Today its wine, last month my car—tomorrow he’ll find some other reason to hate me.
“Red is fine too, Dad.”
He returns from the kitchen with two bottles of wine and sets them on the dining table nestled into the opposite corner of the room. My parents’ house is butted up to the neighbors on both sides, and the only natural light comes from the window behind the TV. The old lamp my grandparents gave us when I was ten. It gives off a dim orange glow making everyone and everything look sickly.
He opens the white first and pours me a glass.
“You hungry?”
To prepare for tonight’s carb fest, I fasted twelve hours and ran fifteen miles on the treadmill this morning.
“I could eat.” I sit in my seat.
Mom walks in and sets a platter of spaghetti and meat sauce on the table. I pour her a glass of white wine then top off my glass. Dad broods across the table with his red. I wait until he’s served himself before putting a single thing on my plate.
“How’s work?” Mom always leads the dinner conversation.
I slurp a forkful of spaghetti and barely chew before swallowing. It’s hard to enjoy the first few bites because I’m wolfing it down.
“Oh, so he works now.” Dad takes a dig at me while my mouth is full.
Nothing’s changed. My parents talk about me like I’m not here or I’m too dense to follow the conversation. I’m actually too hungry to interject.
“You should be proud of Gio,” she chastises. “He makes money for himself.” Mom winks at me. “And he’s a good boy.”
Mom’s idea of a good boy is one who didn’t knock up a girl out of wedlock. She likes Theo, but let’s face it, he’s a sinner.
Dad grumbles and rips a piece of bread from the loaf. He dips it in the sauce before folding it into his mouth.
“How does he make all this money? He doesn’t have a real job.” Even with a mouthful of bread, the hits keep coming.
I set down my fork and pound my wine. It’s time to defend myself.
“I’m working for a furniture company part-time, and I’m still doing the modeling.” Half-truths.
“Modeling!” Dad slams his fist on the table, sending his fork jumping off his plate. “Men don’t model.”
“Some men do.” Mom looks to me as if I should name a man my father will respect.
I go blank.
“De Niro,” she blurts out. “He modeled suits—I saw it in Vogue magazine.” Mom spins her pasta against a spoon with a proud expression.
“Bullshit.” Dad stabs at a meatball. “And even if he did, he’s Robert fucking De Niro.”
I give my mom a don’t bother look. There’s nothing she can say to make him think better of me.
When I’m here, it feels like I never left. I’m a kid again, trying to please my father, eating everything Mom puts on my plate.
I move to a safe topic. It’s not one my mother or I will enjoy, but it’s safe.
“How’s work, Dad?”
Dad launches into his latest grievances about the dipshit of the month. Al’s been working maintenance since before I was born. It’s a good job as far as pay and benefits. Maintenance supervisor is the official title, but that doesn’t make what he does respectable—not to me.
It wasn’t like Dad worked hard to provide a better life for us. He never bought property or invested. Thanks to rent control and a landlord who inherited the property from her parents, my family has been able to stay in this house for twenty-seven years. I can’t imagine them being anywhere else. They would never dream of leaving.
“Maybe it’s time to retire.” Mom dabs her mouth with a napkin. “We don’t know what Josie will do.” She shrugs and looks at Dad. They’ve been married almost thirty years. A single look from my mom and he knows exactly what she’s thinking.
In some ways, their relationship is a beautiful thing. In others, it’s a nightmare. To be with one person for that long seems impossible. Maybe thirty years ago falling in love and getting married at twenty-years-old was normal. That was before Tinder.
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now.” Dad jerks his head in my direction.
“What’s going on with Josie? Are they selling the house next door?” I remember the sign out front. The same family owns three houses on this block.
“Mr. Granger died,” Dad says. “He was old.”
I drink from my wine glass and add up the years in my head. “He must have been pushing one hundred.”
“Ninety-seven,” Mom confirms.
