by C. M. Lally
“Why is gaining his business so important? Is there something you aren’t telling me?” I ask, trying not to sound accusatory.
“He and his brothers rode into town and in less than six months, have the hottest nightclub in town. That’s amazing within itself. That’s ambition in Miami. That’s people going places, honey,” he spouts. “Those boys could explode and expand. That’s more business for us, but we have to secure it first. Sweetheart, that’s where you come in.” He winks at me.
“What do you mean, ‘that’s where you come in’?” I ask, throwing a sarcastic wink back at him. “You need to elaborate your thoughts on that last statement, Dad.” That wink he threw in made my stomach lurch.
“The best thing you could do is sashay yourself in there, bat those eyelashes, smile and get a dinner date out of it, at least,” he says. “Smile, flirt and talk a lot of business.”
“Oh my god, Dad. Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” I ask. I can’t believe it, but I know where he’s heading. My own dad is a chauvinistic pig. He’s lit my internal match now. I flash him the fire burning in my eyes. “Dad, have a seat.” We are going to have a mature, professional business conversation about how business is performed in the new millennium.
He pulls out one of my visitor chairs and sits. You can tell how uncomfortable he is in not being behind the desk. “Pumpkin, sometimes you have to use your feminine wiles to control a man like Thiago Solis,” he explains. “He’s from New York City. They do business differently up there, especially within the sex industry.”
“Feminine wiles, Dad? Control?” I ask. “What kind of business are we running here?”
“I’m running an upstanding business,” he says.
“No. You aren’t,” I counter. “Not if you’re using words like feminine wiles and control in the same sentence as business. C’mon, Dad. Surely you’re not asking me to gain his business by sleeping with him?”
“I don’t want to know how you gain the business. I just want you to get it,” he yells, his loud voice thundering straight through me. “Understand?” He’s pissed. Good. So am I. We have similar tempers, so this should be interesting.
“When did my doting father become amoral?” I ask. “International business is not conducted in this manner. At least, not legally anyway. I won’t work for a company who performs these business practices, even if it is my family business. Does Mom know you work like this?” My volume is getting louder with every word I spew in anger. I’m almost at a shriek, if it weren’t for the knot in my throat from this being my dad.
“All your mother cares about is getting her hair and nails done, eating dinner at the country club, and going on vacation every few weeks. That’s her job. This is mine,” he admits flippantly.
“So, I guess the rumors are true then?” I finally ask. I need to hear him admit to what Thiago suggests might be true. I think I’m gonna be sick, because I know what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“What rumors?” he inquires.
“The low wages for immigrant workers, demotions for poor work performance, and threats of deportation to gain employee loyalty?” I snap. My jaw hurts from the tension in the room. I’m disappointed in him even before he answers my question. My heart actually hurts. It’s being squeezed, literally wrung out, the more he talks.
“Those aren’t threats, Sweetheart. Those are incentives to maintain employment,” he states matter-of-factly.
“And how’s that working out for you? What’s our employee retention rate?” I ask.
“It’s actually within acceptable business expectations at eighty-five percent,” he says proudly.
“And of that number, I wonder how many want to leave, but are afraid to?” I ask.
“That’s not a statistic we track,” he explains calmly.
What’s sad is that he says it so nonchalantly, like he gets asked that all the time. Unbelievable. My thoughts wander briefly to the employees. I’ve wanted to go around and introduce myself to everyone, but time hasn’t allowed so far. That will be the first thing on my agenda in the next coming days. I take a deep breath and let the sadness of this conversation wash over me. Has he always been this way and I was just blinded by daughterly love?
Are all men like this deep down inside? I know Thomas was. He and my father seem to have the what can I get out of you that benefits me philosophy. I didn’t stand for it with him, my fiancé, and I won’t accept it now from my father. I know of one man who doesn’t stand for this, Thiago.
“Dad, is this company going to be mine someday?” I boldly ask. I had always assumed, but now, with these revelations, I can’t be completely sure of how his mind works. Maybe I’m just a puppet on a string.
