Blood Brothers (7 page)

A blonde with large overdone curls hanging
athletically and seductively proportioned, danced close to a young
guy dressed like a reject punk rocker from the 1980s.

A thicker—but by no means heavy—redhead
dressed in so very little that Michael did a double take to assure
himself she wasn’t wearing lingerie. The red and black outfit clung
snugly and made her curves all the more alluring. She danced with
two other girls, both attractive, but no match for the fiery
redhead. The only detractions were the rings going through her
eyebrows, her lip and her nose. Probably couldn’t get on a flight
anywhere in the free world with all that metal.

The next woman he saw made him almost
stumble. She took the cake, by far. She was black, but even in the
crazed club lighting he could see her skin defied traditional black
or white pigmentation. The smooth, silky flesh that covered her
tall, slender frame was more the color of cappuccino, a pleasing
mixture of cream and darkness. She wore a short black skirt and
sleeveless silver top. Her breasts were small but attentive, he
could tell even through the thin blouse. She wore no bra. Her short
hair, spiked, crowned her delicate face like a halo. Her eyes,
while he couldn’t tell their color from this distance, were aimed
directly at him. Michael could almost feel the weight of the stare.
It was not an unkind look, but for the briefest of moments it
unsettled him, made him a bit…nervous.

But only for a second. Michael smiled at her.
Either she didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she focused her
attention back on her dancing partners: an Asian girl with long
black hair who shook her ass as if her life depended on it, a
brunette with much too much makeup who, otherwise, would have been
alluring, and a tall black man who looked like he could have
cleared out any defensive line the NFL had to offer.

“Stuck up bitch,” Michael muttered. Slowly,
he made his way over to the bar, working his way through the throng
of people who did not sit and did not dance, but just chose to
stand and make walking quite a feat in such dense quarters.

At the bar Michael ordered a Crown and
Coke—hold the Crown—from a bartender who looked as if he mainlined
steroids and lifted sedans in his off-time. His arms were huge, but
the tattoo of some tribal design half-covered his face and quickly
took your mind off his possible work-out tactics. The ingestion of
alcohol had never held much charm for him. The few glasses of
champagne at the reception, coupled with the beers he’d drank, were
starting to work against him and he was off the drink as long as
the swirl of unease threatened to erupt into a full blown storm of
nausea.

With drink in hand, Michael moseyed back
through the thick crowd of sweaty bodies and the strong scent of
smoke—not only tobacco—and made his way towards an open seat at a
small table near the corridor leading to the restrooms, at least
that’s what the sign read. He was careful, though, to keep clear
lines of sight open to not only the dance floor, but the girl in
the black skirt and silver blouse, as well.

He sat, careful not to place his hands on the
table. God only knew what had lain on this table. He sipped from
the Coke, which was cool, but certainly not cold. The song changed,
and the new one was a bit more tolerable than the last. Looking
around, he saw that he was not the oldest fart in the club.
Grey-haired men, dressed well, sat with younger woman—and in a
couple cases, younger men—as if it were the most natural thing in
the world. If Club 312 was more of a family establishment, it would
have been easy to imagine they were nothing more than fathers out
with their children. But Michael knew there was no such innocence
to be found here. While this was the first time he’d been inside
this particular club—hell, it hadn’t even been here this time last
year—he was no stranger to such places. And the one constant among
them all was: lust was the order of the day, whether it was real or
imagined, voyeuristic or physical, lust ruled over common
sensibilities like the danger of contracting an STD, or pregnancy,
or even the quaint notion of faithfulness. He felt alive in such
places, he had to admit, just a little out of place as he grew
older.

He continued to sip on his Coca-Cola and
zeroed in on a woman sitting with a group of friends just three
tables away from him. He was just about to stand and walk over when
his cell vibrated in his pocket. Annoyed, he pulled it free and
checked the screen.

Home.

Michael clicked the ignore button. Before he
could even put it back into his trouser pocket, it went off
again.

