“Why not?” I’m everyone’s type, male or female.
“Well, look at you.” She gestures. “You’re gorgeous and I’m…”
“Beautiful.”
She glances up with her bullshit meter on full strength and I’m passing with flying colors. For once in my life I’m not playing a game. This is me, sitting beside a girl with no other intention than getting to know her.
“We come from different places.” She doesn’t need to elaborate, I get it. I’m wearing expensive kicks and jeans. She’s as grunge as they come.
“I look good in flannel.” Not that I own any.
“It isn’t just the clothes. You’re in college and I’m…”
My phone vibrates on the arm of the couch. I flip it over.
“The dude with the fake ID is here. He can wait."
I turn my attention back to her but the moment has passed, she's ready to bail.
“My car is in the lot on the corner.” She stands. “I can only afford two hours. I should go.”
I’m not ready for this conversation to end. I want to ask her to wait for me but I don’t want to look desperate, or clingy, or any other adjective I would use to describe a woman in my situation.
“Let’s run into each other again,” she suggests.
“I’ll be here tomorrow.” I reply quick, too eager. Fuck cool points. She needs to know I want her.
“It’s Black Wednesday. Everyone will be here.”
The night before Thanksgiving is the biggest party night of the year.
“Is that a yes?” I play it off like I’m cool, but inside I’m desperate.
“Does ten work for you?” She fidgets with her phone.
“Ten is good.” We begin walking back to the stairs.
She takes my hand, her fingers thread between mine. I stop walking, and spin her around. I press against her, holding one hand behind her back.
I turn the sexy up to ten.
“Make it nine.” My tone is deep, demanding.
“I’ll be here.” Her breath tickles my neck when she speaks.
She smells like nutmeg or cloves. Spicy and exotic. She presses her free hand flat against my chest. My heart beats harder in reply like it wants her to reach in and grab hold. I’ve never been a sentimental person. This girl has me feeling like an Ed Sheeran song.
“Have you ever met a person and felt instant good vibes?”
“Not really,” I tease. Levity helps me maintain some shred of manhood. Who am I kidding? I’d let her shred my manhood to pieces.
“Wow. That could’ve been a moment.”
“We can’t really have a moment. I don’t even know your name.”
She pulls back and extends her hand.
“Hi. I’m Leeyan.”
I bring it to my lips knowing this will be the only kiss I give her tonight.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Giovanni.”
Chapter One
Present Day
Guys like me have an expiration date. Unlike actors or musicians, male entertainers don’t get better with age. It isn’t the brutal fitness program or never-ending meal prep that force us off the stage. There is only one thing powerful enough to make a guy hang up his G-string for a nine to five job.
A woman.
Not just any chick with a trust fund and a nice ass. It takes a special kind of female. The one who shaves your back before a show and stays up late with a bottle of champagne waiting for you to come home after a long night in the club. A woman who does kinky shit to your dick you’ve only seen on dark-web porn.
The kind of woman who ruins you.
When the novelty of dating a stripper wears off, the accusations begin. You’re cheating or want to cheat, or about to cheat. She’s tired of defending your profession to her tribe. She’s over feeling self-conscious when you come home smelling like another woman’s perfume. By the time this happens the dude is so pussy-whipped he convinces himself, he can’t live without her. Then it’s bye-bye Trance, hello Target.
I’ve seen it a dozen times over the six years I’ve been at the club. Some of the best dancers I know are working shit jobs at Costco and Home Depot because some woman came along with a magical vagina.
A few tried to come back, but it’s never the same. Women can smell desperation and isn’t a turn on. Just like in baseball, when you’re out, you’re out.
Trance is my day job. Steady, taxable income. My side game is where I make real money. It’s also where the freaky shit happens. That’s part of the fun. You never know what’s waiting on the other side of the door. Some jobs are run of the mill sex for cash, but there are times when I have no idea what to expect. Unlike my clients who have researched online, watched videos of me on stage. They know exactly what they’re getting. The only thing I can count on is the stack of green waiting for me at the end of the date. The Beatles had it all wrong−money is all you need.
I turn into the garage beneath my building and park in my usual spot. The space costs an extra five hundred a month; my fully-loaded Audi A5 is worth it. It’s going to hurt like hell when my lease is up and I give her back to the dealership. As much as I love her, I’m not ready to make her mine. Buying a car is a huge commitment. Nothing in my life is permanent.
Even when I thought I had a plan, the universe was plotting against me. One day I’m playing college baseball with my best friend, six months later he’s a dad, and I’m taking my clothes off for money.
I lock the car and take the stairs to the main floor. Fred catches me in the monitors and spins around. He’s not quite a doorman, but I wouldn’t call him a security guard either. His job is to sit at the main entrance and watch the security cameras. He mostly just watches Netflix.
“Early night.” He checks his watch. Fred knows I work at the club—he’s prevented more than one stalker from pulling a fifty shades of crazy on me.
“Slow night.” I stop and pound his fist. “Anything exciting happening around here?” I walk to the mailboxes on the wall opposite Fred’s post.
Most of the units in this building are empty. With a housing shortage in the city, that may seem odd, but the owner of the building makes more money renting them on Airbnb.
