar is crowded, the dance floor is nearly empty. It is only once the jukebox music alters from a slow, lazy song to a club thumping beat do partygoers emerge from the dark corners of the room like vampires coming out after sunset.
After using the clean but stark bathroom facilities, I make my way to the bar. On my way, I spot Mr. Trust Fund sitting in a stool at the very end. His suit jacket has been removed, the sleeves on his light blue business shirt have been rolled up, and he has a 25-year-old bottle of Cragganmore scotch sitting in front of him.
He raises his brows in silent questioning as I approach him.
“Is this another potential purchase?” I ask.
He lifts a crystal glass to his lips while curtly nodding his head.
My eyes drift around the space. “It’s better than your last selection. What’s your aim? More profit or better clientele?”
He hides his smirk beneath the rim of his glass. “You tell me?”
“Approximately eighty percent of the crowd here tonight are college-aged students. College kids are ideal for a nightclub, but they’re cheap drunks, rarely spending over ten dollars a night on drinks. This club could benefit from charging an entry fee. That way you get the ten dollars out of them before they walk in the door, easily doubling your profits, because they will still spend their stingy ten on drinks once they enter. At this age, their focus is on the head in their pants, not whether they will have enough money to pay the heat bill.”
Mr. Trust Fund leans over the counter and snags a glass from the wire rack. Remaining quiet, he pours a generous helping of scotch in the new glass before sliding it across the counter. Expensive whiskey spills over the rim and lands on the faded wooden countertop.
