11. Dillan
11
DILLAN
A few weeks later
“ T he baby’s head is in position, which is great news,” I tell my patient as I carefully palpate her lower abdomen. “I know we were concerned before because he hadn’t moved, but it seems he’s as anxious to come out as I’m sure you are. How have you been feeling?”
My patient, Stella, lies back on the examination bed, staring down at her bulging belly.
“Tired,” she says, stifling a yawn. “He’s right under my ribs, and every time I get comfortable, he moves. I also had some spotting last week. Is that okay?”
“Perfectly normal. It probably means that you’re due sooner than we thought. Get as much rest as you can, and if anything changes, let me know.”
“Thank you, Dr. Maxwell. You’ve been such a big help with all of this.”
“Happy to do it.” I guide her to sit up and ensure she’s comfortable. “Take a minute to rest, and then when you’re ready to leave, Willette will check you out and schedule your next appointment.”
“Great, thanks!”
I leave the room and head to my office to take a breather. The new building is working out well. Moving had been a challenge, but once I got settled, everything started running like clockwork. Hiring help took a little more time than I anticipated, but I have two new associates starting within the next week, and my front desk is fully staffed. Once the new doctors are able to take over new patients, I’ll be able to relax a bit. At the very least, take a few days off here and there.
Stella is my last client of the day, so after updating her chart, I shut my computer down and change out of my work clothes. I’m more than ready to enjoy one of the few free evenings I’ve had in a long time and have already made plans to get food with Gavin. I grab my helmet.
A melio’s is busy when I arrive, but being a semi-regular, the bartender waves me over the second my preferred seat opens up. I’ve been back several times over the last few weeks, mostly because it’s Gavin’s favorite place. Also, the Scotch is damn good, and the ribs are even better. But a smaller part of why I keep returning is because I hope I might run into Lizzie again.
The first time I returned after our night together, I inquired about her to the bartender, who had discreetly prevented a second passionate kiss. However, he hadn’t seen her before. Considering she was initially there on a blind date, I assume she isn’t a regular.
As hard as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able forget her. Not fully at least. The routine of life has helped, but I still think about her from time to time. I tried to Google her, but nothing useful came up.
I’ve barely managed to order my drink when somebody sits down next to me. “There he is!”
“What’s up, Gav? Good to see you.”
“I’ll be better if you cheer up a bit.” Gavin chuckles. “I know you’ve been working a shit-ton and need to cut loose a little.”
I take a sip of my Scotch. “That’s an understatement.”
“Good, so you’ll come out with me and the guys tonight.”
There have been a few times when I’ve hung out with Gavin and his friends. They’re great, and we all get along, but it’s been a while since I joined them. Hard partying hasn’t been my thing for a long time. Considering it’s the middle of the week, I assume they won’t be doing anything too drastic.
“What’s the plan?”
“Sinner’s Lounge is having their grand reopening, and I’m friends with a guy who knows the owner. I’ve worked on his bike a couple of times. It’s sold out, but he says he can get us in for the show.”
I’ve heard of the place but have never been to Sinner’s Lounge myself. It’s an upscale strip club which I don’t have much interest in. Strippers and topless dancing have never really done anything for me. “Meh, I don’t know…”
“Dill, man, you gotta let this chick go.”
“Who said anything about a chick?”
Gavin gives me a pointed look, extending a finger to gesture around Amelio’s. “This is where you two met, right? Are you telling me that you haven’t been coming here, and specifically asked me to meet up here today hoping to run into her again?”
“Shut up. I was coming here even before I laid eyes on her, Gavin. I don’t just pick a place hoping for a coincidental encounter.”
I keep to myself the fact that it was precisely the hope of bumping into her again that led me here, or that I’ve interrogated the bartender about her. Not to mention, she’s been an unexpected guest in my dreams. Regardless, Gavin doesn’t seem convinced.
“It’s time to let her go,” he says.
What the hell, man? I sit in thoughtful silence, sipping my beer as I mull over his words. I have let her go.
“I have let her go,” I mumble, annoyed at him for even bringing it up. “I guess part of me thought she might text or something eventually. Guess she won’t. Time to move on,” I say, more to myself than to my friend.
“Yup.” Gavin pats me on the back. “On to bigger and better things. No sense thinking about a girl who isn’t even giving you the time of day.”
He goes on talking about the Sinner’s Lounge, claiming it’s the spot every man needs to check out at least once. Apparently, it boasts the most beautiful women under the sun. According to Gavin, under the new management, they now have a top-notch program that includes nudity but not full nudity. He raves to me about a number in which the dancer ends up in a huge martini glass and (supposedly) has the same wicked, strict charisma as a film star from the 50s. Even when everything else bores me, seeing a woman in an oversized martini glass piques my curiosity. That and the fact that Gavin insists Sinner’s Lounge has the best music, along with great food, and lively crowd of biking enthusiasts.
I down the rest of my drink and get to my feet. “All right then, let’s go.”
“Time to get laiiiiid .” Gavin swings his arm around my shoulders. “You ride your bike today?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Damn straight. Let’s go.”
W e leave Amelio’s and climb onto our motorcycles. I haven’t been riding mine as much as I’d like, but that’s been changing recently. So has the time I spend tinkering with my bike. One night, I found myself at Gavin’s garage in Hudson Haven, rolling up my sleeves to make adjustments and adding personal touches: a custom midnight blue paint job and handcrafted leather grips. But it’s not just about aesthetics. A week later, I cranked up the engine, fine-tuning it for an extra kick of speed. There’s something about tearing through the streets that feels incredibly liberating. I enjoy going fast, and motorcycles give you a speed that no car can match. At least in my book.
