Save Me, Sinners

But if there’s one thing I genuinely fucking love about this life, aside from the bottomless credit card, and of course the fully-equipped MMA gym in the mansion—it’s the cars.

The garage is large enough that when I flip the lights on, they don’t all come up at once. Row by row they come to life, illuminating the long line of sports cars near the house, all the way down to the black SUVs at the far end, used by the help when they’re needed.

I’m just here to get the Benz, and the sight of my father’s trembling ass hasn’t dislodged that intention. If anything, it solidified it. That baby gets zero to sixty in just a hair over two seconds, the kind of speed that you can feel in your chest.

I make damn sure the tires screech on my way out.

In the early evening hours, it’s time to get the night started. My father’s newest lounge is both a place to do that as well as something of a PR job. I’m required to show up at least a few times a week to be seen, shake hands with whatever celebrities have been invited—assuming they show up—and generally make it look like Reginald gives a shit about the place.

Fact is, Reginald has only walked through the doors of the Ferry Lights lounge three times. Once before it was built out, once after, and once for the grand opening. After that, it became my job. It’s not a hard job—show up, be social, get fucked up, pick a girl from the inevitable lineup, go home, get up the next day and do it all again.

No, the job’s easy. It’s just distasteful. It’s right across the street from Janie Hall’s up-and-comer, Red Hall Eatery and Lounge. I watch the place as I drive past it to get to the VIP valet curb in front of my father’s lounge. It’s not dead—but it sure isn’t as busy as it had been before Ferry Lights opened, either.

And for what? Another drop in the bucket that is the Reginald Ferry diversified assets? When you have the kind of money Reginald does, driving small, high-profile businesses out of town is the closest thing to a hobby you have. If you’re an asshole.

Reginald is that. Ferry Lights’ location isn’t an accident. My father had passed up a significantly larger, far more flexible waterfront property to take this one. He did it on purpose.

Once on the curb, I toss the keys to the valet, and try to remember the kid’s name without looking at his name tag. It’s… “Thanks, Austin,” I say to the kid when we pass one another. I give the guy a Benjamin. “Take her for a spin; but don’t be gone long.” I wink.

Austin smirks and bobs his head. “Yeah, sure thing, Mr. Ferry.”

My eyes flicker to the kid’s name tag, just in case. I’m relieved to have gotten it right. The turnover at this place is probably setting records, especially for valets. Austin has lasted an impressive four weeks so far.

Inside, I go on autopilot. Shoulders straight, chin up, smile confident and inviting—but not too inviting. The walk of ownership, of importance. Straight to the bar. A few flashes catch the corners of my eyes, but I don’t follow up on them.

I also ignore the weight of hungry eyes that claw at me from all sides. Ferry Lights is thoroughly stocked with the sorts of women that marry men like Reginald—and the sorts of women that men who want to be like Reginald often rent.

I never had to pay for it, and neither has my father—yet—but I’ve taken advantage of the “all-you-can-fuck” buffet more than a few times. Times when I didn’t just see my father screwing a girl who looks exactly like every one of these girls. The sight of that makes the thought of taking any of these women on my arm nauseating. At least while I’m sober.

Thus, the bar.

The new bartender—so new that I don’t know the girl’s name—eyes me up and down with a smile that quickly vanishes when she recognizes me. Someone’s probably filled her in on the reputations shared by both the Ferry men. At least she serves me first.

New though she is, I don’t need to tell her my drink order. That’s more or less orientation information for new bartenders in the open lounge. If I know Reginald, everyone on staff is required to memorize a small dossier on himself and me. God forbid one of them prove to be of some small inconvenience—like mixing a drink wrong—to the great and powerful Reginald Ferry by accident.

The glittering, bronze-powdered vampires that haunt the glamorous crowd at least have the good sense to wait until I’m two drinks in to descend on me with their hungry eyes. One by one they make those passive aggressive advances that I hate—leaning on the bar to show off some cleavage, or squeezing in between me and some other patron, pressing breasts or ass against me when they do with quiet, sultry apologies they don’t mean.

One by one I ignore them, until one of them won’t take a hint.

She’s petite, redheaded, with elaborate braids piled on her head. She’s stacked so far out with nipples so perpetually hard, that she’s probably legally considered an artificial person.

“Don’t I know you?” she asks, flashing white teeth and green eyes like the professional she very likely is.

I sigh and finish my fourth tumbler of

thirty-year-old whiskey from the Ferry private collection. “No,” I tell the redhead, with what I hope is the appropriate degree of finality.

“You’re Jake Ferry,” she says, triumphant, like she just gave the right answer to a pop quiz.

“That’s my name,” I reply.

“Told you I knew you.” She beams, and giggles, her hand brushing my shoulder.

I glance at the bartender, who promptly goes about pouring me another whiskey.

“You know my name,” I say, not looking at the redhead. “Congratulations. So does everyone else.” Then, I look her dead in the eye. “That’s not the same as knowing me, sugar.”

She pouts her bottom lip out, unperturbed. “Well… we can fix that, I bet.”