“Showtime,” Tanner muttered, and stripped. He carried his clothes to the row of narrow lockers. The room quieted. Someone gave a soft, low whistle.
“Holy fucking shit,” someone murmured.
“Jesus, man,” a young firefighter said with pained awe, “what happened to you?”
Tanner forced his clenched muscles to relax, and turned. Stared at the room staring back at him, varying expressions of horror or sympathy on their faces. Only Agostino showed no emotion: his mouth was curved in a bemused smile. As if he’d liked to have seen it happen.
“I got, like, caught in some gang business,” Tanner said in a don’t-ask voice. “And, foolishly, I stood up for myself and...” He shrugged. “Lesson learned.”
“And then you left California,” Agostino drawled.
“Hell, yes I did. You think I’m, like, crazy?”
“Nah. Wasn’t the word I was thinking.”
The room got quiet again. A dark-skinned, over-muscled kid with red Celtic tatts circling both biceps cleared his throat. “Smart move, dude. La Eme’s nothing to mess with.”
“So,” a baritone jumped in, “who’s gonna win this? Let’s get some bets down.”
Tanner noted jars of makeup on the long table. He looked down his torso, at the diagonal, still-red, slash visible through his chest hair, and the livid marks on his flanks. Could he put makeup on them? At least some of him would be presentable.
“Hey,” the firefighter boasted, “first responders are hot these days.”
“Nah,” a Rowdie’s kicker said. “Soccer’s da bomb. I got a—”
“Taser,” someone cut in. “That’s what you’d have to use to get any.”
“Hey, relax.” Agostino twirled his Santa hat on one finger. “I’m the winner here tonight. Rest of you,” his dark, competitive glance scanned the room, “may as well just go on home. All that post-game pussy is mine.”
The deejay’s disembodied voice crackled. “Three minutes, gentlemen. We’ve got one hundred eighty seven eager women out here and they are all! Hot! To! Goooo! We’ve also got forty two men, maybe looking for pointers. So get your hottest moves on and let’s party!”
A heavy bass line started, chainsaw loud, vibrating through the thin plywood walls. The one-way mirror at the corner of the dressing room showed a spotlit cavern heaving with sequins, primary colors, plunging necklines. Silver and pink balloons bounced from hand to reaching hand. The music grew, the pandemonium intensified, arms waved in sync. A chant grew: Bring them! Bring them!
Had everyone except these ten other stupes known what was going down here?
This had to be how the gladiators had felt before going into the arena. Red meat for the mob. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Right now, he gave this whole thing a thumbs down; he wanted to walk. He had a vacation to finish. A cat to feed. A car to polish. Plants to water.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t have any plants. Was he the only man in the room who was nervous as hell?
Jesus, Tanner, get a grip. You’ve faced down ISIS maniacs, taken out narcoterrorists, gone hand-to-hand with crazies of all sorts. And you’re afraid of a room full of women?
Hell, yes. Look what the last group did.
The deejay started up again. “Oooo-kay! Here they come, the sexiest men in Florida, the contestants in our first annual Sexiest Santa Contest is nowwww! Underrrrr! Waaay!”
The bass line pounded through the walls and they moved toward the corner access stairs. They’d drawn lots; Tanner was eleventh. He got in line, wishing that Jan wasn’t out there. He hated being the center of attention, his whole professional life had been spent trying to avoid notice. Plus he was too old for this shit. It was undignified. Get over yourself, you pathetic old fart. Around him fist bumps, laughter and taunts, extravagant bets. Everyone was stoked.
Agostino, of course the first contestant, turned, cupping his balls and grinning maniacally to a chorus of catcalls. Muscles gleaming, he strutted backward to the corner doorway that opened onto the stage. Paused. And leaped up the three steps into the dazzle of the club lights and deafening applause. Number Two counted to five, and followed.
Twelve, who’d been silent until now, looked up. “Art Gordon.”
“Carl Tanner.”
They shook hands. Gordon didn’t look like the strut-your-stuff type either. He was fit but not heavily muscled. A runner, maybe. He must’ve read Tanner’s mind.
“No offense, Carl, but this doesn’t look like your thing. How’d you get into this?”
“Coercion. I work here.”
