Chapter 27
When Sam woke up, he knew without looking at the calendar what day it was.
Still, he went to work like it was any other day.
Later that afternoon, he headed out to Broken Hart Vineyards, knowing that like him, Manolo would be on his own.
On his way in he saw a handful of customers milling around the patio, admiring the view while they sipped wine.
He found Manolo behind the bar, taking inventory.
Sam slung his camouflage messenger bag onto the barstool next to him. “Got any beer back there?”
“This is a wine tasting room, buddy,” replied Manolo, recognizing Sam’s voice without having to look up from his electronic tablet. “Can’t you read the sign?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
Manolo took one look at him and said, “One beer, coming right up.”
He popped the top off a Deschutes IPA and the cap clattered to the counter. “Nice man bag, by the way.”
“Didn’t ask you.” Sam took a long pull on his bottle.
“So,” said Manolo, putting aside his tablet for the moment. “You gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass? Or do I have to guess?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Your choice.” He paused. Then he said, “Might as well tell you. Red was out here last night.”
Sam averted his eyes. “She tell you she’s the specialist they called in to diagnose my dad, too?”
“Yep.”
“My own damn fault.” He picked at the label with his thumbnail.
Manolo leaned his folded arms on the bar and cocked his head at Sam. “Why’d you lie to her about your house? Talk about your old man—are you nuts, too?”
“Insanity doesn’t run through my family. It gallops.”
“Look, man. I’m probably going to regret sticking my nose in, but from where I stand, you’re starting to look like a chip off the old block.”
“Now, that stings.”
“You say he didn’t let anyone in. Where’d that get him? Lost everyone who meant anything to him, that’s where. Except you. Who knows why you keep putting up with him, when all you get for your trouble is grief and more grief. And now, you’re perpetuating the cycle.”
Having said his piece, Manolo stood back up to his full height.
Sam lifted a corner of his lips. “Causing people grief is an Owens family trait.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
It was almost closing time. The four customers came inside, set their empty glasses on the counter, bought a couple of bottles of pinot noir and left.
In what he hoped was a casual voice, Sam said, “The girls ought to be rolling into Portland by now. Probably dressed to the nines.”
“Yeah.” Manolo grinned with pride. “You could smell Junie’s perfume coming down the steps. She looked great.”
Sam managed half a grin. He had no doubt that Red looked and smelled gorgeous, too. But it hardly mattered anymore. Whatever they had was over. He’d blown it.
Tears welled up in the back of his eyes, to his mortification. He hid them behind a loud sniff and another slug of beer. “Tell me something. What do you really think of this little soirée of theirs?”
“What do you mean?”
“Them going to a male revue. You down with that?”
“I already told you. Girls gonna be girls. Let ’em have their fun. That’s what I say. Why? You got a problem with it?”
“Do I look like I have a problem with it? Trust me, even if I had a say—which I don’t—I’d have no problem. Whatever melts their butter. Last minute bit of fun before getting hitched, that’s all. Doesn’t hurt a damn thing.”
There was a pause.
Sam looked up at Manolo, who was lost in thought. “You ever been to one of those shows?”
“Why should I?” Manolo grabbed his crotch. “I want to see a perfect male specimen, I can just go look in the mirror.”
Manolo could always make Sam grin. He’d never admit it to his face—his ego was already too big—but he was eternally grateful for the unlikely scenario of his old buddy ending up here, with him, in Clarkston.
“Well,” Manolo picked up his tablet, “see if I can finish this inventory. Only got one shelf left.”
“Ever wonder what goes on at those things, though?” Sam couldn’t seem to let it go.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” said Manolo.
He counted the bottles on the shelf, put away the tablet, and transferred the day’s receipts into a bank bag before slamming the register shut with the heel of his palm.
“Probably strut out there on the stage and shake their packages all over the place.”
“Yeah,” said Manolo. “Then they rip their pants off in one fell swoop, without any zippers or buttons. How’s that work, anyway? I always wondered.”
“Beats me. Velcro?” Sam finished his beer and thumped the bottle down.
“After that, I see ’em prancing their way over to the tables, to give the ladies a close up.”
“Bending over so they can stick dollar bills in their ass cracks.”