“Dickhead on the tenth floor is back for the weekend, and there are two overnighters on three.”
I pause for dramatic effect. “Male or female?”
“Couldn’t tell.” He spins back. “But they look like your type.”
I scoff and pull a stack of junk mail out of my box.
“Have a good one, Fred.”
“You too, youngblood.”
The concrete floors and gray furniture in my apartment give off a chilly vibe. I call it modern, my best friend Theo calls it cold. His place is warm. Too warm for me with all those bodies hanging around. He isn't even banging his babysitter anymore, but she's always there with her son, warming up the place.
I drop my bag next to the door and kick off my Nikes. Each movement echoes into the empty room. I tap the switch on the wall to turn on the light as I undress on my way to the bathroom. It’s ridiculous that I’m showering before a Skype; Antonia wouldn’t even mind—she’s kinky that way. One night she instructed me not to shower before meeting for our date. I spent three hours at the gym that morning, and by the time I met up with her, I could barely stand the smell. We ended up in her hot tub, but everything that happened before I stepped into the chlorinated water was raw and dirty.
After my shower, I sit at my desk, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of loose shorts. I have a semi; I always get wood when I see her. Antonia is the closest thing I’ve had to a relationship in years, except she pays me for sex. Still, we spent holidays and birthdays together. She even hooked me up with this apartment.
Antonia Zar inherited her family’s international real estate company. She has access to the most powerful and influential people in the world, and when we’re together, she makes me feel like one of them. She has her hand in a lot of pots—fashion, tequila, real estate
, even yachts.
We met at her fall show. She was impressed with my walk, and my cock. Nine months later, she offered me a job running her nightclub in Rio. Club Silk is on the outskirts of the red-light district and always under scrutiny by the local police, mainly because the locals she hires to run the club are easily swayed by gangsters and pimps. Antonia thinks having an American running the club will draw more tourists. American clubs in Brazil attract rich kids looking to party without getting robbed.
Right from the beginning, Antonia made it clear she doesn’t give free rides. Neither do I. If I want to be taken seriously by Antonia’s staff and business associates, I can’t be her boy toy, which is why I insisted on paying my way to Rio. I trust Antonia, but I have to be able to support myself in case shit goes south.
I was ready to pack up and move to Brazil the morning after she offered me the job, but Antonia wouldn’t let me. She said I have to be free of strings here before I go, being tied to the past prevents you from moving forward. I rarely see my parents; they aren’t holding me here. My best friend is too busy playing daddy to be my wingman, and if I’m not working or in the gym, I’m home alone. It’s a strange feeling when you wake up one day and realize you aren’t anyone’s number one. I’m always surrounded by people, but none of them know me. They see my face, my body, the parts of me I sell. I don’t even know who I am most days.
My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a text from Theo thanking me for hooking him up with the job at Trance. It isn’t a done deal—I still have to talk to Jim—but I’ve spent six months working out with Theo, getting him stage ready. I text back the middle finger emoji, a term of endearment with us. Theo is one of the few people in my life I give a shit about. When he’s happy, I’m happy. When he’s fucked up, it fucks me up. His ex fucked him up, which in turn fucked me up.
It was my decision to leave school. I’ve never been good at learning, and Theo was the only reason I applied to college. Once he left to play daddy, there was no reason for me to stay. Baseball wasn’t my dream. I probably would’ve quit playing ball in high school if it wasn’t for Theo. He pitched, I played catcher, and I hated every second of it. I wanted to be in the outfield, not crouched behind home plate, but I made Theo a better pitcher. I suffered for him, because that’s what friends do.
After I left school, I tried to find what my father considers “real” work—construction, painting, plumbing—but I’m not a blue-collar guy. I’m not my dad. It kills him to know his son can’t plunge a toilet. Hell, I don’t even own a plunger. His expectations of me are unreasonable. I can’t fix a toilet or change my own tire, so what. It doesn’t make me less of a man. I know this. My father does not agree.
My computer starts to ring. I accept the call and Antonia appears on the screen. Her long black hair is gathered over one shoulder, hiding her only tattoo—a blue dolphin that arches over her heart.
“Gio!” she exclaims in a way only foreign women can pull off.
“Hello, beautiful.” My voice is an octave lower than normal so I don’t sound like a teenage boy coming through her speakers.
“How’s Paris?”
“Cold,” she pouts. “How is my favorite city in the world?”
“Cold.”
“Then let’s talk about someplace warm. How soon can you be in Rio?”
“Uh, can I get back to you on that?”
“My manager—that whore—is pregnant and decided my club is no place for a mother to be working.”
She throws her hands in the air and begins to babble I have no idea what she’s saying or if she’s even speaking English.
“I need you, Gio. If you can’t come soon, I’ll have to get someone else…”
“I’ll be there. I just need a few months to wrap things up.”
She looks directly into the camera. “This is the big time, darling. My club pulls in three, four hundred people a night—a night, Gio.” Her accent makes everything she says overly dramatic. “You can’t tell me yes today then change your mind in a month. I can pull someone from my club in Monaco.”
Her threats are empty, but the last thing I want to do is piss her off. Truth be told, I want this job in Brazil more than anything.