Dad remarks about how Josie’s been waiting for him to die. I kind of agree. The only way to get an old person out of a house in San Francisco is death or an owner move-in. Lucky for us, Josie doesn’t need the money. She has property all over the city and is married to a doctor.
“How old are Josie’s kids now?” She always had a kid in a stroller and one cooking in the oven.
“Her youngest is graduating high school next month.” Mom starts to fidget. She gives the pasta in the center of the table a quick toss then motions for me to lift my plate. I do as I’m told and let her pile on a disturbing amount of spaghetti.
“Erin finished college this year, and she’s in fashion.” She gives me that classic mom look.
“No. Please don’t even say it.”
“Erin?” Dad wonders. “That’s the one with the lazy eye?”
I laugh and a meatball almost shoots out of my mouth. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Can you imagine what your kids will look like?” Dad makes a really inappropriate face.
“Stop it!” Mom yells. “Shame on you both.” She walks to the kitchen with her plate, and a few seconds later the sink turns on.
“Sorry, Ma,” I yell to her.
Dad waves for me to stop apologizing. “She knows.”
The simplicity in his reply makes me smile.
My parents don’t always agree or like each other, but who needs like when you have love?
Dad lowers his tone and leans in toward me.
“You saw the sign?”
I put down my fork and reach for the bread. “Yeah, is it for next door?”
Dad pushes the loaf toward me and taps his finger on the table.
I give him a confused look. “What do you mean?”
“Here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
I finally catch on. “Josie is selling this house!”
Mom drops a plate into the sink.
“Keep your voice down!” Dad sits up and sips his wine. “She doesn’t want to talk about it with you.”
Mom doesn’t like to worry people. She worries enough for everyone.
“She offered the house to us at ‘a good price’.” He scoffs and shakes his head as if it wasn’t low enough.
My father isn’t balking at the price because the house isn’t worth it; he just can’t afford it. The city grew around him like my tree. He stayed here, rooted into the cement, unwilling or unable to leave—pun intended. Now he can’t afford to buy the house or move into a new one. He’s stuck.
“Maybe you can get a loan. You have decent credit, don’t you?” I assume my parents have credit and savings. Those are things adults should have. “This place isn’t in the best shape. You can negotiate.”
“Not in this market.”
This is San Francisco, top of the food chain—people buy shacks for half a million dollars. This house is an untouched gold mine. A young tech family would kill to have it. It’s like a blank canvas waiting to become a hipster’s paradise.
“What’s going to happen when the place sells?”
“It’s up to the new owners.”
I imagine the moral dilemma I will face if my parents have to move. Would I invite them to stay with me? Would they want to?
Dad goes back to his food. “This isn’t your problem.”
“But I grew up here…” I start to get sentimental.
“This isn’t your house,” Dad reminds
me. I detect a double meaning.
I couldn’t wait to get out from under his roof, but all of my childhood memories remain within these walls. I look to the corner where our Christmas tree stands every year. Mom has a bookshelf there now, but it gets moved right after Thanksgiving to make way for the fake tree we’ve had since I was eleven. The chair I’m sitting in has been my chair ever since I can remember. I’ve blown out all of my birthday candles from this seat.
“Did you see the Giant’s new first baseman? He’s Brazilian.”
I choke on a noodle. “Brazilian, really?”
While Dad prattles on about batting averages, I realize I’m not even going to be here for Christmas this year. It knocks me back a step. I decide not to tell them about Brazil until I’m further along in the process. I’m not saying my parents losing their home is a game-changer, but it is a new level. One I never thought I’d have to face.
Two hours and three thousand carbs later, I leave my parents’ house second-guessing my life. I spend the better part of the night thinking about Brazil—or more like stressing about Brazil. I wonder what my father will say when I tell him I’m leaving. Mom will cry; that’s a given. How will Dad feel? Just another notch on the wall of shame.
Well, the shame goes both ways.
