The Nightlife: New York (The Nightlife Series)
Read The Nightlife: New York (The Nightlife Series) Online
Authors: Travis Luedke
The
NIGHTLIFE: NEW YORK
By Travis Luedke
The Nightlife: New York
Published by
Travis Luedke
Copyright 2012
by Travis Luedke
Book Cover Art
by Joshua M. Allen
http://www.freelanced.com/joshuamallen
KINDLE EDITION
All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any
means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without
the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
are either the product of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The
author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without
permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized,
associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Adult
Reading Material (17+)
Contains
scenes of graphic sex and violence
unsuitable
for underage readers
Publication
Release Schedule:
The Nightlife Series
:
I
The Nightlife: New York
II
The Nightlife: Las Vegas
III
The Nightlife: Paris
BLOOD
SLAVE
IV
The Nightlife: London
November 2013
V
The Nightlife: Moscow
June 2014
Dead on his feet and ready to clock out, Aaron Pilan didn’t
immediately react when Charlene groped a good handful of his ass. Burned out
from a long, hard shift of waiting tables, Aaron’s delayed reaction wasn’t
anything charming or witty as his boss Bemichi would have preferred. Refilling
Charlene’s merlot that he’d already refilled one too many times, he deadpanned,
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” He realized too late, his question
could easily have been misinterpreted as an encouragement to her advances.
He definitely didn’t want to mislead or encourage Charlene.
He found her attractive, with that “MILF” allure––
Mother I’d Like to Fuck
––of
older more sophisticated women. But the problem with Charlene came two-fold.
She was both a regular customer, and of sufficient age to actually be his
mother. And she probably knew enough about sex to thoroughly corrupt his innocence,
which, much to his chagrin, remained mostly intact.
The real reason he chose not to fraternize with customers
was his ever-present fear of the wrath of Bemichi that could descend upon his
shoulders like angels of judgment bearing fiery swords. His boss Antonio
Bemichi, who owned the restaurant for two decades, wasn’t one to allow such indiscretions
to pass without consequence. Aaron had been warned his first day in training, “Hell
hath no fury like an Italian restaurant proprietor scorned.”
Bemichi, like many Italians in New York, took great pride in
his fine dining establishment and customer service. After all, the place
carried his namesake,
Bemichis Restaurant
. Like many Italians,
Bemichi’s fiery temper flared and screeched in a fountain fireworks display. Fortunately
his tirades sputtered out just as quickly.
Aaron considered Bemichi a decent guy, and the job wasn’t
bad, the food even better. Aaron enjoyed his work …
most of the time
.
The interior décor of Bemichis resembled a New York Italian version of the
Olive
Garden
with comparable pricing. The kind of place to bring the whole
family, slurp down all the fabulous Italian pastas, and then waddle home an
hour later, wonderfully sated, without having emptied your wallet.
For Charlene, Bemichis held the added allure of hitting on
waiters half her age, secure in the knowledge they would grin and bear it for
propriety’s sake. Aaron didn’t complain, he’d gotten used to her hands on his
ass. He suspected she patronized the restaurant for the express purpose of
fondling him when her liquid courage was sufficiently wetted. She seemed to go
after him at around the third refill of merlot. That should be her cutoff
point, but then, he wasn’t entirely averse to the occasional grope. Definitely
not getting any at home. Besides, she always left a hefty tip––a consolation
prize for putting his wares at her fingertips.
The game of grab-ass had grown old months ago. It was no
longer surprising. At this late hour Aaron just wanted to finish his shift––
like
now
. He watched the time tick by. The hands on the clock advanced in
exaggerated slow motion, mocking him with their lazy movements. Twelve o’clock
midnight arrived not a moment too soon. He moved so fast making his escape out
the door, that he ignored the first call on his cell phone from his roommate
Kyle. When Kyle called back seconds later, he figured he better answer, it
must be important.
“Hey Kyle, what’s up? I’m trying to get outta here.”
“Hey guy, I gotta warn you.” Kyle spoke over the top of
techno music and laughter in the background. Aaron could almost make out the
telltale snort of Delia’s laughter that usually took place at his expense. “Delia’s
here with some friends. She just showed up a few minutes ago.”
“Did she say anything about me?” Aaron’s hope flared.
