1 Chapter 1
Coben’s an arrogant man. Talks about himself too much. Doesn’t like to follow rules. He’s stunning, with big pecs, and has quite the sexual history with men. Many say he’s talented in bed and at dancing.
* * * *
Irritated, becoming overtly pissed, I ask in a curt tone, “What do you mean you can’t make it tonight, Coben?”
“What don’t you understand, Gyles Beare? Pay attention to what I’m saying. Is English your second language? I’m calling off. I won’t be doing the show tonight. You’ll have to find another dancer.”
Fuck! He’s driving me nuts! Why does he make me feel like his babysitter? All the dancers at the club do this. And why haven’t I fired him? Christ knows he needs to be fired. He’s always missing shifts. The women and men patrons look for him, and he’s never there. What an unreliable dick!
“You’d best have a good excuse, Coben. You’ve called off three times in the last month, and it’s turning into a problem. You know I need dependable dancers. No other club in the tri-state area would put up with this. You’re fucking lucky I don’t fire you here and now!”
He fakes a cough. “I’m sick. I think it’s a cold. Something bad. An apocalyptical flu that’s going to take out ninety percent of the population.” He coughs a second time. Silence.
I know he has an arts degree in drama from Yullner Arts School in Ohio. I also know he’s performed in a number of plays, musicals, and commercials in Templeton, entertaining locals for the past dozen years. I know he’s talented on stage, acting, singing, and dancing. He can’t fool me. This afternoon’s scene is a joke, a pure act on his part. He doesn’t pull the wool over my eyes.
Truth is, he’s probably spending the night inside a wrestler: dinner, drinks, and some rough sex against one of the city’s brick walls. Coben’s fond of wrestlers and brick walls. It’s a strange attraction I don’t understand. He likes the fake action, sweat, long hair, and muscles. He likes the scripts and makeup. He recently told me during one of our odd and uncomfortable conversations, “The boots turn me on, Gyles. I think they’re totally sexy. They make me fucking hard.”
Whatever. I don’t care what kind of boot cult he’s in. My bar, The Man Club, needs a dancer tonight. The show must go on. I need someone to draw in the gays and middle-aged women who like queer dancers. I need to pay the bills, and dollars need to fly. Coben’s just one of the ten guys to get the job done. He might be the oldest dancer, but he’s the best at putting on a show. I can’t think of anyone else who knows how to swing their bikini-covered dick around, and show off his bronze-colored ass and thick pecs. I won’t lie: lots of green comes from him, which the club needs, as well as my bank account. I hate it when the fucker calls off, putting me into a spin.
“Coben, listen to me. And listen closely. If you’re not at the club by eight this evening, you’re fired. Do you understand that? Do you read me? Is my ultimatum clear?”
He says something to me I can’t understand. The connection breaks between us because of the February snowstorm outside.
“Fuck!” I yell, perturbed.
I call him back. No answer. I try to call him a second time. Still no answer.
Eventually, I leave him the message: Show up tonight, or you’re done. No dancing for you! Take me serious. I’m not fucking around.
It’s time for a drink. Why not? Vodka. Lemonade. Some iced tea. Ice cubes. Down the hatch. The shit tastes good. It’s strong and starts to mellow me out.
I begin to pace through my Cape Cod with the beverage, breaking down the carpet in the living room and dining room. I slap leather heels against the kitchen’s ceramic tile, inside the sitting room that rarely gets used, through the foyer, and back inside the living room. It’s a vicious circle. It’s calming. It’s what I need right now after my call with my number one dancer.
“What to do? What to do? You’re an asshole, Coben, and you’ve placed me in an ugly situation. All you think about is yourself. You’re not dedicated to my club and never have been. You’re selfish and a prick. I should have gotten rid of you months ago. I should have never hired you. Look at the position you’ve placed me in today.”
I drink and think. The Man Club surfaces within my thoughts. I’ve owned the place for seventeen years. Bought it when I was twenty-seven for a steal. Only fifty grand. It used to be called Chains, a sadomasochistic bar for straight kinks, illicit prostitutes, and druggies. Buddy Chain retired, closed it down, and moved to Key West. I took it off his hands and made a queer club for men. Fortunately, the club’s a success for me. I open the place at six in the evening, serve the best cocktails in town, and show off the male erotic dancers between eight and two. This is my life. This is what I do. This is a part of my soul.
