Chapter Thirty
Lennon
I shower at Wade’s house, and the two of us head straight to Whiskey Joe’s.
When we arrive, Anson waves us over to a corner table that’s left of the bar, where he, Parker, and Sebastian are seated.
A tray of clear shots is sitting in the center, and Anson hands one to each of us.
“Fellas, we are getting wasted tonight.”
I bring the shot glass to my nose. “What the hell is this, cheap tequila?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Those girls over there sent it to the table,” he says.
Wade sets his shot back on the tray and turns to the bar. He calls to the bartender. Her eyes come to him, and he lifts two fingers. The sultry redhead lifts her chin in acknowledgment but continues to talk to the customers in front of her.
The place is packed tonight.
Whiskey Joe’s is a large country-themed bar just off the island. It’s owned by our buddy Brewster Cartwright. Whose family owns Cartwright Motorsports and Carolina Automotive LLC. The Cartwrights are also a powerhouse family in stock car racing. Brew lives on the island during the racing offseason, but at the moment, he is either in Charlotte, working at Cartwright’s home office, or on the road and stopping at whatever city is hosting that weekend’s race.
The bar is hosting a popular Nashville band tonight, which explains the full house.
It’s loud. And the service is slow.
The redhead who looks to be in charge does her best to keep our drinks coming, but the traffic at her bar is insane.
Parker keeps walking up to ask about our order, which does nothing to speed things up. I’d get mad, but he is agitated enough for us all.
Anson’s phone vibrates on the table, and he looks down to read a message. He looks at me and grins, then starts slapping his hand on the table to get everyone’s attention.
“Finish your drinks, fellas. Our chariot has arrived,” he says as he stands.
Sebastian looks up at him. “Chariot?”
“Yep. Donnie Dale has agreed to be our chauffeur for the evening,” Anson explains.
“Where are we going?” Sebastian asks.
“Let’s just say, it’s a more appropriate venue to usher out your single years. Now, hurry up. I’m going to go settle our tab at the bar.”
Anson walks off, and my eyes go to Parker, who is chugging the last of his beer.
“Spill,” I demand.
He swallows and runs the back of his hand over his mouth before he answers, “We’re going to a strip club in Wilmington.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, Anson said it’s like a rite of passage or something.”
A rite of passage? More like an old cliché. Being in the military, I’ve spent my fair share of nights sidled up to the stage in a dark club, watching women spin around a pole and throwing money away, feeding a fantasy that always ends in the morning with a pounding headache, lighter pockets, and an empty bed.
“I don’t think Avie would like this idea,” Sebastian groans as Anson reemerges.
He clasps Seb’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I already cleared it with your bride-to-be.”
“You did?” Sebastian asks.
“I did, and she doesn’t have a problem with it. She trusts you and said for us to have a good time. So, get your asses up. It’s time to go fund a beautiful coed’s college education.”
Donnie Dale is waiting outside the door, and he grins as he watches the five of us pile into the back of his old, faded blue Dodge Ram van.
“Are you sure this bucket of rust is going to make it to the city?” Wade asks as he settles beside me in the second row.
“She’s never let me down before,” Donnie Dale replies as he reaches for his thermos of hot coffee.
Wade cuts his eyes to me and mumbles, “That doesn’t comfort me.”
Once we’re all seated and belted in, Donnie Dale shoots into traffic like a bullet down the barrel of a gun, and I have to grab the side-door panel to keep from ending up in Wade’s lap.
“Are you excited?” Anson asks.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Nah. This doesn’t feel right,” he says.
“I told you not to worry. Avie said it’s fine. You used to love hanging out at The Hut on Friday nights,” Anson states.
“I know. But it’s different now. When you meet the right girl, you don’t do shit to screw it up.”
Parker grunts. “Yeah. I met the right girl once, and I did everything to screw it up,” he mutters.
“That’s true. He did,” Anson agrees.
“Who?” Donnie Dale asks.
He doesn’t need to answer for me to know exactly who. I caught Parker’s tunnel vision on the redhead behind the bar at Whiskey Joe’s. There was a longing and sadness hidden in those stolen glances.
“Just someone I used to know,” Parker replies.
Donnie Dale nods. “Is she still single?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” Anson says.
“Then, you know what you need to do,” Donnie Dale says.
Parker looks up at him. “What?”
Anson interrupts by throwing his arm around Parker’s shoulders, “Meet a nice stripper and screw her out of his system?”
Donnie Dale’s eyes meet Anson’s in the rearview mirror. “No, asshat. He needs to apologize to her.”
Anson scoffs. “My suggestion sounds more fun.”
Sebastian looks at Parker. “Look, I don’t know what went down with you and Audrey back in high school, but I agree with Donnie Dale. We’re adults now. We’ve all made mistakes. Just tell her you’re sorry for whatever it is. Grovel if you have to.”
“Audrey? Brew’s head bartender?” Wade asks me.
I shrug. “Is she the redhead who was taking care of us tonight?” I ask.
Anson turns to us. “That’s the one.”
Thought so.
“Damn, she’s hot. I’d do what Sebastian said if I were you,” I suggest.
Parker doesn’t say anything. He just turns and looks out the window.
Something tells me that whatever happened between the two, it’s going to take more than a few pretty words to fix it.
Forty-five minutes later, we pull up to the front of a stone-gray building with a bright neon sign that says, The Hoochie Hut . There is a large, muscular man seated to the right of the black metal double doors. He asks for our IDs and inspects them with the help of a small handheld flashlight. He glances up at us, one by one, from under the bill of his dark ball cap. Once he’s satisfied, he opens the door, and we file into the foyer of the club, where a scantily clad woman stands behind a counter, tapping away at a screen.
Anson hands each of us a key card.
“What’s this?” Sebastian asks.
“The key to your room at the motel across the street. That way, we can drink all we want and walk from here.”
He takes the lead and informs her that we have a VIP reservation. She takes his credit card, and then another young woman ushers us into the club, where we are immediately met with the sound of pulsating music and men hooting their approval. The smell of smoke and sweat is thick in the air.
The hostess leads us up a marble staircase and to a set of roped-off sofas one floor above the main stage with a bird’s-eye view of the action below. The area is very low-lit. The two round tables in front of us are already stocked with vodka bottles chilling in buckets of ice, several mixers to choose from, lowball glasses, nuts, and pretzels. There are also two private miniature stages with individual poles off to the right and left of us.
Wade and I settle in on the red leather couch. Anson goes straight to the bottles and begins to pour.
“We have a few prepaid private dancers who’ll be up soon to make use of these poles,” he says, sliding a glass to each of us.
“Switch places with me,” Wade requests.
“Why?”
“Because you’re single. You sit closer to the pole.”
“I don’t want to be any closer,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Just switch.”
“Fine.”
We stand and play musical chairs.
Anson and Parker stand at the railing, watching the talent on the stage.
I glance at Sebastian.
He’s so not into this.
Neither am I.