I ignore him, walk toward the lobby bar, glance back. “C’mon.”
We sit near the grand piano and suffer through the awkward silence, sipping Amstel. Finally, after a salad for him and sushi for me, he stands up, stretches, and scans the lobby. “Be right back,” he says. “Need a restroom.”
If my plan works, he’ll need one all night.
I look around, then pull out the laxative packets, rip open all four in one motion, and dump the powder into his beer glass. To mix it in better, I pour some of my beer into his glass, which causes his ale to foam over.
Fuck.
I try to soak up the suds with my coaster napkin.
I look up. The new guy is sauntering my way, his head down, studying his cell phone. Thank God. I force myself to lean back and act cool and relaxed.
By the time he sits down, the head on his beer has deflated. Still looking at his cell, he says, “You really know how to live it up, don’t you, Danny?”
I notice an older lady at the bar. She’s devouring him.
“Yeah?”
“It’s your first time in Florida—like, ever—and you’re chilling in the Grand Hyatt lobby bar in your uncle’s blazer, getting ready to turn it in.” He reaches over and takes his glass, hoists it toward me. “Danny’s going crazy-town.”
“Yeah, well, like I said . . .”
He takes another drink. “Actually, I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
I force a laugh. “Really?”
Another sip. “I called David Duncan.” The shades regard me. “You were right; I couldn’t find him.”
I cross my legs and smile. “So what’s the deal? Duncan wants you to report in to him about Fitzroy and his ‘behaviors’?”
He shrugs.
“And what kind of behaviors are we talking about?”
“You tell me, hotshot.” He takes another drink. “You’re the one who knows where he is tonight.”
I look back at him, grin.
“So you’re really gonna hit the sack, eh?”
Shit, he really has no idea what I’m going to do. He’s lost.
I wait a moment. “Dude, you said it yourself. I’m wiped out. I need some rest. And that room up there? You have no fucking clue. Absolute silence, no crying kids, no crazy neighbors. And I intend to take full advantage.”
He polishes off his beer.
“Well.” He smacks his lips. “In case you change your mind and try to slip out of here, just know I’ll be right here with my friend, watching those elevator doors and waiting for you.”
The lady at the bar is still staring at him.
“Friend, huh?”
He stands up and cracks a happy grin. I’ve got to admit he looks pretty striking—thick wavy hair, the strong facial lines, the long athletic body, and that indefinable charm.
“Soon-to-be friend.”
The lady at the bar smiles coyly as he sways toward her.
At which point I notice I’ve left the empty laxative packets on the table. I palm them, shove them in my pocket, and head for the elevators. “Hittin’ the sack, dude. Behave.”
Standing in my room, still wired, I gaze out at the view of the bay. Any other time, it would have been breathtaking: the expanse of blue dominating my vision, the orange hue glowing from the west as the sun sets. But tonight it all sails through me.
My mind is racing with questions:
Do I call Fitzroy first or just show up?
How do I get his room number?
How do I prepare for something I know nothing about?
And how long before the laxative kicks in?
Plenty of questions. Not a single answer.
My cell rings. It’s High Rider. He says, “It’s time to mobilize.”
I look at my watch. 7:37. “Do you realize he’s at the InterContinental?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
High Rider muffles his phone, says something to someone. Finally, he says, “Make it work, Daniel. Just make it work.”
“Dude,” I shout. “How am I supposed to get to his room without calling him and blowing the whole operation? It’s clear he doesn’t want me or anyone else from FlowBid with him.”
More muffled noises. He’s snapping at someone. Then: “Proceed to the InterContinental, and call me when you arrive in the lobby.”
“You’ll have the room number?”
I can hear him pounding on a keyboard. “Let us try a few things.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
The keystrokes stop. “Then you find a way to join him in his room. Otherwise, our arrangement is dissolved and we will be forced to—”
“Okay, okay.” I hang up and rush out the door.
Here we go, baby.
I walk past the lobby bar as quickly as possible, glancing over once—the older lady is sitting solo, smirking, glancing at her watch. No sign of the new guy. I stop, pivot, and run-walk to the woman.
She gives me a blank stare.
“My friend? The guy you were talking with? Do you know where he went?”
She shifts on her stool, regards me with narrowing eyes. “He just stood up, practically midsentence, and said he needed to use the restroom. That was fifteen minutes ago.”
I back away, ready to bolt for the front door. “And he seemed okay?”
“He was more than fine, until he stood up and walked away.”
I keep walking. “If he doesn’t return, send someone in there, okay?”
She nearly yells to me. “How about you?”
“How about no?” I say, and turn the corner.
I dial High Rider.
“I’m here,” I say, and finger the button camera hidden in my shirt. “You have a room number?”
High Rider says, “Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Eleven eighteen,” he says, and hangs up.
Okay, here we go.
I head to the elevators, mumbling to myself, “Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
In the elevator, an older couple studies me as I reach behind my back, lift up the back flap of my blazer, and try to fiddle with the tape deck through my shirt.