His first serious girlfriend, Delia had turned his simple
existence upside down with the infamous words spoken in her usual flippant
manner, “I think we should see other people.” This wonderful news was followed
by the even more infamous relationship killer, “But we can still be friends!”
It had been a very long and humbling week since her mercilessly delivered
one-two combo knocked him for a loop.
Kyle paused, his silence implied things better left unsaid.
“She’s playing it off like everything’s totally cool. Honestly, she looks
happy to be single.”
Aaron blew out the breath he’d been holding in.
Kyle reassured, “Don’t worry about it, there’s plenty of
fish in the sea.” Kyle’s casual manner didn’t translate. Aaron had never
found it simple to catch either fish or women.
He prepared himself for another pep talk. Kyle had been
pushing him for the last week to broaden his horizons and do exactly as Delia
suggested––
see other people
. He’d told Aaron repeatedly he’d be better
off with someone else. Kyle didn’t care much for Delia’s manipulations.
“Look, I know you’re stuck on her, but you’re not getting
anywhere by chasing her. The best way to handle a girl like Delia is to hook
up with her friends. If that doesn’t drive her batshit crazy, then she doesn’t
deserve you.” Sage advice from philosopher Kyle.
“Do you think she told everyone we broke up?” Aaron feared he
already knew the answer.
“You mean that she kicked you to the curb? Yeah dude. That
boat has sailed, there ain’t no stopping it. That’s why you gotta make some
moves of your own. Offense dude, time for offense. You remember that chica
Delia’s always hangin’ with, the sexy one with black hair, Amber?”
“Ahh … yeah, I think so.”
“She’s here right now, so hurry up, her tight little ass is
ripe. And hey … um … can you pick up some beer on the way home? You know how
it goes. You get a few drinks in em’ and the pants fall right off.”
Only if you’re Kyle
. Aaron had never experienced the
good fortune of having women’s pants fall off. His limited intimate encounters
taught him there was considerable effort and occasional begging involved in the
removal of women’s clothing.
“Yeah, I caught some decent tips tonight. How about a
twelve pack?” He already knew the answer, but to ask was habitual, an endless
game he and Kyle played. Kyle never wanted less beer. Kyle always pushed for
more, and he always had a plausible reason.
“Better make it a case. I think we’re in for an
all-nighter.”
“Alright, I guess I’ll get a case, just in case we need a
case.” The cheesy punch line had ceased being funny months ago. But like most
aspects of Aaron’s life, it had become a groove he’d fallen into that he couldn’t
get out of. He hung up and headed out the front door of Bemichis into the New
York streets to do the same thing he did night after night.
Kyle had called for the beer. The moral support play wasn’t
his thing. In fact, Kyle was probably making moves on Amber at that very
moment. Aaron didn’t mind. Kyle had a few redeeming qualities worthy of
mention. Loyalty, yes, loyalty would be one, that and a never ending supply of
optimism. The proverbial glass was always half full with Kyle––
half full of
beer
.
But Aaron didn’t make it home this night. He never made it
to the corner drug store for beer. The moment he exited Bemichis, fate
conspired to place two opposing and dangerous forces in his path; the timing so
impeccably perfect, one could argue divine intervention.
The first party, a vision so remarkable, so drop dead
gorgeous, she seemed surreal against the backdrop of grainy darkness and gloom
of the concrete-asphalt streets. Aaron’s world blurred out of focus. This sparkling
gem of a five-foot blonde-bomb package complete with cliché black cocktail
dress and
fuck me
pumps was the only thing to remain distinct in his
vision. As she locked an unblinking gaze on him, nothing else existed in his
universe. Nothing mattered beyond this fabulous woman gliding towards him with
supreme grace and poise.
As he was drawn to the blonde’s powerful magnetic attraction,
the second part of the equation arrived on scene. Aaron watched in fascination
as an unmarked police cruiser drew up alongside her. He recognized the
undercover cop car by the telltale spotlight next to the driver-side mirror.
The woman hesitated, appearing torn between giving her
attention to Aaron or them. She was so far out of his league. Why did she
notice him at all?
The men in the car beckoned to her. Her hesitation ended, she
turned away to converse with the undercovers. She probably didn’t know they
were cops. The one on the passenger side propositioned her, “Hey babe, what’s
goin’ on tonight?”
Without missing a beat, she offered, “
Monsieur
would like to party?
Un ménage à trois
?
We can make a party,
oui
?
” She had an intoxicating French accent.
