by Tiana Laveen
“Well, the last thing I want is for you to catch a cold and be uncomfortable.” He winked in her direction and was pleased to see the shy smile that fast creased her face. “I’ll turn it up a degree or two.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.”
Like fuckin’ hell I am. It’ll turn into Hell in here. I’m not turnin’ the goddamn air conditioning off. You shouldn’t ’ve worn a dress that was so fuckin’ sheer, I can practically see the color of your damn nipples! Do you have any fuckin’ idea, lady, what hot vomit in the heat smells like from some fucker who came in here and couldn’t hold their fuckin’ liquor? Nah, not gonna happen…
He stood there smiling at the women, making small talk, and pretending to give two shits about their desires before moving on to the next table. Suddenly, the host was back on the stage, announcing a new comedian to take the spotlight—Flan Perkins. Lazarist hadn’t seen him in a while and decided to camp out behind the bar to listen for a while, and then continue his parade around the tables to discuss customer satisfaction.
“Give it up for Flaaaaaaan Perkins!” the host exclaimed before the skinny Black guy approached the stage dressed in white. Music blasted out of the speakers as he made his way to the microphone. “Hard in Da Paint” by Waka Flocka Flame got the crowd amped.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” The man chortled, dismissing the crowd, causing a burst of laughter. “Lookin’ good tonight, people! Got some good lookin’ women out in the audience I see, too. Damn!” The man bopped his head in approval. “I will answer the burning question all of you wanna know… yes.” He dramatically rolled his eyes. “My sexy ass is single again.”
This caused a few chuckles. Flan grabbed the microphone stand a bit tighter.
“See, the datin’ world is too complicated now. I’m old school, you know? I ain’t in a rush to have the latest gadgets ’nd shit. Why replace somethin’ if it still works? Some of y’all are so addicted to technology – all of these new-fangled VCRs, cassette tapes, cars with V-6 engines and beepers! Ya think you’re big ballers now!” Pockets of laughter filled the place. “Oh, ’scuse me… bought some bad weed and it made me believe I was in a time machine. Well, since I’m back here I’m going to reeeevvve it back even farther to 1945 and give Trump’s father a vasectomy with a pair of chicken cuttin’ sheers…” The crowd lost it then and broke into applause and raunchy cheers. “Make sure there’s no chance of that shit growin’ back!” He grinned. “Ahhhh, lay down, Mr. Trump senior… This’ll hurt just a little bit, but your bleedin’ will make sure my favorite Mexican restaurant doesn’t go outta business in 2019.” The crowd chortled loudly. “Extra salsa…”
“Wouldn’t wanna risk it… Speakin’ of love affairs we’d like to erase from history and bustin’ unfortunate nuts, I went out with this one chick the other night and things was all right at first, right? I pull up to her apartment, she comes out. She looks nice, I suppose. She gets closer and stops walking. I ask her, ‘What’s wrong?’ She lookin’ at my car and says, ‘What tha fuck is this?’ Maaaan, I said it’s a classic!
“A 1982 Corolla… in mint condition! She says to me, ‘Why it got a boot on it?’” She obviously had no idea that you can drive with a boot on! The ride is slower, but hey, that just gives you time to take in the scenery! It’s no big thing. Just leave the house a little earlier so, as you go ten miles per hour, you will eventually reach your destination.”
Giggles rolled through the crowd. “So, I look her up and down and see she’s into all that designer shit. I tell her, ’cause it’s fashionable… let’s go get the otha one so it becomes a pair.”
“She tells me she what about the other two then, since I have four wheels? Bitch, I’ll do a willie on two tires! Askin’ me stupid ass questions! Get yo’ ass in the car!’” The crowd burst out laughin’. “These boots were made for walkin’… but I defied the rules and refused to stay in the parked lane… that just proves I’m a rebel … a rebel without a caaaaar.”
Lazarist chuckled at that. Fixing himself a whiskey, he leaned against the bar counter to watch a little more of the show.