“Shit,” I mumble to myself, a little too loudly. “I’ll do this in the can.”
They look away, and I mumble, “Sorry.”
They get off on the seventh floor. The doors close on me as I hear myself whispering.
“Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
Bing. Doors open.
It’s like I’m on autopilot. One foot in front of the other. My face feeling fat and puffy, my brain in the clouds, the reptilian part taking over.
My vision narrows as I search the doors, looking for his suite.
“Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
The sounds of music and laughter bounce toward me.
I stop and squint at the door.
“Eleven . . . eighteen.”
I step closer, force myself to snap out of it, blinking hard, squeezing my fists.
Here we go. Here we go.
Laughter and hip-hop music.
I knock hard.
The laughter stops, then the music. Total silence, then a few giggles. Finally, Fitzroy’s voice behind the door. He’s looking at me through the peephole.
“Danny?” He’s angry. “Danny?”
I gaze into the peephole. “Stephen, I need to come in.”
Long silence. “Danny?”
I plead to the peephole. “Stephen . . . Please.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Stephen, it’s a long story.”
“Go back to your hotel, Danny.”
I reach out and nearly stroke the peephole. “I really nee
d you to let me in. Kate’s not talking to me, and I might have to move out, and all this crap with the board of directors is freaking me out. . . . Plus, there’s other things.”
Silence.
A young woman’s voice: “Aw, he looks sweet.”
Fitzroy is cussing in the background.
“Better to bring him in than have him outside your room whining like a stranded puppy. That’ll definitely draw security.”
“Fine,” Fitzroy snaps.
The door swings open, and I am hit by a wave of fruity perfume.
Fitzroy is buzzed, maybe drunk. His lids are low, his speech is slurred, and his head is wobbling.
“Don’t ruin this for me, Danny.”
His suite is packed with college girls. At least a dozen—all of them pretty, all of them in either bikinis or panties and bras. He’s fully dressed on the couch, reclining into a tangle of giggling girls. It’s nearly too much to comprehend.
A hotel suite of sexed-up college girls?
I mean, how did he . . .
I watch as the girls pet his scalp, stroke his arms. He burrows in deeper and coos.
What are they gonna . . .
“You hear me?” he says, his voice lazy. “Don’t ruin this, Danny Boy.”
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m just so confused. I knew I had to find you.”
Fitzroy sounds like he’s about to pass out. “Danny,” he lazes. “Not tonight.”
He sinks deeper into the girls.
“Huh?”
“No marriage crap, Danny.” He eyeballs a slender brunette in a blue bikini as she pads toward him. “Not tonight.”
The brunette sits at his feet, snakes a hand up his leg, and strokes his calf, smiling. Fitzroy frees a hand, digs into a front pocket, and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. The brunette slips it into her bikini top.
Fitzroy watches my reaction, smiling. “They know I have a lot of those. A lot.”
I nod, still not quite believing.
“So don’t go thinking I’ve got a bunch of desperate souls here,” he says. “Every one of these young women is a college student, and they’re all smarter than us.”
I nod.
“Each of them is receiving a base payment of eight hundred dollars.”
The girls cheer and laugh.
“And each is eligible to receive hundreds more if they play nice.”
A smattering of giggles.
“But if you’re gonna stay here, Danny Boy, you need to join the fun. No judgment from the sidelines.”
“No judgment,” I assure him.
“You can never tell a soul about this. Never.”
“Of course.”
A freckle-faced girl with silky red hair swings over to me in a flimsy orange two-piece, plops down real close, smiling as she sips on a drink, and whispers, “You okay?”
Fitzroy says, “That’s what this whole night is about. It’s about taking a delightful . . .” He reaches into the tangle of flesh and squeezes two knees. “. . . break from reality.”
“Fine.” I look away; I have to. “I just need to use your bathroom.”
I stand up, and the redhead pouts. “Hey,” she says, the girly voice scaled up for effect, and sticks out her lower lip.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’ll be back.” Fitzroy cackles. “He likes girls, believe me.” He cackles harder. “We all learned that this week.”
In the bathroom, I twist and reach and fiddle until I’m sure I’ve activated the taping device. I can almost hear High Rider’s instructions echo in my head: This red switch here activates the power. The orange button activates the recording mode. I secure the box back into place, then snap the tiny lens into my final buttonhole. I check myself in the mirror one last time; the button camera is darker than the other buttons but it’ll have to do.
When I get back, Fitzroy is splayed out on the couch. The girls are all over him, rubbing themselves against him and petting him. He slides his face against someone’s arm, his face red and shiny and grinning, releasing a strange throaty sound.
Swear to God, he’s purring.
And it’s disgusting, the sight of this sickly, bug-eyed, balding man pressing himself into this tangle of young, sexy sweetness, this mass of fresh faces, perfect skin, toned bodies, and healthy hair. I grimace as I study the scene. Some girls seem to be enjoying themselves, drunk from the booze and cash, perhaps; others seem amused, and others are clearly trying to stay back and limit the contact, their faces tight in strains of disgust.