The men laughed in derision. But there was something forced about their laughter.
Sam bent his neck from side to side, to work out the kinks. “Hear Lumber Jack Hammer’s quite the stud.”
Manolo went over and locked the patio door, giving it a rattle to make sure it was secure. “How so?”
“He’s a legend in these parts. They say women have gone so far as to get tattoos of him.”
“Junie would never do that,” called Manolo from back in the office where the safe was kept.
“No. Neither would Red.” Sam contemplated his empty bottle. “Although there was that time she went home with a rock star after a concert.”
“What?”
“You heard of Cool Pain? He handed her a note from the stage with his room number on it. Handed what she thought were identical notes to a bunch of other people, too. Naturally, when she went back to his room, she assumed she was going to a party. But turned out he was the only one there. Those other ‘notes’ were guitar picks.”
“Holy shit.”
“Nothing happened.”
Manolo smirked. “Because if it had, I’m sure Red would have told you every last, juicy detail.” He picked up Sam’s bottle. “Done with this?”
“Yeah.” He thought for a minute. “Then again, you know how it is. Plenty of guys go to strip joints, do whatever, and no one ever finds out.”
“What’s good for the goose,” said Manolo philosophically.
Sam looked up in sudden realization. “Is that a hint? You want me to set something up for us guys?” That Manolo would want to go out carousing one last time before biting the bullet hadn’t occurred to Sam. If that were the case, he’d better start looking for venues. All his late-night partying had taken place when he was still overseas.
“Get wasted and sleep with some nameless hooker?” He huffed a dry laugh. “I never paid for it when I was single. Not about to start now.”
“That’s a relief. Ever since I came back to Clarkston, I’m usually in bed watching ESPN by midnight. Besides, I doubt there’s anything around here to compare with Amsterdam.”
But his relief was short lived when he started thinking about Red again.
“That Hammer’s quite the stud.”
Manolo spread his arms, looked down at his trim, six-foot plus physique, and grinned. “Better than this?”
Sam scrolled through his phone. “Here. Judge for yourself.”
Manolo came out from behind the bar and grabbed Sam’s phone. “Christ. That’s him? That’s Lumber Jack Hammer? That guy looks like he’s made of stretched tiger meat over twisted blue steel.”
The men locked eyes for a long moment.
Then they both moved at once.
Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and they bolted to the door.
“I’ll drive,” said Manolo.
“I’ve got the GPS,” said Sam.
Manolo jammed his boot on the accelerator, oblivious to the dust billowing up, marring his truck’s mirror finish.
Sam checked his watch. “They got an hour’s lead time. Show starts at twenty-one hundred hours.” Ignoring the truck’s pitching over the bumps in the road, he started pulling the tools of his former trade out of his bag.
“What the hell?” asked Manolo, a grin overspreading his face. “Coyote-brown binos? I haven’t seen a pair of those since the Sandbox.”
His eyes grew even wider when he saw Sam thumb through a stack of one dollar bills.
“Think you brought enough money?”
“When were you ever sorry you had too much cash?”
“Point taken. What else you got in there?”
“Off-the-grid chargers. Night vision camera. And this.” He dangled what looked like a dead animal.
“You expect me to wear a wig?”
“Are we going to waste time arguing or are you going to take orders?”
“You keep forgetting: we’re not in the service anymore. You don’t outrank me. No way am I wearing one of those things.”
“Suit yourself,” said Sam. He flipped down the sun visor and started applying a faux mustache in the small mirror.
“What’s the plan?” asked Manolo, turning onto the highway.
“We go in after the show starts and leave before it ends. Hug the wall in the back of the room until our eyes adjust to the light, then find the girls. Sit where we can see them, but they can’t see us.”
“What happens if they do?”
“It’s imperative that they don’t. Unless you want to hear about the time you were caught ogling male strippers for the rest of your life.”
“Hey,” said Manolo, as Sam pulled on his own wig. “How come you get the brown one?”
“It’s called warm mocha. Goes better with my skin tone.”
“Bullshit. I look better in brown than you do. I’m Ital—”
“Not brown, warm mocha. Put these on too. Won’t affect your driving.”
