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Indignant, they whirl on their booted heels and laughingly make their way off, bitching about us the whole way.
“I think Mr. Too Many Dicks, Can’t Concentrate took a picture of the QR code on his way out,” I tell Jaxx.
Even in her frustration, she’s a salesperson. “I hope he’s married, and his wife orders the biggest, fattest cock we’ve got, makes him watch while she uses it, and comes for the first time in her life. Because you know she never does with him.”
The smallest hint of a smile washes across her black-painted lips at the satisfaction in her imaginary story.
“Seriously, though, what are we going to do?” I ask.
Jaxx takes a shaky breath in and forces a grim smile. “Sell our asses off. It’s going to take a few weeks of our profit margin to offset this loss.”
Shit. Just when things were looking up, the Sisters of Fate knock me down a notch. A big one.
I swear, if I die and meet those twisted bitches, we’re gonna have a little chat about interference.
CHAPTER12
CHANCE
“Want to hit the basketball court?”
“Maybe in an hour or two. I’ve got some homework to knock out first.”
I overhear the comments from two of the guys as they come into the club and it fills me with pride. The club’s booming with activity, and there aren’t too many ‘quiet’ hours where we don’t have members about. Whether they’re coming after class, after work, before work, or whatever, the guys like coming here—to decompress, work out, network, or find someone to chat about life with.
But whatever their needs, The Gentlemen’s Club has become that place, a grown up “boys club” that mixes self-improvement, mental health, and community. I never knew that combining all of those could be a successful business model, but I’m glad we took the risk because we’re changing lives.
Unfortunately, it’s not always copacetic.
A lot of the guys are still searching for their own identity, and clashing heads with other members is inevitable as they fight for rank. We’ve had to break up a few arguments before they descended into full-on brawls, but we expected that. Unfortunately, it’s how guys assert themselves—like the tussles I had with my brothers as a kid, and then later, on whatever ball field we were conquering.
Overall, though, things are going smoothly. With the guys and with Rico, who’s been rehomed to a far-away sanctuary where he can have all the healthy, raccoon-appropriate food he wants, AKA not massive amounts of chocolate candy.
Hopefully, there’s even a few lady raccoons for him to meet.
“Hey, Lucas, you ready?” I ask as I enter the counseling area and find him sitting on the couch, picking at his cuticles.
One on one mentorships are one of the most personally satisfying things we offer, giving guys a chance to talk with Evan or me on a more personal level.
“I guess,” he mumbles.
Not exactly a rip-roaring beginning to our session, especially considering he’s the one who requested it. But getting these guys to open up is hard sometimes. Most of them have been brought up with a ‘boys don’t cry’ mentality and don’t want to show weakness, especially to another man. But it’s my job to make them feel safe enough to share so that they’re able to grow.
“Been hitting the bag?” As I sit down opposite him in a leather armchair, I point at his hands, where his knuckles have fresh redness on top of healing bruises.
Lucas nods, examining his hands. “The heavy bag in the gym’s a little firmer than I’m used to.”
“There are bag gloves you can use.” I watch his reaction carefully, noting the slight downtilt of his lips. “But you already knew that and chose to bare knuckle it. How come?”
“I wanted to feel...” Lucas says, his voice fading. When I wave him on, he continues. “I wanted to feelsomething.”
“By hurting yourself?”
“By being tougher than some fucking bag!” Lucas snaps, his eyes shooting fire directly at me as if I’m the one who made him feel weak. I’ve done no such thing, but I’m a target that he trusts to not back down from his worst. “Real men don’t wear some pussy pads on their hands when they fight.”
Humming thoughtfully, I counter, “I’m betting there’s a few who’d disagree with you. Ali wore gloves. Conor McGregor wears gloves. They’re real men, whatever that means. So what’s this really about, Lucas?”
“What do you mean?”