Gordon laughed. “You need a new job, dude. Hey. Your turn. Good luck.”
Tanner went into chaos. Up three steps onto the stage, a six-foot wide platform that stretched into the pulsing heart of a near-frenzied crowd of women. All ages, all shapes, every hair color, every ethnicity, all of them staring at the evening’s menu, famished. Tanner stomach lurched as jumbled images of the narcos’ women flashed before him, and he stamped on the irrational impulse to leap off the stage.
One by one, they were introduced. Gordon stood silently, eyes on his boots, one hand slackly holding his sports drink bottle. Dude looked like he’d be happier in the middle of a shark feeding frenzy.
The deejay ordered them all to take a bow. Finally it was time to leave. Twelve was slow to respond, and as they left almost stumbled off the stage. Tanner took his arm, coaxed him back into the dressing room.
“Dude, what’d you take?”
Outraged but unfocused eyes met his. “I don’t do drugs.”
Pinhole irises. “Let’s get you some medical help.”
Gordon wrenched away, stumbled against the wall. “Don’t be...” His eyes closed and he swallowed. “I’m...just a little woozy.”
Guy was seriously fucked up. “You’re not fine, dude.”
“Sure I am.” He put his hand on his chest. “Something’s—”
“Heeere we go! Will contestant number one, Richie, come to the stage.”
Agostino sauntered to the doorway. For a moment, he stared at Twelve.
“You okay, Stretch?” His glare switched to Tanner. “Leave him alone.”
“I leave him alone, he could fall on his face.”
“Gordon.” Agostino shook Twelve’s arm. “Yo, Stretch, ole buddy. You okay?”
“Yeah,” Gordon finally mumbled, but Agostino had already danced up the stairs into the eager mob.
***
Every man came off that stage as if he'd just bested Usain Bolt's time for the hundred meters. Tanner’s entrance to what he’d come to think of as the Chamber of Horrors had been announced. The nightmare now was real.
Man up. Think of the last time you were the center of attention. This is a walk in the park.
Through the one-way window in the dressing room, Tanner had studied the other contestants and figured out his moves. The music for the routines was a driving cacophony of drums and horns, heavy on the bass, ta-dum ta-dum, ta-dum-da-dum.
“And now, Number Eleven, Carl! Give it up for Carl!”
Go for it.
He leaped the steps into pandemonium. The room was an oceanic roar of sound. One stride into the lights, pose briefly, strut to pole one, find a face to key on, please not Jan, nor one stuffed with mindless excitement, no such luck, on to Plan B. Lights glaring, no place to hide., there wasn’t a Plan B dammit. He strutted and swiveled and smiled, when did it end, his muscles loosened up and he got to pole two, one boot off, a few fancy moves, whistles and screams, was the damn g-string getting loose?, second boot off, when the goddam hell was it over, half-dragged the g-string off with his pants, wouldn’t that be a pisser, got tangled up with the damn pants and nearly fell headlong into the faces, the eyes and the gaping mouths, carnivorous, insatiable, like the women in Sonora—
He was done, he’d made it, he bowed left, center, right, and almost skipped off the stage. Adrenalin hammered through him. Where was Agostino? Time to punch his lights out.
***
He came b
ack into the room half dizzy with relief. The men hailed him as they had the others, crowding around with jokes and smiles. Nobody slapped him on the back.
“Nice job, dude.”
“You can turn pro, man. You got the moves.”
He nodded his thanks and eyeballed the room. “Where’s Twelve?”
Agostino, leaning against the lockers, a bottle of sports drink in one hand, scowled. “Who the hell knows where that prima donna is?”
Ten minutes between contestants. Six to go. Six to find Twelve and see if he was in any condition to go on. To see if he was even conscious. He went into the toilets. Twelve sat on the shower floor, eyes open but not registering much. Tanner bent down: still pinpoint pupils.
“Dude. You’ve been drugged.”
Gordon smiled. “Hey. How’d it go?” He tried to get up. Not enough coordination. “Gimme a hand, huh?”
Another hand came over Tanner’s shoulder. Agostino. “Get your ass out there, Stretch. The honor of the team is on your shoulders.” He hauled Twelve to his feet. “Don’t let us down.”