“Of course, Pumpkin. You know it—you are the heir to the kingdom,” he states. “I plan on retiring by the end of the year. Your mother is counting the days.”
“Great. I’m really glad to hear that,” I admit. “It makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?” he asks, sounding curious but cautious at the same time.
“You know, my evil master plan to overhaul your ludicrous business practices and actually focus on increased sales in new and existing markets,” I blurt out, excitement ringing in my voice. “Who knows, I might even work on taking us international.” My smile widens with complete pride in that statement, as he jerks his head up at me in surprise. His monstrous wide eyes are staring at me with skepticism. “What? Surely you didn’t expect me to just sit and look pretty, Daddy?” I mockingly bat my eyelashes at him and flip my hair over my shoulder. I hope that stings.
“Actually, I did. What have you done with my daughter?” he asks with a scowl on his face.
“I went out into the world and learned a few things that I plan on using to grow this company,” I hiss. “Most fathers would be happy. Apparently mine is just an amoral asshole.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” he warns.
“And you watch how you pimp me out to potential new clients,” I sass right back at him. “I can’t trust you anymore, and that hurts worse than anything Thomas ever did to me.” The thought of him in this conversation sickens me. He needs to stay in the past along with the devastation he caused. I’m moving on. Two years of therapy have strengthened me, and I’m ready to trust again. The shell I’ve come out from under is liberating, and I won’t ever go back inside it to hide. I’m in control of my life and destiny for once. I won’t be pimped out by an ex-boyfriend, and certainly not by my father.
He lowers his head in shame, but stands and heads toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he twists it to leave but turns slightly to face me. His mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. His lips move in going for a second try, but again, no sounds come out. His shoulders slump and he slides through the door, latching it closed behind him.
I grab my purse off the hook and leave quickly. Our argument is still ringing in my head. There were so many things I wanted to say, but didn’t. Nasty, hateful things. But I just couldn’t say them to my dad. Asshole was as strong as I was willing to be with him. At least I got a reaction. Maybe he’s got some deep-seated regret about his actions and this was just the kick-in-the-ass he needed to change his ways. Acta non verba, but he didn’t even apologize or say anything. That’s my dad.
I swing into the diner on the corner, and sit in my familiar booth way in the back. I haven’t been here since leaving for Spain five years ago. A waitress brings me some water, silverware, and a menu that I really don’t need. She runs through the listing of daily specials, but I order my favorite, the bacon cheeseburger and steak fries. It doesn’t get much more American than that.
My thoughts flit and flicker back to the club today, remembering that I never wrote down my notes from my earlier stint behind the bar. I reach my hand into my bag and pull out my notebook immediately by the feel of its leather bound spine. It flips open directly to the ribbon bookmark where my other notes are, and I jot down the few things I noticed today
. The vodka and tequila are too close together. The bartenders are opening too many bottles at once, so the back area is cluttered. The fruit is mushy, so they aren’t cleaning the bins or they’re cutting too much. It’s a chaotic mess back behind that bar. The other two probably match it.
Thinking about the club and its alcohol makes me want a cold drink. Or several for that matter, if you add my daddy problems into the mix. Maybe some male attention is desperately what I need to change my mood. Sounds like it might be time for a little clubbing action. I text my friends Stephanie and Alondra to see if they wanna join me tonight. They’re both still single, thank god.
I really miss Miami men. They aren’t shy at all. Confidence is a must, especially since all my relationships now are one or two night stands. I haven’t indulged in a few months since coming back to the States. Most men my age aren’t looking for long term anyway, and the minute they ask for a third date—they’re out. Unless the sex fucking rocks, and then I’ll let it go on until it gets clingy or needy, but that has yet to be a problem.
My phone buzzes a few times. Great! Both Steph and Alondra reply back with a yes. They’re all in. I’ve missed my adventures with my dearest friends. We’re meeting at my place at 8:30 pm, which leaves me plenty of time to clean my apartment and get ready. I’m not ready to go back and face my dad. That can be moved to tomorrow’s agenda. For now, I need to shave and sexify myself, because after all of my cravings today for Thiago, it’s clear that I need to get laid soon.