“Went out with another lady a couple of weeks ago. She was sooo materialistic. I can’t hang wit’ you ladies! See, I’m from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, originally.” A few people clapped at that. “Yeah! Where my cheese heads at?! You New Yorkers are tough and the women so hard they walk around wearin’ Prada and razor blades under their damn tongues. Ain’t did a day in prison, but always got a shank… wanna fight a mothafucka and then call him ‘son’ after threatenin’ his life. ‘Yo! You mad weak, son!’ Then they get to wavin’ that weapon around, tryna cut a mothafucka until you promise to take ’em shoppin’…” More laughter erupted. “Anyway, the date… I got sidetracked by Razorblade Rachelle…
“So, she and I, you know, we meet up at this bar and after we’re there for a while, havin’ a pretty good conversation, my phone rings, right? I pull it out and she screams! I’m talkin’ like at the top of her lungs like she’s seen a monster! Now, I’m used to that happenin’ when I whip my dick out, you know, but we weren’t at that point yet…”
Flan grinned wide as the crowd burst into cheers and wolf whistles. “I say to the woman, ‘What’s wrong?’ She grabs her jacket and purse, hops off the bar stool, and says she gotta go! She says, ‘I know you don’t have any money, ’cause mothafucka, you got a flip phone!’” The crowd laughed even harder. ‘She was lookin’ at me like I told ’er I just ate bath salts or some shit and planned to eat every part of her but her pussy! Maaaan!”
Lazarist laughed as he sipped on his drink.
“Ol’ materialistic ass!” He paced the stage nice and slow. “I can’t fuck wit’ you women out here… You’re too much for me. My ex-girlfriend and I had been together though for six years… six damn years, man! She said I was never committed. What kinda shit is that?” The comedian threw up his hands. “That’s a lifetime, right? She said I wasn’t loyal, that I was a dog. That’s an oxymoron.” The crowd chuckled. “And if six years ain’t committed, I don’t know what is… that’s a lifetime in dog years…”
The place went nuts and Flan had to stop until the cheers died down. The show went on but Lazarist emerged back into the audience, weaving in and out, offering a few complimentary drinks, praising several attractive women, and slapping some hands of male patrons who were loyal customers. An hour or so later, he exited the Rum Rapture Room and headed to the restaurant portion of his club.
Things were far more relaxed and chill here. The music was contemporary jazz at a low volume, though muted sounds from the Rum Rapture Room could be heard. Candlelight, quality menus, and a five-star chef created the perfect ambiance and dishes.
He went into the kitchen and talked to the employees, making sure they didn’t have customers waiting for extended periods of time, and urged them to keep pushing the dessert purchases. He needed room for fresh inventory and the cream for the crepes was expiring soon. Vacating the restaurant, he headed to the dance club portion, which was located on the upper level. He passed one of his bouncers on the bottom floor, gave him a head nod, and made his way up the steps until he was greeted by the thumping techno music.
Dark red curtains obscured a steel door.
“’Sup, boss,” Heathen said, the man standing six foot seven and big as a linebacker.
“How’s everything tonight?” Lazarist shoved his hand in his pocket and rolled back on his heels.
“Good… full house.”
“I don’t want any bullshit like last Saturday. Are there two bouncers inside, is the bar stocked, and the cop I hired… did he ever arrive?”
“All systems check. Got a new DJ this week, too.”
“I can tell… the music is better from what I can hear.” Heathen got ready to open the door and let him inside. “No need for that tonight. I don’t have much time. Just make sure the bartenders cut off people by 2:15 A.M. Last call for alcohol up here. It’s cut off at 2:30 A.M. in the
Rum Room so if need be, have anyone still wanting something to go in there.”
“Will do.”
“Good. Ya doin’ good. Here’s a little bonus.” Lazarist dug into his pocket and pulled out a bankroll. He slipped off a hundred dollar bill and handed it to Heathen.
“Thanks, Boss.”