My parents shouldn’t even be renting at their age. By my father’s standards, the men at Trace are lowlife pieces of shit, hustlers, and whores, but half of those whores own property. What does Alberto Castillo own?
Nothing.
I’d rather die in a favela in Rio, than end up like my father.
Chapter Three
I spend more time role playing for clients than living my own life. For a thousand dollars, I’ll dress like your ex-husband and let you spank me. I’ll prepare a five-star meal in my underwear or clean your house naked. I’m all about the needs and wants of my clientele.
Today, I’m the Christian Grey of Trance.
It takes balls to step on stage and command attention from a room of inebriated, self-entitled women. Playing a cocky billionaire makes it slightly easier.
The men of Trance are expected to be hairless, hard, and hot as fuck. If you falter in one of those areas, you can always try bartending. Trance only hires the best of the best, and I don’t eat bland chicken and steamed broccoli five nights a week because I love food that tastes like cardboard. Zero body fat is required of male dancers.
A little jiggle in the right place can be sexy on a woman. A half-decent looking female dancer with average tits will always get a few dollars tossed her way, but it’s a different game for men. If you can’t bounce a quarter off your abs, don’t bother taking the stage.
Trance is set up to look like a high-end lounge, like something you’d see at the top of a five-star hotel. Men don’t need fancy booths and crystal stemware. Give them a chair and a naked chick spinning on a pole, and they’re cool. Women, though—they want the illusion, the fantasy. The what-ifs, wishes, and shoulda-coulda-wouldas keep Trance’s doors open. I take it a step further. For the right price, I’ll turn a what-if into what’s next.
“Hey, Gio, wait up.”
I turn and see Percy. He’s one of the house duds. They clean up after us and serve drinks; it’s part of the process. It’s how you pay your dues.
I pause with my hand on the locker room door.
“What?”
“Just checking to see if we’re on for next week.”
Percy is honest and works hard, but his ambition is a red flag—I don’t trust anyone who balls as hard as me. After harassing Rico for weeks, he finally booked Percy on a side job, with me.
“Rico’s the boss. He handles all the details.” I turn to go inside.
“I know, I just thought you might want to run through the game plan with me beforehand.”
Fucking hell.
“I like to wing it.” I slap his back and leave him in the hall, where he belongs.
The locker room at Trance is a stark contrast to the main room. It’s dark, dirty, and smells like ball sweat. Home sweet home.
I bust through the door. “Looks like rain, boys!”
Rico pumps his fist in response. He runs the side game. His company, The Agency, books private events ranging from your standard bachelorette parties to dinner parties with the Zuckerbergs. The guy who booked that gig works directly for Mark now.
Opportunity is everywhere.
Rico is waiting at my locker. “It’s always jumpin’ on a warm night.”
He’s right—something about nice weather brings the women out like cats in heat.
“The line is halfway down the street.” I fist-bump Rico.
He lowers his voice and looks over his shoulder at Thor and Dain. They’re deep into their pre-show rituals.
“I have a money job for you.” Money job is code for sex. “Are you up for it?” he jokes.
“Always. Text me the info.”
Unlike the other guys, I have no moral qualms about fucking for money. Thor limits his side work to bridal showers and birthday parties, while Dain’s moral compass depends on the direction of the wind. He looks and acts more like a cop than a stripper, which is probably why women love him. He takes care of his nephew and his brother’s ex, and being someone his family can be proud of is vital to Dain. I’ve given up trying to impress my father. To him, I’m a lost cause. The feeling is mutual.
Jim strolls into the locker room with a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. I can always smell when he’s nearby. Rumor has is it he was connected to an Irish gang on the east coast in his younger days. He moved to the Bay Area to start over in the nineties, and bought this dilapidated building before the dot.com boom. Before it was Trance, this place was a titty bar, an Irish pub, and a teahouse. The teahouse was a front for a Chinese gambling ring.
“Evening, gents.”
We greet Jim with the usual grumble of hellos and fuck-offs.
