AXEL
Los Angeles, CAMy dick is vibrating. And not the fun kind of way. No, this is the annoying cell phone way.
I never have this problem because everyone knows I hate phones. I don’t get calls. I’m not that man. I get texts asking me to answer; then I decide if they’re worth it. The nonstop buzzing from the clubhouse to the Pussycat is not making me happy. Fuck it, let’s be honest: none of this makes me happy.
“Jesus Christ.” The vibrating has started again. I look over my shoulder as I back my bike into my designated spot.
Derrick, our manager at the Pussycat, is getting his knee fixed. He’s supposed to be on drugs, not disturbing me with nonstop phone calls.
I take a breath and try to get rid of my negative attitude. It’s not even Derrick I’m pissed at. It’s fucking Edge. He and Dolly had to pick this week, this moment to go on a honeymoon or some shit? Edge knows how Derrick is…
Turning off my bike, I pull out the device. “What?”
“Please tell me you’re there?” Derrick’s calm but annoyingly responsible voice drifts into my ear.
“It’s fucking eight a.m. Aren’t you supposed to be in surgery, man?”
“I’ve been waiting for two hours. Apparently they’re running late. And just so you know, I’ve been doing those hours for years. Now listen…” I want to groan. How many times do I have to hear Derrick say the same thing over and over? His martyr complex is getting old, especially since he loves his job. Loves getting up early and working all night. Blade and I pay him a fortune, and he also gets a percentage. The man is making more than when he was a professional wrestler.
“You need to get in there and make sure Crystal is nice. You know how she is. I spent a lot of time building that club—”
“Derrick, get sedated. I’m here. Don’t worry your pretty head.” I scrub my hand up and down my face already dreading the next two weeks or so.
I’m all alone.
Fucking Edge.
I glance around the parking lot. It’s nearly deserted, besides the bright red mustang parked in another manager spot. I have to fight the urge not to get back on my bike and ride in the other direction.
I’m not alone.
Nope. I have Crystal with me. I can barely tolerate her sucking my cock once in a great while. Having to work with her? Christ. I toss my helmet onto the handlebars and pocket the keys. Sweat drips down my back, the sun already baking me. My black T-shirt and leather cut suck in the morning heat.
“Don’t worry about Crystal. I can handle her.” Silence fills my ear and I’m about to hang up when he says, “Axel. She’s different with the girls, plays favorites. And with Georgia Peach running off, we’re short.”
“Relax, man.” I lean my head back, close my eyes, and let the morning sun beat down on my face as I count three, two, one. It helps.
“Do we need to go over today?”
Then again, maybe it doesn’t. I inhale slowly and exhale. Patience is not my strong suit.
“It’s fucking auditions, Derrick. I think I can handle spotting great tits and ass.”
“That’s exactly what scares me.”
I’m on autopilot listening to Derrick and his OCD list as I walk to the side entrance of the club. This is where all the VIPs and celebrities come in.
People fascinate me. They have this need to talk. I’m not even responding to Derrick. I could set my phone down and he wouldn’t realize I was gone for a half hour, maybe more.
Glancing around, I take in Downtown LA and marvel at Blade’s and my luck. We bought the Pussycat years ago, right when they were cleaning up certain areas. This particular spot was a dump, but I had a feeling. We bought it cheap, gave it a facelift. Now it’s nothing but a goldmine and 100 percent legal.
I reach for the black handle right as Manuel, one of our daytime bar backs, swings the door open.
His eyes grow huge when he sees he’s almost hit me in the face. Personally, I wish he had. At least I’d be able to get off the phone.
“Axel, sorry.” He freezes.
The smell of alcohol and garbage from the two trash bins he’s rolling out fills the air. I nod at him and hold the door as I motion for him to continue. Walking inside, I give my eyes a second to adjust from the sun.
“Axel. Are you even listening?” Before I can respond, he’s talking again. “I run a tight ship. I consider our club more than a strip joint—it’s the best strip joint. Our girls are gorgeous and sensual. They can dance and still look like they could walk the catwalk.”
I snort because now he’s getting carried away. We do have nice-looking snatch, but walking the runway?