"It’s not the place I'm after, but the person," I said.
He opened the cab door and helped me inside. Two quick taps on the roof and we were off. I felt light and optimistic, despite the cab driver's concerned looks. "You know this address is a strip club, right?"
I nodded. In my head I imagined Fenton sulking in a dark corner of some seedy strip club where he would not even look at the women. He would see me, and his blue eyes would brighten. He could not hide the way he liked seeing me. I would tell him the truth.
"I've decided I can mix business and pleasure if you can," I practiced in my head.
"Miss, I don't feel right leaving you here," the cab driver said. "You go ahead and look for your guy. I'll be out here if you need me."
"Thanks, but I'll be fine," I said. I paid him in full plus tip and opened the cab door.
I took a deep breath and plunged into the dim tunnel of the strip club entrance. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and when they did, I wished the bright lights of Fremont Street had blinded me.
Fenton was surrounded by fawning strippers, flashing a fan of cash in one hand as he knocked back shots of tequila from the bottle with the other. There was a bruise on the left edge of his jaw and a cut above his eyebrow. In the short time since he left me, Fenton Morris had lived up to every detail of his reputation.
I watched as a bouncer tried to kick him out. "Come on, I bet I can take you in eight seconds," Fenton told the mountainous man. Then, he turned and saw me. His smile disappeared, but not as fast as I did. I was out the door with the whole scene scarred into my memory.
CHAPTER TEN
Fenton
Dana Maria walked away from me, but I could not leave. I marched up to the mountain-sized bouncer and asked to see the manager. When the white-suited manager came out to see me, I paid him to send my sister home. The least I could give her was the night off. There was a commotion back stage between numbers, and I could hear her yelling. But when the manager emerged, he assured me Dana Maria had left for the evening.
The only thing to do then was to get blind drunk. I went to the bar and ordered tequila shots. When the bartender put down the bottle and turned to get a shot glass, I grabbed the bottle and swigged straight from it. I left enough money on the bar to cover it.
My father had never even bothered to ask about my mother. Did he even know she was dead? We had no address to reach him when it came to send out the funeral arrangements. Not that there were actually arrangements. It was just a quick goodbye in the hospital chapel before she was wheeled downstairs to the morgue.
Dana Maria had disappeared after that. She made sure I went to school, her network of friends from the neighborhood telling on me every chance they got. It wasn't until I was in college that I realized she skipped school to work two jobs.
"There's no reason for you to drink alone," a sultry voice interrupted my thoughts. A stripper in a gold outfit that consisted of three small triangles took the barstool next to me. She ran a gold platform heel up my leg. "How about we find a table? You've got a bottle and I've got friends that want to meet you," she said.
"Why me?" I asked. Did they know Dana Maria was my sister?
"Your billboards, silly. Fenton Morris can't walk in here without getting some lovin'. More handsome in person than two stories up in the air," the golden stripper said.
She led me to a table and as soon as I sat down, the girls surrounded me. Across the room, a drunken patron complained that I was hogging all the women.
"You got a problem?" I asked. "Come over here and tell me about it toe to toe."
"Now, honey, there's no need for that. He's just jealous of you, but there's nothing to worry about. Enough ladies here to satisfy everyone," a red-haired stripper said. She adjusted her heavy breasts in their black leather bra and blew the man a kiss.
I remembered my mother soothing my father in the same easy way. A hand on his forearm, soft words, and a smile that told everyone it was all okay – except it had not been then, and it was not now. I wanted to smash the man's face in. I knew I could do it with one punch. Was I becoming my father?
I continued to drink, but the tequila did not block out my biggest fear. I worried I was just like my father, deep down in my core. When things did not go my way, when all my hard-earned money disappeared and I was too old to hold on to my talent, I would become mean and spiteful like him. I would turn and walk away from the people that depended on me, because I was too tired to care.
My father slumped in his chair, the one good, steady chair in our tiny apartment. His drink of choice was cheap vodka, almost rubbing alcohol it was so sharp and harsh. From there, if he moved at all, it was to reach out and slip a hand up my mother's leg. She slapped him away, too busy doing laundry or getting dinner or helping her children. He would scowl and drink again.
"Oooh, your muscles are just as cut as your billboard. They don't look real up there, but, wow, they don't look real now and I'm touching them," a platinum blonde stripper dressed all in hot pink squealed with delight.
"Everyone in town says you're going to win," the golden stripper said.
I finally took a deep breath. That was the only difference between my father and me. I had talent. My God-given talent had earned me free lessons when I was an angry young boy. Then, I was given a scholarship in high school. I was recruited for college and all but failed while my MMA career skyrocketed. I had not needed my father for any of those things. My talent and hard work got me what I wanted.
I pulled out the wad of cash Kev had given me for gambling. Instead of throwing it away on Blackjack or craps, I had stashed it. Now, I fanned it out and told the ladies I was ready to have some fun. They all giggled, clapped, and bounced. I told myself this was what I wanted. I had the money and I was going to flaunt it.
"The party is on me, ladies. Literally on me, my lap is feeling lonely," I announced.
I was glad when the redhead dropped across my thighs first. Any sight of blonde hair made me think of Kya. So did the color purple, a beauty mark near one stripper's mouth, and the way another put her hands on her hips.
"No touching the girls," the mountainous bouncer barked.
"You mean like this?" I asked. I hoped he would haul me outside for a fight. Anything to stop thinking about Kya.
"It's alright, Roger, I like it," the stripper said. "He's got a soft touch for being such a hardcore fighter."
"That's right," I said. I tipped up the tequila bottle and realized it was empty, so I smashed it on the floor.
A few of the strippers jumped away, careful to avoid me and the broken glass under their impossibly high heels.
"Another bottle over here and a clean up in aisle one," I yelled. The bouncer approached again and I hoped he would grab me by my collar. Instead, he brushed some glass off a strawberry blonde in a blaze orange bikini.
I was saving the strippers from the broken glass by piling them onto my lap when I looked up and saw Kya. She stood, frozen, in the doorway. I was three deep underneath strippers and almost dropped my fan of cash in my haste to get up. One of the girls slipped on the spilled tequila and cried out as she landed on a piece of broken bottle.
"Sorry, move, move!" I said. I evaded the bouncer and ran for the street.