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ONE
Louis
PLAYLIST: ? HOW DO I MAKE YOU LOVE ME? - THE WEEKND ?
There arefive types of drunks in this world. You’ve got the angry drunk who blows up and wants to fight everybody and their mom—even the houseplant. There’s the sloppy drunk who can’t hold their liquor. They trip over themselves and usually wind up at the toilet, coughing their guts out. Other types like the happy drunk and the reckless drunk are pretty self-explanatory.
And then there’s my type of drunk—the emotional drunk—where a six-foot five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mafia enforcer sits at the bar counter and gets in his feelings.
Fozzi is in the stool beside me, shaking his head. “I don’t get your issue. Those chicks were hot.”
“Too much fake spray tan. I hate that stuff.”
“That’s what baths are for. Make ‘em shower first. They’d do anything for the paycheck.”
“Too much work.”
Fozzi chinks his glass of whiskey against mine. “You’re not drunk enough. A couple more in you and you won’t give a fuckwhat’sspray tanned.”
I shrug and toss back the last of my drink. “Doubt it. Besides, pretty sure they’re sisters.”
“You expect too much. You’ve been away too long. Vegas girls are Vegas girls. They’re all the same.”
I munch on the crushed ice I’ve sucked into my mouth and don’t say anything.
Fozzi and I go back many years. We were both made in the Sorrentino family around the same time. Both worked for Giovanni—son of former Don Giuliano Sorrentino and now Don himself—and were integral parts of his crew here in Vegas. When Gio became Don, practically aKingin the criminal world, shit changed. Some things for the better. A lot of things for the worse.
Our old crew was split up. Certain guys like Fozzi stayed in Vegas under a newcapo. Others like me stuck with Gio until he changed his mind. After a tragic incident involving Mrs. Falynn, Gio’s wife, I was moved to Jersey under Bonucci. I’ve been in a slump ever since.
You’d think a weekend in Vegas would do me good—my old stomping grounds with familiar pals like Fozzi to party and live it up with. So far, the opposite’s happened. This whiskey has me in my feelings, about to fucking wax poetic about how lonely I am, and how I’d love some real companionship. Fozzi’s suggestion has only made me mopier. I’m not interested in bringing some fake as fuck, spray-tanned party girls up to my penthouse for the night.
I want a real conversation. I want a real woman. I want... I let the rest of my thought die there.
Who am I kidding? I know what I want. I’ve just been too much of acodardoto go after it. A go-getter type guy like Gio would’ve been making moves; he wouldn’t’ve stopped ’til he had what he wanted. It’s never been my style, but maybe that’s the problem.
What I want is in this very city, and I’m sitting here at a casino bar chugging whiskey with Fozzi like acazzo. Sitting here isn’t going to get me what I want. Neither is a night with sisters the skin color of Oompa Loompas.
I need to take action. Take a chance.
I toss a Ben Franklin on the bar counter and get up off the stool. Fozzi’s in the middle of trying to show me the pics some chick from Tinder has sent him. His brows raise in mild surprise and he stops talking midsentence.
“Get up,” I tell him. “We’re going somewhere.”
The Dollhouse is one of the most lucrative gentleman’s clubs in the city. Men go in loaded with wads of cash and end up broker than a kid working fast food by the end of the night. The girls are gorgeous, sexy, and know how to put on one hell of a show. Few men can visit the Dollhouse and not fall at least a little bit in love with one of the girls.
Even Gio got caught up. One night, he’d visited the Dollhouse thinking he’d pick a woman to fuck and be done with it. He wound up so crazy for Mrs. Falynn, he risked becoming King of the Sorrentino empire over her. Next month, it’ll be three years since they married.
Fozzi’s mouth waters the moment we walk into the gentleman’s club. It’s like dying and going to heaven—if heaven was blue-tinted and had an endless supply of alcohol. Everywhere we look there’s ass and titties. Beautiful women naked as the day they were born. Men ogling them, either from the general audience, or those lucky enough to be VIP.
We’re some of the lucky ones. Fozzi and I sit at our VIP table with our eyes on the stage. Two dancers swing around the pole, performing gravity-defying tricks. A server in a skirt so tiny her ass cheeks hang out, prances over to us and delivers us a bottle of MacCallan.
“I’m Cami. Call me if you need anything,” she says brightly. She winks at us before she bounces off.
I barely hear her. The announcer’s speaking, thanking the girls on the stage for their dazzling performances.
“And now,” he says dramatically, “please, gents, give a warm round of applause to our next performer. She’s one of our most sexual, most seductive dolls at the club. She’ll fulfill your wildest fantasies and show you a good time—for the right price. Give it up for Vixen!”
My breathing slows down. I lean slightly forward in my seat and stop blinking altogether. It’s been a couple years since I’ve seen Tasha, but as she struts out on stage in a sparkling top and g-string, it’s like no time has passed at all.
