Dark Horse
I’ve worked at Culture for a little over a month now.
I’ve managed to make enough money to buy some clothes, pay Mac rent, and reactivate my cell phone. I had to change my number, but I could transfer all my contacts — so, tiny win — except for the fact that the first number is Alana’s. I don’t know how long I’ve just been staring at it. It’s like a panic button. I know if I press it, all hell will break loose, and I’m definitely not ready for that. So, I’m going to leave it in its glass case for now and let it taunt me. A torturous reminder of the past. The dangling carrot that tempts me. Imparting that everything I want back is just a phone call away.
You can call me Mr. Masochist from here on out.
Speaking of inflicting pain on oneself, I shoot a text to Sean and my mom. I haven’t spoken to them since the day I got out. It’s been nearly two months. Even when I was in jail, we never went that long without talking. But I at least want them to know I’m alive, even if I am still pissed. It eats at me sometimes, the whole situation. I was under the illusion things were different. My mother was barely drinking; Sean was taking his meds and staying out of trouble. I thought I was going to come home to a reformed household, but I realize now, I’m the wrench. I throw it all out of whack. My mother knew that once I came home, things could go back to the way they were; her drinking, Sean unhinged. She wanted me to be the caretaker again, just like I’ve always been.
But I’m through doing that. I didn’t give up over three years of my life to get sucked back into the same vicious, dead-end cycle.
Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Movin’ on.
The March wind is whipping something fierce. It’s howling all around me as I walk down the street. I throw a head nod to Lorenzo as I hurry inside Culture. For a huge, scary dude, he’s pretty cool.
I make my way to the back of the club and into the changing room. I stash my stuff in a locker and strip down to nothing but my “uniform”. I adjust. I hate these little blue fuckers.
I’m working the male revue tonight, it’s my third one, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. When I get downstairs, Shayne is already behind the bar with Logan, an Australian guy who was hired around the same time as me.
The night starts to roll. The performances begin, and I try to distract my attention as best as I can. I mix drinks, play with my phone, and wipe down the bar a dozen times over.
I take particular notice of Daniel walking around the room like a snorting bull.What’s up with him?
A little while later, he, Divan, and one of the other dancers are huddled in the back corner talking animatedly, and every so often one of them glances in my direction.
“What do you think is going on?” I elbow Logan as I lean over and serve a drink.
He shrugs. “No idea? Maybe one of the guys’ G-strings broke.”
I laugh. That would be catastrophic.Or would it?
Suddenly Daniel is standing in front of me. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I don’t like it one bit.
“One of the guys didn’t show. We need you up there.” He bangs on the bar top.
I look around. To the left, to the right, and over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
“Yes, kid. I’m giving you a shot.”
I stare Daniel dead in the eyes. “Thanks, but no thanks. Find someone else.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” Divan chimes in.
“Um, you have a whole club of guys to choose from.” I point out the obvious.
“I want you,” Daniel is adamant.
“Not happening.” I shake my head.
Daniel groans, Divan runs his hands down his face, and Shayne nudges me.There’s no fucking way I’m getting up on that stage.
“C’mon kid.”
“Nope.” I dig my heels in.
“Logan, grab him,” Divan orders.
What?Suddenly, there is a six-foot-tall, jacked Aussie squeezing the nape of my neck. He manhandles me into the staging room where I’m then cornered.