***
The audience was ecstatic, the roar from nearly two hundred throats at jet engine level. Any conversation was impossible. At the bottom of the steps, Gordon slouched bonelessly against the wall, a puppet without strings. The deejay, hoarse and frantic, began to shout.
“And now, the Sexy Santa you’ve all been waiting for, number Twelve, Art!”
Squeals and whistles all but overwhelmed the music. Agostino shoved past Tanner, grabbed Twelve’s arm.
“He’s been drugged,” Tanner said. “He can’t go out th—”
“Bullshit he can’t. He’s going on—”
“And now,” the deejay said again, “the Sexy Santa you’ve all been waiting for, number Twelve! Art? Dude? You there?”
Gordon swayed. Tanner reached to grab him. With a grunt, Agostino catapulted his half-conscious old pal up the stairs.
***
“Number Twelve, “ the deejay blared, “Ladies, here’s Art!” The room quieted as, bent-kneed and swaying, Art blinked into the lights. “Ladies and gents, welcome Art. Hi, dude. Let’s see your moves!”
Nothing. Tanner stepped forward—
Agostino cursed and leaped past him, took the steps in one jump, jamming into Twelve. They jostled awkwardly for balance. Tanner got to the window in time to see Agostino hustle Twelve to pole one, and say something to him. Twelve laughed and peered at the expectant audience.
The window offered a perfect view. The two men stood side by side, Agostino in sequined g-string and Twelve hanging onto the pole as if nothing else kept him upright.
“What’s happening? What’s Richie doing up there?”
Somebody jostled Tanner. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Not sure,” Tanner lied.
The music bumped up a notch. Agostino poked Twelve and then did a bump and grind. Clumsily, Twelve followed suit. The audience applauded sarcastically. Another whisper from Agostino. Twelve shook his head. For a moment it looked as if he’d fall over.
Then the hunched-shoulder statue leaped like a ballet star into a twirl, grabbing pole two and working around it as he blew kisses to the audience. Slowly, he bent back, free hand stroking along his taut belly, and plucking at the spangled g-string just peeking above his waistband.
Agostino fidgeted near the pole one. Baby-sitting.
Head only inches from the floor, Twelve brought one leg up along the pole as his hips rose and fell. Tanner whistled soundlessly: major muscle control. The quiet guy he’d figured would blow his performance in a walk-across, undulated to the beat like a contortionist. Oozing upright, hands hooked in his waistband, he tantalized the front rows with inch-by-inch reveals of his sequined package. Screaming, the crowd leaped to their feet.
“Off! Off!”
Hanging off pole three, smiling dreamily, he skinned the boots off and into the audience to deafening approval.
“Check it out. We got a malfunction coming up,” Six said.
Twelve’s g-string had defective elastic. One side drooped down his butt. He was too busy to notice. Another pass, the pants used as a scarf, a veil, a boa. Feather or constrictor? Who knew? Howls as he tossed them to Agostino, who had to catch or look like a coat rack. Holding the discarded pants like a valet at a nudist camp, Agostino visibly fumed.
Loud snickers in the dressing room.
Twelve strutted past his old buddy, whirled and grabbed Agostino in a tight embrace, his g-string – still hanging in there – jammed against Agostino’s ass, and humped him while grinning wildly. He grabbed the front of his old pal’s pouch, pulled it out and looked over his shoulder. Mimed bitter disappointment. The crowd roared and stamped. Cell phones flashed. Money flew onto the stage.
Twelve gave Agostino’s cringing ass one last hump, kissed him on the cheek, twirled him away, and did a final unsteady pass down the stage. Totally out of it. Would he walk off the stage and fall into the crowd? In the dressing room, they stared as the g-string’s elastic gave up.
“Holy fucking fuck,” someone said.
The dead fabric slid to Twelve’s left calf. He looked down, threw his head back and roared with laughter. The crowd went berserk. He yanked up the red rags, covered his dick with one sequin-stuffed hand and laughed some more as he pushed fistfuls of bills into a returned boot. Cell phones blazed everywhere. As Agostino abandoned the stage, the audience broke into mocking applause.
***
Twelve vaulted down the steps like he was at a track meet, and staggered to a dazed halt in the dressing room. Laughing and cheering, everyone crowded around him. Tanner wondered if the man was even aware of what he’d done. Or what had been done to him.