Chapter 4 - Thiago
It’s Wednesday, and it’s my favorite night—Ladies Night, although the dancers call it Hump Night. The line is already long, turning around the corner. I sit in the security booth and watch the outside cameras. When the line gets too long, I send someone out to watch the end of it since it crosses over the back alley entrance. Miami has been known to be violent, and no one is safe out there, so I try my best to protect the people in line.
The camera pans down the line and I notice a cascade of long blonde hair being flipped over a set of well-defined female shoulders. My dick instantly gets hard. I swear that’s Brooke standing in line with two other women. She’s all dolled up to play, but I can’t be certain with just that one quick glance. I lean back in the chair and wait for the camera to come back up the line, which fucking takes forever. It finally gets to the woman and I hit hold on camera four. Yes, that’s her. I’d know those long, tanned legs anywhere.
Quickly, I point to the screen and hand Cole six passes. “Bring those three ladies and a few more random choices for yourself inside as VIPs. Don’t tell them it’s from me. Just let them think they’re lucky tonight,” I advise.
“Yes, sir,” he responds.
“Take them to the first floor and tell Claryssa to put them in two separate booths. The group that I pointed out, needs to go near my booth, but not in it,” I say. “Make it happen.” I want her to have a good time, but also want to make sure no one bothers her.
The loud thumping bass hits my chest the minute I step out into the club. My booth sits up on the dais, and overlooks the dance floor. It takes me several minutes to get to it, with the constant stopping for handshakes and hellos from VIP patrons. There are a number of prominent members already seated for the night that I nod and wave to. As soon as I sit, several different beautiful women appear and slide in uninvited, but I can’t be rude. One of the waitresses immediately starts taking drink orders, and within minutes, it looks like my table has been partying for hours.
The hand of the blonde on my right is creeping up my thigh and squeezes it every so often, while the brunette on my left is practically hanging on my bicep talking about the different martini selections at the bar. Her voluptuous breasts keep scraping against my elbow. Her hard nipples are poking through that little halter she has on. Sometimes I wish women would just ask for what they want. Or give an honest answer when we do ask what they want. It gets exhausting trying to figure it out. It’s a game I am tiring of quickly.
Both ladies are talking to me at the same time, and not to each other. I’m in two different conversations, but I’m keeping up. Until she walks in. My body feels her walk into the room. The hairs on my arms stand up, and a little electric shock runs straight down my chest to my dick, instantly making it hard. I glance her way and watch her strut through the crowded club, but she doesn’t look my way. I’ve got her every move tracked with my hungry stare.
Damn it. Is she a potential vendor or just a patron tonight? I could fuck her as a patron. The ramifications of that float through my mind for a while. Both girls have their hands on my dick now that they’ve discovered it hard and wanting. It’s getting a full rub down under the table, and one of them is scratching her nails on my ball sack. I love that. Usually that alone will have me escorting her to my personal room, but not tonight. Well, not yet anyway. It’s been an hour and Brooke still hasn’t indicated she’s seen me.
Suddenly, I feel hands slide over my shoulders and down my chest from behind, tickling my nipples. I look up and see Vinny’s wife, Harlowe, smiling at me. “Hey, Boss. Vinny wants a moment if you can swing it?” she asks, glancing around giving a ‘fight me’ look to the girls hanging on me.
“Sure. I’ve always got time for Vinny. Excuse me, ladies,” I say as we disentangle and wait for them to slide their skin across the leather seats. “You don’t work here anymore Harlowe. You can call me Thiago.” She flashes me a brilliant white smile, and swats me on the ass. Harlowe has perfect timing, causing a loud smack to ricochet off my ass cheek throughout the surrounding area right as we pass the booth that Brooke is in. She looks up and directly into my eyes. I watch them widen in surprise before a quick smile replaces her shyness. In the heat of the moment, all I could do was wink and keep moving with the crowd.
