Rhylan
Twenty-Four Years Old
CONFRONTATION.
Many things come to people’s minds when they catch wind that I’m a male dancer by trade. I’ve heard all the savory compliments since setting foot in this industry, and yet, not a day goes by that I’d reconsider my choice in career.
There ain’t nothin’ in this world that could steer a determined man like me away from livin’ his life to the fullest.
The Kerosene Cowboys had become a staple attraction on Broadway from the day it opened its double doors and rolled out the red carpet, especially for women who grew tired of the repetitive bar crawls and desired a morehands-onform of entertainment.
Hoping to get a quick nap in, I’d just settled on one of the couches in the locker room when Trent slid past me, yanking the tip of my boot in the process.
“Giddy up, Cowboy, the new owner just arrived, and we’re already late for his introduction.”I don’t remember hearing anything about a change in management.
“New owner? Since when?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged with pursed lips. “But he means fuckin’ business. Mister money bags brought two huge ass bodyguards with him. Dresses like an asshole.”
“Gotta name?” Sitting up, I dragged a palm down my face, failing to process what he was saying with zero caffeine in my system and my brain fogged from lack of sleep.
“I think I heard someone say Slate-something. Not sure if that’s his first or last name, but we’d better join the rest of the guys up front before he finds some stupid excuse to fire us. God only knows what kind of power trip that man could be on today.” Because the last thing I needed right now was a loss of what little income I already had…Goddamnit…
Pushing off the couch, I followed Trent down the hall and through the two-way door that led into the bar, silently creeping up behind the rest of the dancers that had formed a semi-circle around the new owner, already in the middle of his takeover speech.
“…and with this new arrangement comes a new standard of protocol for all existing Kerosene performers. Unlike those who will join later, your initiation into the Men Under Revue will only require you to complete one test instead of three.”
Protocol? Initiation? Men Under Revue? Tests?What the fuck?
“Hey, Silas… What’d we miss? Is that him?” Trent whispered over Silas’s shoulder just as we’d stopped at the far back of the group.
“Dustin Slate…” He murmured in response from the corner of his mouth. “The leader of some secret society that is taking over Kerosene, and it’s some intense shit… We’re all fucked.”
“As in our jobs?” I rushed out in a low whisper, while getting a good look at our new boss standing tall in an all-black suit, red silk tie, and radiating all the‘don’t fuck with me’energy that was physically possible.
“Tryour lives…” Trent and I snapped our attention to Silas, his face turning grim with his words. What he was saying didn’t make sense, at least not in a realistic way. Why would new ownership threaten our lives? And how could they? Was that even legal?—
“Proving your worth by passing your test will establish your position among our ranks. Being a member of the MUR gives you not only power, but a wealth that is unparalleled for anyone in a career field such as yours.” Dustin held up his right hand, displaying a thick black ring on his finger. “Thisrepresents membership and your loyalty to the brotherhood. And those who earn the honor to covet such a ring are your allies—your family.”
I was trying my damn hardest to take his speech seriously, but all that came to mind were the words‘what the fuck’playing like a broken record stuck on a loop.
Based on what was being said, I already knew we’d missed a lot of crucial information; this felt more like the end of the discussionrather than the beginning. Silas would need to fill Trent and me in on the blank details later. I’m sure he had to be just as confused.
“There are seventeen of you standing here right now, and hopefully by the end of the next three months that number won’t change. But know that failing to complete your test, refusing to comply with our rules, orattempting to runwill result in the same outcome. You take our secrets to the grave from this moment forth. How and when that happens is a decision entirely up to you.”
Whoever this man was, wherever the fuck he came from, he wasn’t here to screw around and sign pay stubs. Stepping into work today was effectively signing your death certificate. Silas was right…We’re all fucked.
“Tests will be assigned based on current employment seniority. You will receive the details via text message when the time comes. Target elimination is a requirement, not a suggestion. But as for the method of execution, that choice is yours. This is where you must decide where your future and loyalties lie. If you have any additional questions, my guards Leo and Axel will happily answer them in my absence.”Elimination? Execution? He did not just insinuate that we would be killing someone as part of our test…“Good luck, and welcome to the brotherhood.”
The room remained silent as Dustin pivoted on his freshly polished heel and exited the bar, his guards standing like stone soldiers; still and unmovable. But the second those double doors shut, more than half the Cowboys erupted into a disarray of questioning, fear, and anger.
“What the fuck does he mean we take this shit to the grave?”
“Murder? They want us to commit murder—willingly?”
“Why were we not warned ahead of this meeting?”
“I’m not dying for that pompous piece of shit.”