“You’re welcome.” He patted his shoulder. “It’s hard to get good help nowadays. People I can trust…”
Lazarist’s eyes narrowed on the man, then he turned and walked away. Minutes later he was in his office, tucked away on the premises. He immediately turned on his electric fireplace, fired up his MacBook, and snatched his tie off, tossing it onto the desk. He sat there for several minutes scrolling through a maze of purchases for his club, looking at the talent scheduled to come in and perform in the Rum Room for the remainder of the summer, and checking to see if all deposits for people renting various rooms in his club for their parties and get togethers had been paid.
After about an hour of sending out emails such as contacting the company he’d hired to take care of the payroll about some missing hours for two employees, he resolved that it was time to go home. Moments later, he was saying his farewells to several staff members and vacating the premises. He walked up to his candy apple red ’67 Mustang Shelby Cobra, started it up, and headed towards his home in the Colombia Street Waterfront district, on Rapeleye Street.
“Just want to get in here and go to bed,” he mumbled to himself as he parked in his small garage. Grabbing his briefcase, he headed inside his property. After removing his dark brown leather jacket and hanging it up, he made a beeline towards his chef’s kitchen.
The building had originally featured several rental loft-style apartments, which he’d turned into a single family unit that afforded him access to three floors. The property now boasted six bedrooms and five bathrooms, including a private balcony and outside eating area. The white oak herringbone and concrete floors gave it a clean and streamlined appearance. His galley, though he rarely made any time to cook, was one of his favorite spots in the entire place. It featured a Caesarstone island, Liebherr French door refrigerator, and wine icebox.
“Alexa, play ‘Killing Strangers’ by Marilyn Manson.” The song began as he opened his kitchen cabinet door, removed a glass, and poured himself some Scotch. Soon, he was clenching his teeth and rubbing his forehead. The migraines had been getting worse as of late. Just then, his phone buzzed. He reached into his pocket and plucked the vibrating iPhone out of it, then placed it on the kitchen counter. He noticed a couple of missed calls, then landed on the text message from his ex-wife, Mimi:
Mimi: Yesterday was total bullshit and you know it. Taking you back to court.
Lazarist: The judge ruled in my favor yesterday. No increase in alimony. I’m not giving you another dime. You are already sucking me dry and at the end of this year, you will be totally cut off once and for all. Three years was plenty of time for you to get yourself together.
Mimi: I wish I had never met you.
Lazarist: That makes two of us. Don’t you have something else to do? Like fall into another sucker’s lap? Go deep-throat your way to another dollar.
Mimi: Fuck you. ARROGANT ASSHOLE. Nobody likes you!
Lazarist: You did. Go suck your neighbor’s dick. Maybe he can spare some change, whore. It’s obvious you’re drunk again, too. You need help.
Mimi: That’s funny coming from the guy who slept around so much, your last name should be Serta. At least I was a professional.
Lazarist: A whore I am not. A lover of fine pussy I am and at least I can afford everything that I have and don’t have to depend on a person I was married to for only 10 months to foot the bill. You don’t want to fuck for funds anymore, so now you do it for free? How stupid is that? Get off your back and get a job like the rest of us, Mimi. A REAL job.
Mimi: Drop dead.
Lazarist: Almost did when I was still married to you. Thank God I woke up and filed for divorce before it was too late. The gravy train is approaching its last stop. Here’s where you get off.
He abruptly turned off his phone, ceased the music, poured himself another Scotch, then a Whiskey and headed up the steps to his master suite on the third floor. Polishing off his drink, he set the glass down on the white mirrored dresser, and turned on his flat screen television that drifted from the ceiling, awaiting his command. He didn’t turn it on because he was particularly interested in the day’s events, catching up on his sports scores, or even to fall prey to some documentary about England’s violent medieval past, which he rather enjoyed. He simply wanted the background noise. He undressed himself, letting the clothing hit the floor whichever way it went. Looking towards his bedroom window, he took note of the tops of the high buildings, and could hear the occasional honking.
His neighborhood was fairly quiet, and yet bits and pieces of the city still managed to reach out with their long, sparkly fingers covered in lights, flickering bits of falling money, fresh piss, and tap him on the shoulder. Lazarist slumped down on the bed and took a look at himself in the mirrored closet doors. He smiled sadly at his reflection, feeling some pity for himself.
