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“That’s what you’re wearing?”
I look down at my outfit. My black jeans are snug, maybe too snug, and my tight-fitting button down is untucked. The custom shirt should be tucked in with a belt, but I really don’t give a damn.
Harrison heads past me into my bedroom, and I dutifully follow. He picks out a blazer and a lightweight black crewneck. Everything he picks is black or some shade of black, which matches my mood. He picks out low black boots with a European cut. That means we’re not going anywhere that plays country music, and that works for me. Probably nowhere with a sexy blonde acoustic guitar playing singer, another bonus.
Outside my apartment building, Harrison holds the back door to a rideshare sedan open. I raise one mildly curious eyebrow.
“We’re drinking.” His answer to the unspoken question has me looking at his outfit again. He’s not wearing jeans.Fuck.
“Are we going to your club?”
“I’m a lifetime member now.”
That’s a million dollars incinerated. “Are you out of your mind?”
“What? I plan on getting my money’s worth. Starting with lifting your spirits tonight.”
I sink back against the leather seat as Harrison passes an address to the driver. He means well. And he’s right. I’ve got to get my head back on. This cold can’t last forever.
The club Harrison loves so much is about as high-end and exclusive as it gets in the States. They have locations in San Francisco, LA, New York, and Miami. The partners at Harrison’s private surgical practice offered to sponsor us for an event two years ago when they were evaluating if Harrison would be a fit for their practice. The ticket had cost around a grand, and I’d balked but paid when Harrison threatened to buy my way.
I haven’t been back, but Harrison loves this place. He’s out of his mind to spend a million on membership. As a plastic surgeon, he’ll rake it in, but to me, it’s a better use of funds to invest in medical advancements. Every time I cash in on an investment, I seek out my next investment. That’s how we improve healthcare.
The black tiled entrance glitters under the streetlights. Four black letters discreetly hang beside the door. Only the discerning eye would pick them out. TMPL
Harrison checks in with the bouncer, flashing an ID. He taps my shoulder, and the bouncer requests my license. With the eagerness of a sulky teen preparing to mow the lawn, I pull out my wallet and hand over the required identification.
“Your phone?” he demands.
“Didn’t bring it.” He raises one dark eyebrow, and the forehead wrinkles nearly blend into his shaved scalp.
“It was dead.” It was vibrating too often, and for the first time in my medical career, given I was contagious, I didn’t need to hear from the hospital. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare down the bouncer. If he doesn’t let me in, I truly do not give a damn. It’s the theme of the hour.
Harrison speaks to the beefy man, and I turn my attention to the street. If I remember correctly, this place doesn’t open until ten, and it’s barely after nine. It’s going to be dead inside. Which is fine by me. If the man lets me in, I’ll find a seat at the bar and get obliterated. If he doesn’t let us in, I’ll walk across the street to the dive bar and get obliterated. Either way, it’s a win-win. The thought has me cringing as the sentiment hits a little too close to home.
Harrison approaches. He bows his head and in a low discreet voice asks, “You don’t happen to have test results on you, do you?”
Are you for real?
The last time I came here, I did have my monthly test results on me, because we’d been forewarned, but that was a lifetime ago.
“Don’t worry about it. Andrea’s working tonight.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t care. Harrison talks under his breath to the bouncer like they’re tight friends.
The dive bar across the street calls my name. But, as luck would have it, the bouncer waves us into TMPL. Joy and gratitude combust. And yes, the sarcasm is full-blown.
Another bouncer frisks me in the hallway, and smoky glass doors open, revealing a bar. This place has many rooms and venues. They used to be closed on Saturday night, so maybe only the bar is open. That’s all I need, so that works.
Black leather wraps around the edge of the smoky glass bar. Dim lights give the place a sultry vibe. The bartender behind the counter is a woman with fantastic tits. Her sheer fitted black t-shirt ends an inch or two above her belly button, which sports a diamond solitaire.
“What can I get you?”
“Bourbon. On the rocks.”
“He’ll take the best bourbon you have, and I’ll take the same. What’s your name?” Harrison leans over the bar, smiling at her like she’s a menu item he’s considering devouring.
“Lola. What’s yours?”
