Gabriel
A nothing of a day and it’s nighttime already. And I still haven’t texted her.
Sprawled on the armchair I’ve spent most of the day in, I force myself upright.
Just because it’s the weekend, that doesn’t mean I get to be a piece of shit for the entire day.
I’ve already exhausted “The Godfather” series, and that phone number is still on my bedside table waiting for me.
I pick it up, twirl it between my fingers.
How about I start with: Never got your name.
No, I should just stick to the usual: Hi. It’s never given me problems before.
Actually, just a time and place would be best. That’s what I really want after all, right? To have her vanilla musk wrap around my skin, lose myself between her olive limbs, forget all this for another night. I want to experience her, feel her. Have her.
I tuck the number back in my pocket.
I’m not putting it in my phone. Not just yet.
I tuck my phone in my back pocket. Go outside and get on my bike. Start driving to the club.
It’s time for the nightly check-up.
Already I don’t like how this latest fling with the red zipper dress is going. I just spent five minutes more than I should’ve wondering what to text the woman whose name I don’t even know. This isn’t a good sign. I can’t have another time like before.
I speed up the bike, so my attention is forced to shift to the present.
Ah, the road flying below my wheels, the city sailing by – a movie I’m in charge of, I can step into.
It never gets old. The world on fast forward. Vehicles and people and stores– all of it sailing past in a blurred montage that somehow makes sense to me, that I can somehow piece together into a whole. The city is beautiful. My city, Toronto.
Stopped at a light, I see Uncle Tetsu’s Japanese Cheesecake is almost empty. For the first time in months, there’s no lineup.
I lick my lips, the creamy moisture in my mouth summoned up just by memory.
I could do it. I could go in there, grab an Angel Hat, have a nice snack for the rest of the way.
I glance at my phone, the light changes and I speed off.
I only have five minutes as it is, and that’s how long it’ll take to get there. I can’t be late. It took ages to get this routine in place: the girls being ready an hour before we open so I can inspect them.
Rebel Saints didn’t rise to be the most prestigious strip club for no reason. I mean, yeah, it’s a front for where the money really is, my other girls, but I still take pride in how I’ve run it.
It is named after our motorcycle club, after all.
I park my bike in front, though I walk to the edge of the building, let my hand run along the chrome exterior fondly, as the pink tilted lights cast my shadow into colorful hallucinogenic shapes.
Even the chrome walls have been scrubbed clean of their weekly grime.
No, I never saw any point in half-assing the club, even if it was just a front. I’ve always believed how you do anything is how you do everything. Laziness is like an infectious poison, and if I practice it here, it would only be a matter of time before it infects everything.
Pip’s already there, giving me a bear hug.
“They’re all ready, Boss.”
I stride in, grinning at my almost haloed reflection in the mirrored walls.
The white suit was a good choice. Not very practical, but look at what a striking contrast my full-white form makes to the black walls.
The girls can’t help but regard me with awe, hold my every word as law.
I step in the room and the music starts blasting.
It’s Britney, and the girls are ready.
Orange is in front tonight, and if the way she’s twining around that pole is any indication, she’s happy to see me.
At the top, she wraps around it with both legs, dangles her head down, says, “Hey Boss.”
My gaze slides from her flaming hair to her coral lips, to, finally her orange peel bra.
I nod. Yes, this is good.
I continue on. Next is Coconut, her pout all a-ready for me. Her hips are an entity in themselves, gyrating and rotating and shaking the little grass skirt into constant motion, sashaying the song itself into submission, her hips controlling the beat now, not the other way around. She runs her teal nails over her coconut top slowly, and I’m convinced.
She’ll be a hit, I can tell.
It wasn’t easy replacing three of the girls in a month, but I didn’t have a choice. Taryn was one overdose away from being carried out of here on a stretcher, and Nicole’s crying bouts in between shows was starting to get on my nerves. This is no place for lost little girls.
Before I even move, on the next pole down, Strawberry is ready for me. By the time I’m there, her legs are spread, beautiful long limbs extending out in perfect olive lines, her red-chained hands gripping the pole they’re attached to as she lowers herself over the huge half-strawberry on the ground.
I grin.
It was Jaws’ idea. It’s brilliant.
When I return to the first stage, the girls have switched out. Now its Cinnamon, the light dusting on her body glittering as she shimmies up that pole, her tan ass jiggling eagerly.
Perfect.
Next is Icing, rolling up her sock. Seeing me arrive she turns around so I get a nice view of her ass as she leans over.
“Sorry Boss,” she coos, shoving her ass up further.
I step onto the stage, then stop.
Hold on, Gabe. No touching the dancers. That’s my rule, and for good reason. No way am I getting involved with one of them again. Not after what happened last time.
“Get your shit together, Icing,” I call.
She pouts, disappointed that I didn’t come over to discipline her in person.
I turn around, stride away to the back, to my office. I’ve just thought of something to take my mind off things.
Inside, enclosed by hardwood walls, supported by a maroon leather recliner, I feel more in control already.
I’m not going to be controlled by my urges, like some animal. No, not anymore. I’m past that now.
Icing will just have to suck some other guy’s dick to get away with being late.
I take out my phone and the little piece of paper and put them on the desk in front of me.
If I really want to get this over with, I’ll call her, not text. That way there won’t be any waiting. Just me, telling her what I want, her agreeing. That’s the way to do it: short, sweet and simple.
I lift my phone, then put it back down.
She never even told me her name. I don’t even know if this is her phone number.
I lift my phone.
What does it even matter? Why do I even care? What about Hannah?
I get up, shove the phone and paper back in my pocket.
This is a distraction. I shouldn’t be starting anything, not now that Hannah is missing. I don't have time.
When I stride back out, Icing’s finally ready. Her stockings rolled up to her thighs, the tips of her nipples erect through her tube top, her gaze doesn’t shift from me as she strides up to the pole, wraps her arms around it, then her legs, then fuses with the cool metal.
My hand dips in my pocket, crumples up the paper.
Why would she not tell me her name?