I’m about to be forty-fuckin’ years old… feel like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes. Jesus…
His tall, muscular body was etched with various tattoos, a few he regretted, fueling his spiral down the never-ending tunnel of sorrowful thoughts.
I need to get a cover up job on that one ASAP…
He ran his finger over Mimi’s name, hating her all the more as he read it across his left arm in thick, bold font. It had been a whirlwind romance… perhaps he’d been too hasty. He’d tricked himself into believing that time it would be different. But it wasn’t. Now with two marriages under his belt, he avoided the notion of settling down again like the plague. His first marriage had been to his high school sweetheart, and they’d simply grown apart. He wished her well and he imagined she wished the same for him. This last time, he conceded, however, had been a boneheaded move—that move being primarily driven by his dick.
Mimi was a gorgeous woman, the kind that needed little makeup or fuss. She woke up looking naturally as if she’d been airbrushed. The shit was uncanny. Though he’d viewed her from a superficial lens, things became clear quite early on that not only were they not compatible, but he disliked her personality to the utmost. He couldn’t trust her; shit from her past kept rearing its ugly head and her temper, paired with his, only caused fiery arguments that led to explosive sex. But after a while, that got old, too. He needed someone who could help him unwind, not make him want to slit his own throat.
They’d been divorced for two and a half years, and yet Mimi managed to keep wiggling herself into his world. They had no children together, not even shared custody of a dog, cat, hell, even a goldfish. He couldn’t fathom why they were like magnets, pulling and drawing from one another, a battle royale to the finish. They had crazy chemistry, and it had seemed as if she would stick with him and give her heart completely to him. He believed that she also wished for them to reconcile, despite her vicious insults and so much more. Lazarist sat on his bed, wracking his brain about the failed marriage. Why? He wasn’t completely certain… It had happened so long ago, but the questions and answers to it all haunted him. He loved her at the time… he truly loved her, and that’s what hurt the most.
And it was her body… that fucking body…especially before all the plastic surgery…
He rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand as he deliberated over the matter. She was a tall, shapely Latina who’d made her mark in the adult entertainment industry, retired from the industry when they met and boy could she fuck. That was Lazarist’s downfall—a pretty, feminine chick who could work her mouth, pussy, and ass on him just right, laugh at his jokes—even the ones that weren’t that funny—and make him feel like a king. That was sometimes all it took. The women who warmed his bed were just placeholders. He hadn’t been in love since Mimi, and he preferred it that way. Love
was too taxing, exhausting, and debilitating. It made him feel weak and feeble; it stole his zest for life. No doubt he was better off forever single… just him and his business, his friends, trips around the world, and women as fuckbuddies were all he required at that point. He still got laid often, and the empty sex, though fleeting, gave him temporary reprieve from the devastation of something he wanted, but just wasn’t cut out for. Love.
“Ouch.”
He winced for his head throbbed harder now, the headache not slowing down or letting up. He crawled into his bed, reached into his nightstand, and pulled out a bottle of Aleve. He popped two of them, though the dosage specified just one. After pulling the sheets a bit further up his waist, he rested there, looking aimlessly at the television. He surfed somewhere between exhausted and horny.
Horny lost out, for his lids became heavy and before he’d even been given a warning, he saw nothing more than a curtain of soft darkness…
CHAPTER TWO
Bitch, I’m Sorry…
…Two Weeks Later
DOJA CAT’S “SUCKER Punch” blasted through the speakers in the three-tier club, “Fallen Angel.” Sky Jordan was blowing off some much-needed steam, sitting at a VIP table with a bucket of wine, five of her no-good friends, her hookah, and her sexiest black dress that barely covered her ass. Crossing her long, deep caramel legs, she tapped one foot, rocking her favorite four-inch black heels. A dog collar with studs was wrapped around her neck, completing the edgy outfit. Bobbing her head to the music, she watched all of the people dancing around to the infectious beat of the music.