With the Coke in one hand and the telephone
in the other, he got out of his chair and headed down the hallway.
The tenebrous corridor smelled of scented body oil and other, less
pleasing body odors. The thick, carpet-covered walls sucked in the
noise and about halfway down, the music was sufficiently muted so
he could answer the phone.

“Daddy?”

In a daughter’s eyes, the father reigns as
king.

“Christal, hey there.” Michael let out a
silent sigh of relief that Stephanie wasn’t the one on the other
end of the line.

“I missed you, Daddy. I wanted to talk to you
before I went to sleep.”

“Oh, honey, I miss you, too.” The song
switched again. Michael sat his cup on top of the wall-mounted
payphone and tucked a finger into an ear. “You should be in bed
now, shouldn’t you?”

“It’s only nine o’clock. My bedtime’s not
till nine-thirty.”

“Oh, okay. Did your mommy read you a
story?”

“Yeah, but she’s downstairs now, watching TV.
Daddy…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She waited a heartbeat, then, “Will you come
home?”

“Christal, I’ll be home Sunday.”

“But that’s two days away,” her voice had
raised a bit, just enough for him to hear the emotion.

“Baby girl, I’m on business. I told you that.
I can’t just cut the trip short. I want to be home with you, but
Daddy’s got to work.”

When she spoke there was sniffling.
“But…I…want you…to…come…home.”

It took almost everything Michael had to not
slam the phone down, jump into the car and hit the road. Christal
could pluck the strings of his heart like a master playing the
harp. There had been pitifully few people in his life that had ever
had such an effect on his soul. Come to think of it, the actual
number could be counted on one hand, and even then all fingers
wouldn’t be required.

There wasn’t much more to be done here;
certainly all the business transactions were behind him. But still,
something held him here. And that something was walking up to him
in the form of a woman begging to be manhandled. It was the black
girl from the dance floor. Her walk was like a dance unto itself,
she stepped side to side, her beautiful face and adorable head hung
slightly to the left. Her arms, long and narrow, yet powerful like
her bare legs, swung with both purpose and play.

She was looking right at him. Her bright
green eyes pierced him.

“Uh, Christal…Daddy’s got to work now, okay.”
He heard her say something, but paid no mind. “I love you. Good
night.” Michael dropped the hand holding the phone, and stood
rigid.

She walked up to him, the scent of coconut
strong on her skin, skin that glistened with dabbles of glitter.
Her bountiful lips were glossed dark, sparkling. The urge to reach
out and kiss them overtook him and he had to physically restrain
himself from doing so. When she stood mere feet from him, her
tongue slowly crept between the parting of those lips and with
excruciating deliberateness, massaged her top lip.

A craving was born, a craving for this woman,
for her amazing body. A craving so powerful that once it reached
its precipice, Michael knew there would be no stumbling, no
stopping, no controlling it.

Without a word, she reached out for his hand.
She took it in her own. The flesh of her palm was warm velvet. She
led him back down the hall into the open expanse and onto the
floor. All the way he was slightly behind her, his left arm
attached to her. The skirt, leather he now saw, tightly gripped her
buttocks, flaring Mike’s excitement with each and every
movement.

Once on the dance floor, she turned to him.
Her smile was the devil’s own. Her teeth radiated their whiteness;
they were even and straight, small in their own right.

As a song that Michael had actually heard
came over the speakers, the woman began to move, cursorily to the
music, but never letting her attention drop from Mike. In turn, he
did the same. Never a great dancer, the tiny bit of rhythm Michael
did have, he used to move in conjunction with the bounce of the
woman’s thighs, her chest, her butt.

It was two songs later when Michael thought
he’d have to sit a few out. He wasn’t as young as he used to be,
and the air felt superheated. But then a slow song came on. It
wasn’t truly slow, but considering the recent play list, this new
one was positively comatose. When she came close to him, wrapping
her arms around his waist and tenderly laying her head upon his
chest, Michael was suddenly glad he had stopped by Club 312, very
glad indeed.