“Daddy likes,” he moans, chin in the air. “Daddy . . . likey soooo . . .”
They giggle.
“. . . goodie.”
I realize he has his cash roll in his hand.
Another girl rubs near his crotch. He makes the kind of happy noise you’d expect from a cartoon squirrel, peels off two hundreds, and slips them to her.
“C’mon, Danny,” he says, his eyes nearly closed. “No judging. Just fun.”
I return to my seat near the redhead. It’s a perfect spot, as I can sit there and point my chest in Fitzroy’s direction.
As the hands get closer to his crotch, he purrs louder.
“C’mon, Danny.”
The redhead gets real close, whispers into my ear in a way that sends shivers throughout my body. “You’re cute.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t have his kind of money. And I’m married.”
She produces a bored look.
“I’m married, and I don’t wanna screw up again.”
“Well,” she says, “he paid me three hundred to stay here with you, so don’t ruin it for me.”
“Ruin it?”
From the flesh tangle, a female yelp followed by a Fitzroy cackle.
“I need this,” she whispers. “This is like serious rent money for me. Money for something besides PBJ dinners.”
“Fine, it’s just that I’m married and . . .” I feel my throat tighten. “I love my— I just want to be good.”
She’s looking at me different. “Aww.”
My voice cracks. “It’s just been a tough couple of days.”
She scoots closer, takes an arm. “Just let me sit close to you, so Mr. Perv over there doesn’t demand his money back.”
I finger the button camera toward Fitzroy. “Fine.”
We watch the spectacle before us. One of the girls is running her fingernails over his crotch, stopping to scratch his boner, which is unmistakable through his slacks. The redhead nods to her and says to me, “Bethany will do anything for money.”
“You’re all here for money.”
“I’ll put on a bikini and dance around with a bunch of my girlfriends for one old man in a luxury suite—for eight hundred dollars. Yeah, I’ll do that. If I’m cool with going to the beach and being ogled by a bunch of gross old men, I can certainly do this with my girls.”
From the tangle, another yelp.
“And how exactly did you all come to be here?”
“Bethany,” she says. “She organized one of these for this guy when he came down here last year. She dances to pay for tuition, and he met her there, told her about his ‘fantasy,’ gave her this ginormous tip, asked her to make it happen.”
I shake my head, smile to myself. Fitzroy.
“So this year she asked me to join. I guess he wanted more girls.” She cuddles closer, adds, “I just can’t do everything they’re doing over there, not with an old man like that.” She touches my knee. “But you’re cool.”
“And married,” I say, and look into her eyes. “With kids.”
She breaks the stare and nods to Fitzroy. “Who is he? He won’t even tell Bethany.”
I shrug.
“He must be somebody, to be able to drop this kind of money, to have this suite with all this booze. To aff
ord all of us.”
From the tangle, Fitzroy hollers, “Danny Boy looks bored.”
“No, no, no, no,” I say. “I’m fine with . . .” I whisper to the redhead, “What’s your name?”
“Krista.”
“I’m fine with Krista here, Stephen.”
Fitzroy emerges from the girls, sits up, and regards us. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Fitzroy gives Krista a long look. “Come over here a sec, honey. I think I know what Danny wants.”
Krista pauses a second before getting up and walking over, her tush shifting sweetly right in front of my face. I force myself to look away.
“Danny likes the hindquarters,” he says, peeling four bills off his roll. “Why don’t you give him a lap dance?”
Krista looks back to me and smiles. “Nah, I think his heart’s at home.”
A collective awwwww from the flesh tangle.
Fitzroy thrusts the money above his head. “Who wants to make four hundred dollars lap dancing for Danny here?”
Half a dozen hands shoot out of the tangle.
“Me.”
“Me! Me! Me!”
“No, me!”
Finally, a hand reaches out and snags the money. It’s a big-boned blonde in a peach bikini. She easily has the largest, most muscular buns in the room—burly buns, you could say—and she’s already dancing in front of me, popping her buns, bouncing hard as she backs them toward my devastated crotch.
With the exception of Krista, the girls cheer her on.
“No,” I cry. “No. . . . Please, no.”
Burly Buns isn’t listening. She backs in closer—a huge, toothy grin on her face—reaches down and uses my knees as handrails, pushing them apart, the cheering of her friends intensifying as she thrusts her monsters into my firepit of a crotch.
Fitzroy slits his eyes, yells, “The Eagle has landed.”
Holy shit, the pain. The pickax blows shooting from my swollen, traumatized testicles. The pain nearly paralyzes my body, makes my bile surge, makes me see stars. I try to push her off, but she only shakes her head no and pushes harder, nearly grunting as she presses her burlies into my groin.
Fitzroy says, “Either you sit there and enjoy it, Ass Boy, or I’m gonna pay three more girls to go over there and strip you naked.”
They cheer.
Cash Out Page 26