Chapter 2
Everyone has a good time at The Man Club; this is what I want. No one leaves unhappy, unless it’s personal and none of my business. It’s closed on Mondays; even I need a break. The ladies get Tuesday nights just for themselves, loving the male strippers/dancers. Karaoke is on Wednesdays. Thursdays are football nights for the butch gents and mean lesbians. The queers (twinks, daddies, blue-collar gents, white-collar bottoms, feisty jocks, and gym rats) get Friday and Saturday nights. Sundays are big days for bridal, bachelor, and bachelorette parties, same-sex receptions, queer birthday parties, queer anniversary parties, coming out parties, and other events that help pay the bills.
I want to say the place runs itself, but this is a total lie. I work my ass off to keep it running. It’s my blood, and I rarely have anytime for myself, keeping busy with the place. A lot of hard work goes on there: provision ordering, payroll, hiring and firing staff (bartenders, cooks, wait staff, bouncers, and dancers), everyday maintenance, everyday dramas, and scheduling, just to name a few of my responsibilities.
I love it, though. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The club is my home away from home. It’s my life at the moment. Everything about it. The reason I get out of bed every morning. My passion and pride.
I have a second drink. A third drink. I decide to stop drinking before I get sloppy drunk. Besides, I have to work tonight, managing the club. For two hours, I wait for Coben to call or text me back. It’s a long two hours, but I believe in giving people time to cool down after an ugly conflict, become rational again, and work through the problem.
He doesn’t call or text back. Fucker. Asshole. Selfish shithead.
I’m not surprised. Why should I be? The guy only cares about himself. There’s a price to pay for being an arrogant fuck, of course. Everyone knows this. Even Coben. The payment’s simple but alerting.
He’ll be surprised when he receives my next text to him. Something not so sweet and charming, but definitely to the point: You’re fired!
Fuck him.
* * * *
Name: Carson “Car” Tate
Club Member Number: n/a (I pay him under the table when he helps me out)
Stage Name: n/a
Date of Birth: Don’t know, maybe I should find out
Occupation: Dog walker
Height: Five-ten, maybe -eleven
Weight: Around 165
Hair: Black
Eyes: Blue
Status: Single (I think, not sure, he has his life, and I have mine)
Special Notes: When you think of Car, you best think of a wheat field blowing in the wind, waving. The man’s a sweetheart, someone you can take home to meet your parents on Thanksgiving Day and they will fall in love with. Player is the furthest thing from his mind. He’s monogamous, caring, sensitive, and just a nice guy with a nice heart and…a nice butt. It’s not an easy butt to forget.
* * * *
Car blocks my pacing, faces me. He rubs my back with a swirling palm, attempts to calm me down. He whispers, “Gyles, take it easy. Don’t have an aneurism or heart attack over this shit. It’s not worth it. Don’t let the club kill you. You can find another dancer for tonight. Stop worrying. No one has to bow down to Coben, although some men think they do.”
Car’s thirty, but he looks like he’s twenty. Smooth skin. Bright eyes with very little wear. Easygoing. Sweet. Soft-natured. He looks like an underwear model. Gorgeous. Handsome mixed with some pretty. Mature and immature looks. Somewhat studious. A gentleman’s gentleman.
I think he likes renting the spare bedroom from me in my Cape Cod. He’s made himself home here for eight months now. He’s comfortable along Lake Erie, new to Templeton, Pennsylvania. Planted here because he likes the calm lake instead of living in downtown Pittsburgh.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I just fired Coben…by text.”
He sighs. He knows Coben is important to the club, raking in the cash; a star at the place; a strong money maker who helps pay the bills on a monthly basis. Car hugs me; I don’t expect anything less from him because he’s the sweetest guy on the planet. A gem. A star. Simply generous with his heart and words. He kisses my cheek. I’m not surprised. Good guys like to kiss. He’s a hugger, too, and he’s compassionate.
When he pulls away from me, he says, “I’ll call Rocco. He can dance tonight.”
Car’s not an employee at the club, but he sometimes helps out with scheduling, bartending, and fry cook, but only when the club needs him, when I need him. He walks dogs during the morning and afternoon hours, sometimes in the evenings. It gives him available time to help me out at the club. I pay him under to table when this happens. He’s a good standby employee for me. The best. Someone I can rely on when I need him.