Since she’d taken the first step in wrapping
herself tightly around him, it didn’t take all that much courage
for Michael to return the favor. With the slight of hand of a
seasoned Vegas magician, one moment Mike’s hands were right at his
side, the next one was on her back and the other gripping a
cheek—and not the one on her pretty little face. She didn’t object
to being touched; she didn’t seem to mind it in the least. Not one
to miss an opportunity, he started a grinding motion with his hips.
To his pleasure, the motion was not only accepted, but reciprocated
as well.

For what was surely an eternity, but seemed
to Michael the mere tick of a second, they remained that way,
eagerly working at one another’s form in the darkness, on the dance
floor.

Then, all too soon for Mike’s taste, the two
separated. While she didn’t let go, she stepped away. Stepping
backwards, she grasped both his hands and led him to a table. Then,
finally, they broke the connection.

“Would you like a drink?”

The two chairs had originally sat across the
table across from each other, but after he’d scooted her seat out
for her and took his own, she’d moved closer to him.

“Yes,” she breathed. She reached out, taking
his hand yet again. “A bottle of water would be nice.” Michael
caught the slightest inflection of an accent, a musical one.

“Just water?” he asked. She hadn’t moved like
she’d been drinking, and Michael was sure that if she wasn’t drunk
or he didn’t offer her a lot of cash, she would not be leaving the
club with him tonight. He was a good looking guy. He wore nice,
often expensive clothing. His manners were exceptional and he was
what most women would call a good catch. But this woman—hell, he
hadn’t even asked her name—was so far out of his league, he might
as well be on Mars.

Unbelievably, a waitress passed by and
Michael placed an order for her water and another Coke for
himself.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Trista,” she said simply.

“I noticed you have an accent. Where are you
from?”

The music was loud, so their words had to be
much louder just to be heard. Trista grinned. “The Dominican
Republic.”

Michael nodded his head as if that were the
coolest thing he’d ever heard.

“And yours?”

“Michael.” Even if she hadn’t gone with only
a first name, Michael would have. It was easier, less messy that
way.

“I’ll be right back. I need to use the little
girls’ room.”

Suddenly, Michael was overcome by the
possibility that she was walking away and wouldn’t be back. He
quickly moved out of his chair and to her side. It was so fast and
so awkward that Trista scooted away, her eyes growing wide. “Let me
walk you.”

Recovering nicely, she gave him a pat on the
chest. “I’m a big girl, Michael. I can take care of myself.” There
was something so very simplistic to her sensuality. Michael was
sure she didn’t know how sexy she actually was. Still, he’d been
rebuffed. She was leaving the table. Maybe she was going to the
restroom, maybe she was ditching him. There wasn’t a helluva lot he
could do about it either way. So he let her go.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you,” he
said, realizing all too late that his words were also the title of
a cheesy Richard Marx song. She stood and began walking away. After
she took a few steps, she looked over her shoulder and gave him a
wink. It was startling how perfectly green her eyes actually
were.

Michael sat back down. The waitress returned.
He paid her, plus tipped her a ten. As he waited, he began sipping
on his drink. And sipping.

And sipping.

Stephanie had been at her desk printing off a
list of intended invitees for the Benedict Society’s annual benefit
for muscular dystrophy. It was a long list, and a lot of money was
usually raised. But in all truth, it was more an excuse for people
to get together to drink and gossip and socialize than anything as
noble as combating a debilitating disease. If that’s what it took
to help, to make a contribution of some sort, however, Stephanie
was all for it.

The list had been longer. She’d been through
it several times. At first she’d included the several pending
members the board had voted in. The society was run much like a
business. And as in business, it was all about whom and what you
knew, not your qualifications. It took more than a robust bank
account; you also had to be the type of individual the society
wanted. Nobody cared what you did in private, at least to a certain
extent, but you had to have a shine, a high polish on your public
persona.

And cutting the new members from the list
made everyone else invited feel a little bit more like the
gathering was an exclusive engagement. This meant the night’s gross
would be significantly increased by the local hot shots with
already-swelled heads, trying to outdo the other individual
donations. As the donations were made in an open forum, the men and
women brought their wallets, and everyone dug deep.