The man understands the importance of fixing shit right away. We can’t have any dark corners where a customer could take advantage of one of our girls. And since the club is designed and decorated to ooze sex appeal, it means the aesthetics are not always practical for safety measures, which is okay as long as the brothers who work as security stay vigilant.
The strip club’s walls are a soft gray, the flooring a sinful black, and the only bright lighting in the whole place is on the main stage with a few smaller ones above the bar. The rest of the lighting throughout the club are blue and purple neon lights, which allows us to adequately watch for problems.
Although the Regulators MC has done a damn good job of letting everyone know we won’t put up with any bullshit from our patrons, there is always some jackass who tries to test our boundaries. It is best to nip those little problems in the bud before they become big problems.
Not to mention, replacing a neon light is a hell of a lot easier than getting rid of bloody clothes or burying a jackass who harasses one of the strippers. Make no mistake; I will end anybody who tries to hurt one of our girls.
Women come to work here because they want the protection we provide that seedier clubs do not. They all know that one of the reasons After Midnight is considered a premiere gentleman’s club in this state—hell, even the East Coast—is due to the security. Money and manpower aside, that doesn’t mean a few angry, entitled idiots with mommy issues don’t slip in every once in a while, trying to get more from our hardworking girls. Hence, the need to burn bloody clothes once in a blue moon.
A voice rings out above the noise of the crowd, asking the woman on stage if her carpet matches her curtains. I don’t bother to stop the laugh that escapes when she yells back that it would if she didn’t have hardwood floors before giving the big spender a wink.
I shake my head as the inebriated catcalls continue.
“Hey, man, shake your head all you want. It’s better than the marriage proposals I get while doing my routine at Alibi,” my younger brother Evan says as he walks toward me.
Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I’m reminded that life is not exactly how I expected it to be. Then again, the dreams of adolescence rarely do turn into the realities of our future.
“You know you don’t have to strip, man.”
“You gave me a place to stay. You gave me another chance. You didn’t need me behind the bar as much as I don’t need to be back there. What you did need was another headliner, and I needed to replace one high with another,” he replies honestly.
“Evan, it’s been three years. You’re solid. You’ve got your own place, and you’re clean. Anytime you wanna quit, you can.”
My baby brother, the headlining stripper at a women’s entertainment club. Oh, Dad would be so proud, wouldn’t he? I think sarcastically. Then again, it’s better than being the addict he was.
The whole situation is still fucked to this day. If I hadn’t left, Evan wouldn’t have gotten into his mess in the first place. Then again, if I hadn’t joined the Army, Mom would have lost everything.
My dad died in a training accident when his parachute failed during his jump master requalification. It was supposed to be cut and dry: show up, qualify, train, jump, and go home. Only, he didn’t make it home.
College became another loss. I had a football scholarship waiting. However, after watching my mother struggle, I couldn’t follow through with it. I gave my dad my word, and my father had instilled into my brother and me that our word was our bond. People in this world did not respect you for making promises, but for keeping them. My word was solid.
At the time of Dad’s death, we lived on base. However, when you are no longer the dependents of an active duty soldier, you have to relocate. We had time, but Mom wasn’t comfortable with the everyday reminders of what we had. Her soldier was never coming home again. Sure, there was life insurance money from the government, but that only went so far after relocation and paying off old debts.
With Dad’s job, Mom easily financed two car loans, a boat payment, and furniture on credit. Then she was left with all of that, rent, and two teen boys with no family to help her and no job. Eventually, she sold some of the items we didn’t need, like the boat, but it was hard to let go. For us, she wanted to hold on to everything that was a tangible reminder of the memories made with my dad. Only, as the bills piled up and with the survivors benefits only going so far, some things had to go, and the boat and an extra car were the first of many.