“Good news, boys—its lady’s choice.” He delivers the announcement with a throaty laugh, and the guys toss a mouthful of complaints at him. They bounce off Jim with a flick of his cigar.
Ladies choice was a marketing gimmick created to get more followers on social media. To our dismay, it worked. Jim sets up a poll on Facebook where people get to vote on songs. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, but you haven’t seen the song list.
“Quit your fuckin’ bellyaching.” Jim holds out his black and gray hooligan hat filled with torn strips of paper.
Thor picks first. “‘All About That Bass’?” He looks up in confusion. “It’s a song about fish?”
“It’s bass, fucktard, not bass,” Rico interjects, enlightening him.
“Oh yeah, I know that song.” Thor nods. “It’s poppy.”
Thor’s just over thirty, which is old for our industry. His knowledge of music and pop culture in general is limited. Thor likes to read, and he’s always got his nose stuck in a book. When he’s not reading, he’s working out. His body is a temple, and women love to worship it. He isn’t much of a dancer, but he’s a master of the sore neck—his signature move. He tilts his head to the ceiling, grabs the back of his neck, and rotates his hips in slow circular movements. Then he lowers his head with an expression he calls “painful pleasure”. When I do the sore neck, I imagine the way it feels when I’m getting a shitty blow job, that out-of-control sensation when a woman is sucking you off then accidentally scrapes your dick with her teeth.
Rico pulls his song. “Yes,” he hisses. “‘Dark Horse’.”
Fuck. He got the golden ticket. Jim always throws in one good song, and Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse” has a killer bass drop.
Jim shoves the hat in my direction. I finger the strips, hoping luck is on my side. I finally pull one and unfold it.
Fuck me.
Dain picks the last strip from the hat. “‘Take It Off’.”
“I’ll trade you,” I offer. “I can work with Kesha.”
Dain looks at my paper. “‘Milkshake’?”
; Rico starts singing the lyrics. “My milkshake brings all the boys to yard…” He does a little ass shake and Thor whips him with his towel.
“Fuck that.” Dain retreats to his locker.
“Come on, Dain,” I plead. “I can’t do my routine to this. It’s a boner-killer. I’ll pay you.”
Dain looks back like he’s interested. “How much?”
“A bill.”
“Fuck off. At least two bills.”
“One and I’ll give you dibs on my song next month.”
“One bill, dibs on your song next month, and a bottle of that spray you gave me for Christmas last year.”
“Fuck that.” I walk away.
The spray he’s talking about was Armani.
“Nice not doing business with you.” Dain drops his pants and wraps a towel around his waist. “Have fun shaking your milk,” he yells as he walks to the shower.
“Come on, Jim. Have mercy.” I hand him back my slip. “They’re gonna laugh me off the stage.”
Nervous giggling is okay, but straight laughing at your performance will destroy your ego.
“The point of ladies’ night is mixing shit up.” He points at my strip of paper. “That song was the most requested this week.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Jim opens the door and yells for Damon, another dud. Three seconds later, a younger, better-looking version of Will Smith appears at the door.
“This place is a fucking pigsty.” He motions for Damon to enter. “Get some clean towels, sweep, and bleach the fucking toilets.” Jim ticks off each task on his fingers.
“I’m on it.” Damon goes straight to work gathering the dirty towels we lazily tossed on the floor.
Jim puts these guys through the ringer. If they keep showing up at a shit job for shit pay, it proves they’ll be reliable when they’re called up to the stage. Work ethic is everything when it comes to dancing.
“Jim, can I get a minute?” I ask before he walks into the hall. He motions for me to follow him. I pull on a white t-shirt and we walk through the maze of hallways to his office. We call it the green mile, like that Tom Hanks movie where they walk prisoners down a green walkway to the electric chair. If you find yourself walking these halls, you’re on the wrong side of doing what’s right.
Side Game (Men of Trance Book 2) Page 3