Vinny welcomes me with a warm handshake and a pat on my shoulder. He’s a retired attorney, living with his much younger wife that he recently stole from my second floor show. I take the seat that’s offered and wait for him to start speaking. Vinny practically boosted my first quarter sales himself with the money he threw down to impress Harlowe. I’ve gotta respect the man for that alone and give him his time to speak.
“I need a favor,” he asks, swallowing hard. Vinny, as his name implies, is Italian and also from New York originally, which is why the word favor sounds like fāva.
“What can I do for you?” I ask in return. I learned a long time ago from my dad to never say yes before the question is asked. Favor burn is a real thing, and it’ll destroy you if you aren’t careful.
“My best buddy is on his death bed. His favorite drink is really hard to come by,” he whines. “Have you ever heard of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne?” he asks with a flourish, stumbling over the French pronunciations. Just from the look on his face and the name of the liqueur, I know some crazy money might be involved here.
“No, Vinny. Never heard of it. Why is it so hard to come by?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer but I ignore the deep feeling in my gut that is already screaming don’t get involved.
“Well, it costs over a million dollars,” he grunts in disgust. “We had it once when we both came back from Vietnam. Of course, it wasn’t as expensive as it is now. We promised each other we’d have it again before we died. And well, he’s dying. I gotta get me a bottle of it.”
“I don’t know, Vinny,” I say with hesitation. “Why do you think I could get this for you?” I’m kind of shocked he’s coming to me. I’m trying hard not to upset the man since he blows about a thousand a week here, but he obviously thinks I’m someone that I’m not.
“Well, I don’t have any connections in the liqueur industry. You do. I thought maybe you could ask one of your reps if they could figure it out. I’ll pay. I’ve got the money. I just need the product,” he begs.
“I’ll look into it, but once it’s found, I’ll pass it over to you to actually handle. Okay?” I ask. I really don’t have time to be the go-between on the securing and
buying of alcohol unless it’s for me or my business. He nods in agreement and hands me his business card with the name of the cognac on the back. I back away from his table, leaving quietly to amble around to the rest of the VIPs—showing my face and making an appearance on the floor, smiling, and checking that all is happy and making money.
Brooke’s table is empty. My eyes have glanced over at it a few times over the last hour while glad-handing the VIPs, but they haven’t returned. I look out onto the dance floor and don’t see them. Passing by Claryssa, I ask about the girls and she thinks they went up to the third floor. Damn it. Guess I better make an appearance up there now, especially since Mateo isn’t here. I advise Claryssa to hold that booth open for them until I change my mind.
Stopping by the bar for a refill, Tito fills up my highball, and then leans in wanting to tell me something. “You know that lady from earlier, the one who made the ‘Pain in the Ass’ drink?” he asks. I nod, knowing exactly who he’s talking about. “She’s on her way to a very good hangover, if she’s not careful. I really shouldn’t serve her anymore. How do you want me to handle her, boss?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of her,” I say. “Start watering down her drinks though.”
I climb the carpeted, spiral steps to the third floor. The male review show is in full swing. I stand at the bar and scan the tables for Brooke. There she is, right up front no less—second row. Matt comes off stage and makes a beeline to her table. Why the hell not? She’s gorgeous anyway, but tonight, she’s exquisite in that skin-tight red dress. She and her friends are flashing dollar bills at him. I watch her as she hesitates, not sure where to stick the money in his costume thong. She eventually gives up and just shoves it anyplace it’ll fit.
Matt sits on her lap and rides her cowboy style, grinding his obvious hard dick up and down her stomach. Her bright red nails are scraping across his ass cheeks and leaving those little half-moon indents when she squeezes him. He leans in and whispers in her ear and she nods. Oh hell no! I know what he’s arranging and he’s not getting her tonight in a lap dance room. His song is almost over, as he makes his way back towards the stage. I head backstage to meet him, and stop his plans.