“What don’t you have in there?” Manolo asked, sliding on the dark-rimmed glasses Sam gave him.
“I don’t have any duct tape for your mouth.”
It was dark when they got to Portland. They parked a half block away from the venue. Sam clutched the door handle, ready to hop out. “What about the wig?”
“Do I have to?”
“You want to start out your marriage with your bride believing you don’t trust her? Be my guest.”
Reluctantly, Manolo pulled the auburn wig onto his head and adjusted it in the rearview mirror. “Next time, I get the brown one.”
* * * *
A soul-shaking beat greeted the men at the entrance to the club. The interior walls were draped in black curtains and lit with flashing white, purple, and blue. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Up on the stage, the opening act of men in trench coats went to work agitating the gaggle of chattering women, some of whom were mom-dancing from their seats.
Sam elbowed Manolo and pointed with his chin. “I got a visual.”
On a white couch front and center, auburn mane glinting in the lights, sat Red. She had on that bright lipstick again, his favorite. The one that always made him want to kiss it off. She didn’t look like a woman who’d just been deceived by her lover. On the contrary. She appeared to be having the time of her life, tossing her curls, sipping something pink through a straw.
Next to her wearing a sparkling crown and banner was Junie, the bride-to-be.
Then came Poppy. Together, the three made an eye-catching trio.
The only unoccupied seat in the joint was a nearby loveseat.
The two men sized each other up.
“Gonna be a tight fit,” said Sam.
“We could stand,” said Manolo hopefully.
“Too risky. They turn around, we’re exposed.”
Resigned, they approached the loveseat from opposite sides. Once seated, they tried to look as macho as possible, squeezed in next to each other.
“What’ll it be, boys?”
“Whatever’s on special,” Sam yelled back, craning his neck around the short-skirted server to keep Red in his sights.
On stage, the dancers had doffed their coats and a strobe light revealed them shirtless in low-slung jeans, their muscular chests oiled to a high shine.
The server returned a minute later with Cosmos pimped out with paper umbrellas. Sam peeled some bills off his wad and shoved it back in his pocket.
“Too bad you two cuties didn’t get here sooner so you could have sat closer to the stage,” she yelled over the music with a nod to Sam’s man bag. “You might have caught the eye of GQ.”
“GQ?” asked Sam.
She appeared taken aback for a moment. Then a sly smile overcame her frown. “No need to pretend. Only one reason guys pay to see this show.” She winked and sashayed away.
“Did you hear that?” yelled Manolo over the din thumping his chest. “She thinks we’re gay! Me—Manolo Santos from Hoboken, New Jersey.”
But there was no time to reply. The dancers were filing down off the stage, accompanied to lyrics layered with double entendres. And, just as Sam had predicted back at the tasting room, they were targeting clusters of seats. The spotlights followed them so their antics could be seen from anywhere in the room.
While Sam and Manolo watched, the men straddled women with their knees, clasped their hands behind their necks and undulated their hips.
Then, the spotlight swung toward the loveseat where he and Manolo sat. Sam closed his eyes in the glare for a second. When he opened them, he saw a barrel-chested man striding right for them.
“Dear Lord,” cried Manolo, “tell me that guy’s not coming over here.”
But the man didn’t slow his pace until they could clearly make out his initials inked on a bulging pectoral in a Gothic-style font.
“He’s coming here,” muttered Sam. “Get ready. T-minus seven seconds.”
Now they were the center of attention, surrounded by women’s eyes glaring at them like wild animals beyond the safety of a campfire.
Sam threw his arms around Manolo. “Kiss me.”
“Wha—?”’ Manolo struggled, but Sam held him fast. “It’ll hide our faces. Do it, or be the brunt of every joke at every party for the rest of your life,” he yelled over the pounding music into his ear.
Sam clamped his lips together and aimed for Manolo’s cheek. But Manolo jerked at the last second and the corners of their lips touched.
Repelled like opposite ends of a magnet, they immediately switched nose positions, only to commit the same foul on the other side.
The strobes flashed orange on the insides of Sam’s eyelids. He stiffened against Manolo’s wiry beard scraping his cheek. Held his breath to keep from choking on his cologne.
Then the blinding light was gone.