Both cops hopped out of the car instantly, surrounding her
in an unmistakably threatening stance. Aaron advanced on the trio to better
hear them. He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman to save his life.
The fat, bulldog cop verbally assaulted her in his Brooklyn
accent. “Hey, who you workin’ for? I hope it’s somebody we know. You gotta
be paid up with the right people to work this street!”
She frowned. “I don’t work for anyone!”
Aaron was further smitten as he watched her defy them in her
cute little French accent. The bulldog grabbed her arm, “You’re under arrest!”
The thin, bald, Barney Fife-looking cop, moved in to grab
her other arm. They must think she’s a prostitute. How could they make such a
mistake?
* * * *
She studied the two fools, one on each arm. She examined
their auras and evaluated her options. Their auras swirled with the colors of
arrogance and a sense of entitlement. Like so many others who came before
them, these men craved power over her. It was a base instinct to control and
possess, as if they had found a new toy to play with. Their selfish desires
disgusted her, like a rotten stench surrounding something putrid. She read the
nuances of their hatred towards all women stemming from a sense of inadequacy.
Their souls held a deeply rooted taint from a lifetime of police corruption
fueled by greed.
They were a prime example of what was wrong with the world
today, authority figures seeking out the seemingly weak for predatory
purposes. Nothing new. She’d been dealing with the sick desires of small-minded
men for a very long time. She couldn’t help but shiver with disgust and loathing,
an involuntary reaction to something so unpleasant.
Glancing at the handsome boy, she immediately noticed the
severe contrast between the foul detectives and the purity of spirit evidenced
in the colors of his aura. By comparison he appeared a saint, worthy of
canonization in his child-like innocence.
His overt infatuation and innocence called to her, she found
it hard to resist. She wished she’d followed her initial impulse to ignore the
detectives when they stopped their car. She should have focused on this
adorable young man who was so taken with her. As she watched the colors of his
aura shift, she perceived his indignant response to the detectives man-handling
her. A window of opportunity opened up.
* * * *
Aaron burned, outraged at the audacity of the grotesque,
bulldog of a man assaulting the blonde goddess. An involuntary cry tore from
his throat, “Hey! Leave her alone! Get your hands off her!” He couldn’t
believe either of these crude creatures would dare lay hands on the beautiful
vision of perfection who spoke in an intoxicating stream of French obscenities.
“
T’as une tête à faire soutier les
plaques d’égouts!
”
She
blasted the bulldog. Aaron recalled just enough French to know she’d told him
his face could blow off manhole covers.
“C
essez de me cracher dessus pendant que vous par lez
”
Wiping her face, she eloquently expressed her disgust that the bulldog was
spitting on her as he spoke.
Never ceasing her tirade of lovely French filth, the blonde
struck in a blur. In one swift move, she broke the bulldog’s hold on her wrist
and clawed his face. A trail of bloody slash marks opened across his left
cheek. Without pause she pivoted and punched Barney Fife in the nose with a
gratifying crunch. His head snapped backwards and a splat of blood flew through
the air. She pivoted in a split-second to face the bulldog, a Taser in hand.
She had magically snatched the weapon from Barney Fife after breaking his nose.
The combat unfolded before Aaron’s eyes like a scene from a
martial arts film. The woman appeared to move in a blur, with superhuman
velocity. By comparison to her whip-like actions, the cops creeped along in
slow motion.
Aaron’s jaw dropped in complete awe. He had difficulty accepting
these bizarre events for reality. As the shimmery cocktail-dressed wonder
woman fired her stolen Taser, Aaron recognized the bulldog wasn’t really as
slow as he had seemed. He had a pistol drawn and moving upward in a sweeping
arc.
Aaron’s dream state shattered along with his heretofore
unremarkable and short life when the Taser struck the bulldog at precisely the moment
his gun sights aligned with Aaron. The electric shock of the Taser began a
domino effect. All muscles and tendons in the bulldog’s body clenched,
including his trigger finger. The sharp crack of the gun blasted a slug
straight through Aaron’s chest, knocking him to the ground with the impact.
The pain came seconds later, delayed. It hit in an all-consuming,
overpowering rush. Nothing existed beyond the horrible agony of his chest torn
to shreds by the wicked projectile. He wasn’t brave or manly or noble like all
these scenes of bullet wounds in Hollywood films. He screamed and howled in
pain, and promptly blacked out.