Chapter Six Adam
The maps app is open on Eleanor’s phone, telling us we’ve arrived at our destination. I glance between the screen and the neon sign hanging that reads “Deja Vu.” A smaller sign beside it advertises topless dancers.
“This is the address he gave you?”
“Yeah.” She says this like it’s normal to meet your attorney at a strip club.
Of course Eleanor is cool with this—before this morning I’ve never seen her get remotely frazzled over anything.
Generally, she could be summed up with the word unruffled.
Any perceived slight or bit of constructive criticism rolls right off her.
You just know she goes to bed at night and falls asleep the moment her head hits the pillow.
She’s never stared at her ceiling for hours replaying every awkward thing she did that day, writing scripts for conversations she wishes she could do over, or revisiting the time in ninth-grade gym class when she tripped over absolutely nothing in front of everyone.
Which is why finding out that the dinner last night was Eleanor’s put a pit in my stomach.
There’s something unnerving about someone who isn’t bothered by anything.
“So, he works… here.” It’s that, or he gave us the wrong address. I’m not sold on his competence either way. I drag a hand down my face and shake my head. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
I gesture to the sign, incredulous. I really feel like this situation requires no further explanation. “We need to find a legitimate attorney, not Saul fucking Goodman.”
Eleanor narrows her eyes. “Saul Goodman won, like, all of his cases. He was a great lawyer; his life was ruined because of the money laundering.”
Before I can argue further, the door under the awning opens and a man I can only assume is Eleanor’s friend saunters out.
At first glance it seems like he might actually be somewhat reputable after all, dressed in a suit and tie despite the heat.
Then he gets close enough for me to notice he’s wearing Converse and his tie has the X-Men symbol printed all over it.
“Ellie!”
The guy envelopes her in a bear hug as soon as she’s within reach. She returns the embrace and lets out a little squeak when he lifts her off the ground.
“Damn, dude,” he says when he sets her back down. “Adulthood looks good on you.”
“Me? Look at you! You’re wearing a suit.”
My gaze flicks back and forth between them, trying to figure out why Eleanor is staring at this guy like he hung the moon.
His jacket is at least one size too big for his lanky frame, and his floppy hair is overdue for a cut, something he’s unsuccessfully tried to hide with too much gel.
Her standards cannot possibly be so low that this guy managing to dress himself semi-appropriately is enough to impress her.
He straightens his ridiculous tie with a smirk. “I know, right? I had to go to court this morning. Gotta look the part.”
“The part of a lawyer who conducts business out of a strip club?” I cut in, and Eleanor scowls and smacks my arm.
Tyler seems to take it in stride. “Is there something wrong with working in a strip club?” he asks, head cocked as he gives me a once-over, lingering for a moment on my slippers.
“No, that’s—I didn’t…” I cast a look at Eleanor, who seems to be enjoying seeing me sputtering. “Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Tyler hums in agreement. “Did you know the United States has more strip clubs than anywhere else in the world? But as a society we still perpetuate a stigma against sex workers, which in turn perpetuates a cycle of violence and bias held against them by police, judges, and juries. Which is why so many victims of sexual assault decline to even file reports.”
I shuffle my feet, feeling distinctly cowed, but Tyler offers me an easygoing shrug. “The bulk of my clients are sex workers. They don’t typically mind meeting me here.” He turns the wattage up on his smile. “Plus, the girls give me free lap dances on my birthday!”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “That’s… nice of them.”
“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Tyler.”
I shake the hand Tyler is offering. “Adam.”
“All right.” Eleanor’s hand finds Tyler’s shoulder, turning him around and guiding him back toward the entrance. “Lead the way.”
I avoid Eleanor’s eye as we approach a large bouncer standing with arms crossed in front of a velvet curtain.
“They’re with me,” Tyler tells him, and the guy nods once and pulls the curtain aside.
It’s half past noon, but inside the windowless club it’s so dark you’d have no idea the sun was even up.
