Hell Fires (Age-Gap Romance)

“Nope. But I done this all before and I know firsthand where it gets you. Miserable or dead. Choice is yours.”

Texas shrugged and took in the dancers like a wide-eyed kid in a candy store.

I remembered running around in hell dens like this as a child, and I had no plans of reliving those memories as a grown-ass man.

"Hey Tommy," Tex said to the manager. Tommy waved back from the table where it looked like he was consulting. He stood up and pushed his way out of the booth before lumbering toward us. Tommy was a burly man with a huge gut and a long, greying beard. He was a happy fella, but if you messed with him, you’d better get on your knees and pray. Tommy had been an assassin in his day. That was one of the reasons the club liked him. We knew he could be trusted, and no one could mess with him. The guy managed to still look good on paper, and the local police all got along with him. He had allies everywhere—all of his enemies were dead.

"Drink up, boys," Tommy said. He plucked a bottle of Blue Johnny Walker from behind the bar and poured generous lowballs. His fat fingers looked like little sausages and they were covered in tasteless rings. Tommy was a troll and Tight Ends was his seedy underground lair.

"We fixed the tax issues," Tex said.

I just waved my hand, letting him know I was done being in here. I didn't really like drinking much, especially on the job; I didn't want to let my guard down.

“So I can rest assured that the IRS won’t be breaking down these doors like mobsters and shutting me down?” Tommy asked.

“My brother Rafa took care of it. You’re straight. Just keep the accountant tracking ever dirty dollar that walks in and out of here and we won’t have any more problems.” I took the shot and threw it back. It’d already been a long night.

Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone, by Bill Withers came on and it was exactly what I needed to hear. The trap music they usually played with the auto tune and canned base gave me a fucking headache. This song was so good that I would almost watch a girl dance to it.

As if on call, a tall brunette with far too much makeup passed by me, her hand slid easily up my arm. I gently took it off and lowered it to her side.

"Thanks for the offer, kid, but I'm not buying," I said. “I only come to this place for business.”

"Too bad, cause you're so hot. I’d do anything you want me to.” She puckered her lips and blew out her cheeks signaling that she wanted to blow me. She was beautiful, but I wasn’t into getting my dick sucked so that somebody could feed their fucking kids. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a roll of cash, leafed a fifty off the top and put it in her hand.

She was quiet and looked up at me, her eyes had gone serious. I knew most guys would stick it in her bra or try to cop a feel with a single dollar.

“What’s this for?” she asked. Her face fell like she wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or honored.

“Your boys. Take ‘em out, get em ice cream, fuck if I know what they like.” I read all these girls’ profiles when they applied. I was a businessman and needed to know who I was working with at all times.

She crumpled the money and put it in the tiny bag leashed to her wrist.

“Aww, Mav, you lost out, she gives a good one,” Tommy said. He thumped me on the back.

Easy Like Sunday Morning came on then and I instinctively looked up to the DJ stand. It was dark up there and I wondered if Tommy had resorted to an iPod to provide tonight’s playlist.

I knew strippers. I respected them and that’s why I didn’t pay them to dance or pay for sex. I understood the hustle and I knew they worked hard. A lot of girls put themselves through school or provided for their extended families. Hell, some even put themselves through law school or med school, like Tex's old lady, who started out at the club and was now a hotshot lawyer. That was all good and I’d support the girls, but when I paid them, it was to stay the hell away from me.

Now Stevie Wonder was playing, it was like the tunes had upgraded this slum to a hip place to hang out overnight.

"Who you got in the booth tonight?" I asked Tommy

He tapped his cigar in the ashtray in front of me.

“A chick. Some kid from Brook Hill. First chick we’ve ever had. Mandy hired her. Said she was hard up and had great references.” Mandy was the house mother, a smart older lady who’d spent the better part of the nineties grinding on tables at Scores.