“You fucking sonofabitch,” Agostino snarled. “All those splits and twirls and shit. It was those fucking circus classes at FSU, wasn’t it? All my life you’ve been trying to upstage—”
Twelve bolted past him into the toilets. Sounds of violent retching sounded. Two minutes later, silence.
Tanner, trying to scrub off the makeup, gave it up and headed for the bathroom. Gordon lay on the tiles in the showers, out cold. Agostino came in, nudged him with one foot as Tanner knelt down.
“Don’t do that again,” he said, giving Agostino a warning look.
“Get the fuck up, Stretch.”
Gordon’s eyelids fluttered, one hand lifted, fell. Agostino stormed from the room.
“Who pissed in his g-string,” Seven, a construction worker, quipped.
Tanner caught Seven’s eye. “Give me a hand?”
They hauled him into the shower, propped him against the wall, lathered him up and rinsed him down. Moments later, buffed dry and stuffed back into his Santa pants, Gordon stumbled back to the toilets and threw up some more. Tanner levered him out of the cubicle.
“Do something for me,” Tanner said to Seven. “Find and bag all the sports drinks bottles. Can you do that?” Seven nodded. “Put them somewhere safe for me.”
Gordon sagged against the sink, eyes closed, mouth open. He had a baby face, and looked like a sleeping pre-schooler.
“Wakey-wakey.” Tanner turned him toward the doorway. “Let’s do it. I’ve got your six.”
“Shoes. Gotta have...”
“We’re going barefoot. No, no objections. Man, they’ve seen your dick, you think your toes are going to cause problems?”
***
“Ooooo-kay!” The deejay, screaming. “Great news, people! The Sexiest Santa contest raised over nine thousand dollars to fight breast cancer! You ready for the winner?” He threw himself around his Plexiglas cubicle. “Get ready! Drum roll!”
Jungle beat on the mike. Crammed around the stage, the audience leaped and yelled and danced. Sweat-slicked, Gordon swayed, eyes half closed. Tanner slid his arm under Gordon’s.
A wild-eyed woman grabbed Tanner’s ankle, hoisted it and kissed his instep. Licked it. He shook his foot. No dice; it’d take the Jaws of Life to get her off. She sucked his big to
e into her mouth. Sucked and sucked and goddammit sucked. Drool ran along his instep. He kept his semi-comatose neighbor upright while Green and Cobb hauled the woman off. In parting, she bit down. Hard. He was going to kill Agostino, and not quickly.
“Number Twelve wins!” The deejay howled. “Give it up for Art Gordon, Crave’s Sexiest Santa!”
“Uunnnhhhhh...” Gordon moaned.
Tanner turned left, nudged Ten. “Pass him along.” He gripped Gordon’s arms, slid him into Ten’s hands. The rest of them handled him up and then down and then got him the hell back into the dressing room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saturday, December 2
Two women, business associates, grinning until they saw his condition, took the sagging winner away for medical help.
Tanner showered and got dressed. Checked his phone. He had two messages. From the most important women in his life.
From Athena:
—Legit. Legal name January Ann Jones, DOB 1-15-80, New York, divorced Robert Jackman, founder/owner Gulf Environmental Consultants (respected). Credit score 738.
But, he thought as he deleted the text, was it enough? Was January Jones, admitted liar, the woman who already made his heart leap, who she claimed she was?
And from Jan, his mystery woman:
—Woo hoo! Way to go, champ!
He winced at the attached photo, him dancing across the stage. She’d had the grace to send one while he still had his pants on.
Again in anonymous bouncer black, he walked into the bar and went to the corner. Jan glanced up from her cell phone, smiled.
“Very instructive.” She laughed. “The ending was spectacular enough. What was he on?”
“Dunno.” He touched her hand. “The winner’s gone to the ER and Agostino’s probably in a blind rage. Stay away from him, okay?”
Her chin came up, her eyes narrowed. “I have absolutely no inten—”
“Because he’s unpredictable now. His ego’s been trashed. He’ll be looking for a win and I wouldn’t want it to be you.”
The Omega Team: IT COULD BE FUN (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Carl Tanner Book 1) Page 6