Exchanging knowing nods, Gavin and I rev our engines and peel out of the parking lot. Traffic doesn’t mean a damn thing to us. We weave between the cars with practiced ease, acknowledging the annoyed honking we leave in our wake.
“Fuck you, motherfuckers,” he yells, and I have to laugh.
By the time we reach the club, I’m already in much higher spirits than I was earlier.
T he place is packed. Gavin and I pull our bikes up next to a row of motorcycles. The parking lot seems to have an unusually high number of them. Not surprising, though. Beyond Gavin’s tidbit, word is the owner is part of a notorious biker club, so there’s bound to be bikes around.
The line outside the building is long, even though it isn’t very late in the evening. I follow Gavin past it as we head to the front, where a burly-looking man, towering at about six feet six, stands with his arms crossed.
“End of the line,” he grumbles, gesturing to the crowd.
“We’ve already got friends inside.” Gavin flashes a confident grin.
“Sure you have.” The bouncer doesn’t even spare him a glance, maintaining his stern focus on the growing line.
“We’re friends with Colt. We’re supposed to meet up with them tonight,” Gavin insists, unfazed by the man’s gruffness. “Name’s Gavin, and this here’s Dillan. Pretty sure we’re on the list.”
The bouncer clucks his tongue in annoyance before consulting his phone, deliberately taking his time. I watch him scroll through a list of names before sighing and stepping off to the side. He unhooks the velvet rope and gestures with his head for us to go on in.
“Thanks, pal,” Gavin says.
The bouncer ignores him, hooking the rope after me.
I follow him inside, intrigued by this new side of Gavin I haven’t seen before. “I didn’t know you were so well connected,” I comment once we are out of earshot of the bouncer.
“In some circles.” He playfully moves his eyebrows up and down but doesn’t elaborate.
Despite my indifference toward them, I’ve been to a number of men’s clubs over the years. But Sinner’s Lounge is in a whole different league after the reopening. The smell of fresh paint is still perceptible under a scent of champagne. The lighting is a spectacle in itself. Subdued hues of warm gold bathe the space, highlighting the high creamy-white ceilings and black furniture. All in all, Sinner’s Lounge seems more like a pleasantly old-fashioned variety show than a strip club, which is also due to the waitresses who take orders at the tables in skin-tight tuxedos.
The bartender behind the shiny counter seems to be both supervising the hustle and bustle and mixing cocktails, and even among the security, I see several women. It looks as if Sinner’s Lounge is largely female-owned, which I assume has contributed to its growing popularity and no doubt benefits the working atmosphere for the dancers. I would bet a good chunk of my money that the place is on the fast track. It’s definitely more upscale and has the most security of any place I’ve ever been. I can’t blame them, considering all the shit that went down here a few months ago.
It’s packed with patrons, and we have to stick close to avoid being separated by the crowd. The vibe at Sinner’s Lounge is something else. It’s a mix of regulars and the biker crew, giving the place this raw, genuine energy. Not a huge, intimidating crowd—more like a close community. It’s a chill spot, really.
I follow Gavin to a table in the corner, where four men already sit. As soon as they see us, they cheer in excitement, a couple holding up their glasses.
“Gavin!”
“You made it, man.”
“Where the hell have you been? You gotta catch up!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Gavin says, taking a seat. “Everyone, this is my buddy, Dillan. Dillan, this is everyone.”
Greetings are exchanged, and I’m introduced to the guys. Colt is as talkative as Gavin, and the second we sit down, the two of them are deep in conversation. There’s one dark guy with a ton of tattoos who isn’t drinking and seems quieter than his friends.
I learn his name is Jorge. He has a chill-as-fuck vibe about him and is content to just sit back and relax.
“How do you know Gavin?” I ask, pulling him into a conversation when it’s clear the other guys are spouting off some gibberish about people and places I don’t know.
“Through Colt,” Jorge says curtly.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Okay.”
“We met a few years ago but lost touch when I went away to get clean.”
“Good for you, man. So, what do you do?”
“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” He smiles.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” His answer is purposefully vague, which makes me wonder what the hell Gavin is tied up in. “What about you?” he asks.
“Doctor.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jorge nods without a smile. “Okay.”
“I’ve got my own practice,” I add.
“Nothing beats being your own man and doing your own thing.”
I hold up my glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.” In my mind, I can already picture the moment I’m reluctantly roped into patching up injured mob bosses.
We fall into comfortable silence, occasionally breaking it to make a joke or comment. The dancers are skilled, though my attention on the stage is only half-hearted. I enjoy the music, filled with saxophone riffs and featuring a range of songs from the 1920s to the 1950s, such as “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” by Frankie Lymon, followed by “Earth Angel” by The Penguins. Except for the smoking ban, it feels like I’ve traveled back in time to the last century, with a blend of decades that’s hard to pinpoint.
“You don’t really seem like you wanna be here,” Jorge comments after he takes another sip of his non-alcoholic ginger beer.
I shrug, continuing to observe the room and relax. “I don’t mind it,” I tell him. “It’s a pleasant distraction, no doubt. Watching the women dance is fine, but it’s never really been my thing.”
“Mine neither,” Jorge admits, admiring the dancers as they walk by, hips swinging. “One-woman man.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Did the guys drag you out?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” He shakes his head. “Colt and I were going to be here already.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Colt wants me to fix up his bike, so we decided to grab a drink and a show first.”
Colt joins the conversation, and we talk about the bike he bought and what they plan to do to get it working. It feels damn good sharing drinks and talking about motorcycles. The evening seems poised to be quite enjoyable, even without the anticipated performance featuring the oversized martini glass.