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“Oh, the older gentleman.” Connor smiles—his first sign of being a hair sane. “Is that your dad?”
I was half a second from slipping through the curtain. “My dad? Why would it be my dad? You think my dad would come to a place like this?”
Connor’s face goes red in an instant. “Uh … yeah, that was a dumb assumption. Sorry. But also I still don’t know you that well, so …” He sighs and slaps a hand to his forehead. “I will just continue on down this hall now so I avoid saying anything else dumb.” He turns and heads off, his butt in the Aubergines purple-bootie-shorts uniform pulling my eyes as he rounds the corner, vanishing.
I should probably be nicer to the kid. He’s by far proven his loyalty to the club and is one of the best hiring choices Larry’s ever made.
I should calm my head a bit, too.
Tense and irritable isn’t a good look for me.
“Zak Attack, take a breath, be cool, you got this.”
When I’m finally out of the backstage and in the front, I skirt the edge of the room and head for the bar—the perfect lookout point—where I plant myself and scope the room for where Richie is. The bartender comes and goes, asking me what’s up, and I give him a vague shrug, frustrated that I can’t seem to find Richie anywhere.
Until my eyes land on a man by the entrance doors—a man who couldn’t even bring himself two feet into this establishment. The sight of him does everything to sour the receptive mood I just built for myself, and when I come around the bar and make my way toward him, his eyes lock on mine, and I feel the fiery weight of his stare.
No, this man is not Richie at all.
It’s my fucking father.
9
“Dad?” I exclaim for a greeting, and it comes out like a scolding. I’m instantly converted into my rebellious sixteen-year-old self before him. I’m not the Zak Attack of Aubergines. I’m not one of the highest-rated strippers of Mayville. I’m a mad teen with a mad vendetta. “The hell you doing here?”
My dad is basically me with twenty pounds of a gut added on, give or take a few, a full beard, and two shadowy bags under his eyes that ever so helpfully emphasize the rather scrutinizing stare he’s giving me right now. I can’t help but wonder if he’s happy to see me, or if he just came to show me how much bulgier his eyes have gotten since the last time I saw him—the occasion of which I can’t for the life of me seem to recall.
“Isaac.”
I give a self-conscious glance over my shoulder. No one is paying us any attention at all, but I still feel like a hundred ears and eyes are trained on us somehow. “I asked what you’re doing here,” I say in an impressively even tone. “This is my place of work. How did you even know—?”
“I went by your apartment complex first,” he explains matter-of-factly. “Met a kind man by the name of Alexander, who knew so much about you, he could probably write a book. He said he was headed here, so …” He spreads his hands, which he then quickly shoves into his pockets.
Alexander. He means “Lex”, the guy who lives on the first floor of my building, who very recently (as in: the night Captain and I met) decided to bury the hatchet with me. Ever since, Lex has been in a staggeringly cheerful state of “pleasant” with me, and has made a point to greet me and ask about my day all four times he’s seen me since, mostly when I’m on the way in or out of my apartment.
And now he and my dad have met. Perfect.
“Now’s not a good time,” I tell him. “I’m at my job. I have a … work I need to do.” Somehow, I felt the need to replace the word “dance” with “work”, as if my father doesn’t know exactly what I do here at Aubergines.
My dad, completely unfazed, lifts an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you the least bit interested why I’m here? How I’m here? One of your sisters could be in the hospital, and I’m here to tell you, and you’re dismissing me with such damned flippantness—”
“Not here,” I cut him off, then push my way through the door outside. He takes his time as he slowly follows me into the alley, where I lead us around the corner to a spot by the dumpster, right where a conversation like this belongs.
My dad scoffs. “It fuckin’ stinks back here.”
“First,” I start on him, “if a hair on any of my sisters’ heads was touched, I’d know about it in an instant. That’s how tight I am with my sisters, and why I know you aren’t here because of them. Second, I would’ve gotten a call, not an in-person visit from you … which can only mean one of two things. Either you’re here to apologize and make amends with me after all these years, which is as likely as me shitting out a diamond ring right now, or you’re actually in some kind of serious rut and are humbling yourself to ask your son for money.”