“Give me three months.” I have enough money to go now, but I want more than enough. “I’ll be there by fall.”
Money isn’t the only thing holding me back. I have to get a work permit and visa.
“Bravo! That’s the fire I want to see under your gorgeous ass. Now stand up and turn around.”
I laugh and lean back in my chair.
“I’m serious, Gio. I need to see my favorite ass in the world.” She motions with her finger for me to get up and twirl.
So much for being treated with respect.
Chapter Two
I’m always on edge before dinner with my parents. A shot of whiskey is mandatory before breaking bread with my father. Dropping out of college, quitting baseball, and then working at Trance—it’s a trifecta of disappointment. My dad, Alberto Castillo, is a standup guy, a hard worker, and a bunch of other qualities I lack. His idea of happiness is a roof over his head and food in the cabinets. Anything else is a waste of his hard-earned money. When I wanted a new pair of Jordans or even just a new tire for my bike, it came with a lecture on laziness or entitlement. Dad always believed I was an ungrateful kid. He would sit in his chair and glower at me every time I reached for seconds at dinner, like I was stealing his food. He’s the kind of man who demanded respect while everyone else had to earn it.
After I quit baseball, the minuscule amount of pride my father had for me vanished. There is nothing I can do to win it back, and working as a male dancer certainly doesn’t help my cause. Dad would rather have me cleaning toilets with him—you know, “honest” work. At the end of the day, he’s still a janitor, and I’m still a whore. He won’t even look out the window to see my car, because in his mind I didn’t earn it, because I’m not a real man—real men don’t take their clothes off for money.
I plan on telling my parents about Brazil tonight. The sooner the better. Telling them puts me on hook. Any reservations I have about moving will diminish once I'm forced to defend my decision to my father.
The phone near my front door rings. It’s a direct line to Fred.
“What’s up?” I answer.
“Your Uber is here.”
Since I plan to drink copious amounts of wine at dinner, I ordered an Uber.
“Be right down.”
Fred has to announce all my visitors, it’s part of the job and one reason the rent in this building is so high. I only pay a fraction of what my neighbors pay. Antonia claims to have pulled some strings to get me into this building. I think she owns it. She won’t admit it and I don’t ask. Knowing only proves my father right. I didn’t earn this address, it was given to me.
The Uber driver is quiet, probably mid-thirties, definitely foreign. I wonder if he left his family to pick me up. It’s Sunday evening and he’s still out driving people around the city.
No days off, even for Uber drivers.
On the rare occasion I drive, my father makes it a personal conquest to make me feel like a traitor to my country for driving a German car. He’s second-generation Italian-American. After a few glasses of wine, you’d think he just stepped off the boat. My mother was born in Palermo, and sometimes I think dad is jealous of her authenticity.
“Have a nice night,” the driver says as he stops in front of my parents’ house. I tip him ten dollars cash.
Unlike most California coastal communities, the Avenues are blanketed with fog and covered in a salty mist. Everything rusts. Thanks to the damp, everything molds, too. Even the sidewalk is peppered with patches of moss seeping out of the concrete.
Cars line every inch of the street; there are more vehicles than houses. I walk between a Mini Cooper and a Volvo to get to the sidewalk, and that’s when I notice a FOR SALE sign staked into the dirt under my tree. I say my tree because I planted it when I wa
s four. The city went through a beautification process and decided to plant trees and greenery in our neighborhood. They involved the residents by allowing them to take ownership of the newly planted vegetation in front of their homes. Mom chose a tree. I named him Tree.
I open the front door and time-travel back to my childhood—the smell of meatballs frying, the cloud of smoke wafting from the front room where my father is watching television. Mom yells from the kitchen.
“Giovanni is that you?” Mom came to America when she was six, and her parents moved back to Italy after they retired. If she had her way, she’d join them.
I unravel my Burberry scarf and hang it on a hook in the hall, followed by my coat. Mom’s shoes clack against the hardwood as she walks out to greet me.
“Patanino!” She still calls me her ‘little potato’ even though I’m over six feet tall. I’ll always be her baby; that’s how moms are—some moms.
“Hey Ma.”
She grabs my head and pulls me down to her level so she can kiss my cheeks.
“I made your favorite.” She releases me and walks back to the kitchen with a towel slung over her right shoulder. “I don’t want to hear no baloney about not eating carbs. Nobody ever died from eating carbs.”
“Yes, Ma.” I only visit my parents once a month, and during these visits I eat carbs—lots of them.
Dad doesn’t greet me. He sits in his worn-out leather recliner wearing his red plaid pajama pants and wool socks. I can barely make out the faded Local 248 logo on his t-shirt. His Sunday clothes, he calls them.
“Alberto!” Mom yells from the kitchen. “Get the wine.”
Dad grumbles, lowers the level on his chair. It bangs and launches forward. He finally acknowledges me. “You drink white?”
It’s more of an accusation than a question. He knows I prefer white but he asks anyway.
“White works for me.”
He huffs and walks toward the liquor cabinet. “I can’t have a son who drinks red, like a real man.”
Side Game (Men of Trance Book 2) Page 2