I wouldn’t have expected a place like this to even be open midday, but apparently this particular establishment fully caters to the lunch crowd.
Which is… not the most charming of crowds.
Mostly it’s composed of older men who look like the types to get edged out of their companies with offers of early retirement, just so HR doesn’t have to deal with any more sexual harassment complaints.
People like Griffin Hastings.
I don’t know why I’m having so many intrusive thoughts about that asshole today.
It’s been almost a year since he was fired from Exeter.
Long enough ago that no one at work really talks about him anymore.
But I guess spending time with Eleanor and seeing all the ways she’s changed since we first met reinforces how fucking young she was at twenty-two.
And how messed up it was for Griffin, a fifteen-year veteran at the company, never mind a man pushing forty, to get involved with her.
The fact that two other women reported him to HR for inappropriate comments leading up to his dismissal confirms what a creep the guy is.
Eleanor catches me looking at her, and like I’m afraid she’ll somehow be able to read my thoughts, I turn my head away quick. Tyler is leading us past the stage, and I allow my gaze to land on the woman in six-inch platform heels and not much else swinging around a pole upside down.
It’s not like I’ve never been to a strip club before.
I’ve been to bachelor parties, done the cheering-up-a-friend-who-recently-got-dumped thing.
And I know what people imagine the music industry to be like.
Stereotypically, it’s all about sex, drugs, and rock ’n roll.
Except that really applies more to the artists themselves.
Not the people responsible for the paperwork, the contracts and budgets and bookings.
And there is something distinctly uncomfortable about coming to a place like this with someone you know through work.
Even if any semblance of a professional relationship between Eleanor and me is pretty much shot to shit at this point.
Thankfully, we don’t linger on the club floor.
I’m relieved when Tyler brings us backstage, but that relief is rather short-lived, because there are even more half-naked women gathered there, fixing their makeup in front of a wall of mirrors.
One of the dancers is singing along to the Nicki Minaj song filtering in from the club.
It feels invasive for me to be back here, uncomfortably voyeuristic to focus on them in their private space, so I keep my gaze glued to Eleanor’s back as we walk through a cloud of cheap perfume and hairspray.
I follow her down a hall and through an unmarked door, which Tyler closes behind us, blocking out the music from the club.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“Uh…” I weigh my caffeine craving against the likelihood that anything Tyler serves from this office will be potable. “Sure?”
“I’m good,” Eleanor says.
The office is a tight fit—barely enough room for the wide metal desk and the two chairs in front of it. Tyler turns sideways and steps between us to squeeze around the desk. He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair before taking a seat, gesturing for us to do the same.
I watch as he spins around in his chair and reaches for a ceramic mug sitting on top of a bookshelf, right beside a little potted plant that has to be fake, considering there is zero natural light in here.
If not for the dampened bass thudding through the walls, you would never guess that we were inside a strip club.
The vibe feels more similar to a school counselor’s office—functional, if outdated and slightly depressing.
All that’s missing is a Hang in There! cat poster behind Tyler’s desk and some pamphlets about cyberbullying.
“So, you want to tell me the story?” Tyler asks after he pours a cup from the coffeepot behind him and passes it across the desk to me.
Eleanor crosses her legs and huffs a breath out of her nose. “Probably one you’ve heard before. Got abducted-level drunk, stumbled into a chapel, woke up the next morning with more questions than answers.”
Tyler seems surprised to hear this, even though it must be a pretty common scenario, like Eleanor said. “Well… you always were the life of the party.”
That is… not the impression I have of Eleanor.
It’s not like I see her as some prudish stick-in-the-mud.
We are sitting in the back office of a strip club because of her “connections,” after all.
She’s a type, you know. Red lipstick, shoes that have got to be uncomfortable but admittedly make her ass look great.
A stare that makes you want to look away first in deference.
She is capital-C Cool, effortlessly so, and she knows it.
The thing is, being cool is not the same as being fun, which implies an easygoing nature that Eleanor never seemed to possess.
I hook my thumb in Eleanor’s direction. “Her?”