Sam peeked out from behind Manolo’s head to see GQ stalking off in search of victims who were into him instead of each other.
Sam grinned. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
“Go hump a land mine,” replied Manolo.
There was a drum roll and the room went black. From out of the darkness came an amplified voice. “Ladies! I want to thank everybody for coming out this evening. Don’t forget about our five dollar marshmallow vodka Jell-O shots, ten dollar cosmos and, of course, our twelve dollar hot ’n’ spicy wings. And now, get those dollar bills ready because up next we have the one. The only. Lumber. Jack. Hammerrr!”
The spotlight came on to a giant of a man in ripped jeans, work boots, and plaid shirt. He strode to the front and center, hands clenched, mouth tight. He was broader than a barn, his massive chest tapering into a V-shaped torso.
The women screamed their approval.
He laid down his axe, took hold of the sides of his shirt, and ripped it off from back to front, to even louder screams. Then he stood sideways with his fingers locked behind his head and proceeded to ripple his torso.
Even Manolo was clapping.
Sam looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Gotta give the guy props,” Manolo said with a shrug.
Jack stepped down off the stage before roaming the crowd like a hungry animal, head swinging back and forth on his thick neck.
Hands waved. Voices pleaded, “Pick me! Pick me!”
He searched restlessly for just the right mark.
And then he stopped, right in front of Junie.
Until then, Sam thought the women couldn’t scream any louder. But somehow, they did.
Solemnly, Lumber Jack offered Junie his palm.
Manolo stopped clapping and half rose before Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his seat. “Easy. It’s just a show.”
Junie laughed and shook her head no, making her crown wobble. She reached up and pulled it off, replacing it on the head of none other than Red.
Lumber Jack eyed this new prey.
Red leaned back against the sofa, a bit daunted yet still laughing. Her hands fluttered to her cheeks.
The stripper leaned forward from his ankles, catching himself straight-armed on the cushions on either side of her head. Inches above hers, his hips began to ripple.
Sam couldn’t bear to watch what came next, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Effortlessly, Lumber Jack seized Red, scooping her voluptuous body into his arms as if she weighed nothing, sweeping her off to do God knew what with her.
Sam had endured some painful things in his life, but nothing—nothing compared to this. He swallowed, the sides of his throat scraping together like sandpaper.
The beast laid his beauty on the floor in the center of the stage.
No. No. But Sam’s hands were tied. There was nothing he could do but sit there and watch.
To the silky strains of “Let’s Get it On”—a song hot enough to get a woman pregnant all by itself—Jack straddled Red. He fell to his knees, then his hands, placed on either side of her head.
And then he proceeded to consume her without ever touching her. His body rippled and swelled. He dipped. He dived. His head disappeared between her thighs.
At least she had pants on tonight, and not a skirt.
If Sam thought the women were crazy before, now they went berserk.
He ground his jaw and clenched his fists.
“It’s like watching a Cirque porno,” yelled Manolo from behind his hand.
For Sam, every second was pure agony.
Finally, the act came to a climax when Jack did a forearm stand between Red’s legs, his lower body straight up in the air, knees bent, heavy legs dangling backward over her body.
If he hurt so much as a hair on her head...
Luckily for him, Lumber Jack did not topple over. He got gracefully to his feet, sweeping Red up with him.
The tempo switched to three quarter time with the accent on the first beat. With exquisite tenderness, Jack gathered her into his powerful arms. And then, as if nothing in the world could be more important than that woman in that moment, he waltzed with her in slow, sensual circles.
The room quieted. Where had the crazy mob gone? Sam tore his attention away from Red long enough to register a sea of rapt, female faces. Here and there, a tear crawled down a flushed cheek.
I need you to rub my back. Feed me ice cream. Waltz with me in the dark.
He had brushed Red’s words off without a second thought. It had taken a male stripper to make him listen.
The song over, Lumber Jack lowered his lips to Red’s hand, thanking her, and led her back through the crowd like a bride to a smattering of polite applause and wet cheeks. All the way, hundreds of envious eyes remained glued to her.
Sam blinked. How long had Manolo been shaking his arm?
“They’re about to turn up the houselights. We gotta get out of here.”