Vs Reality (3 page)

New York City
August 26, 2011
12:35 am, Eastern Daylight Time

At one point there was an S&M club at this location called ‘Thrash’: a hedonistic dungeon where patrons could be chained to a wall, humiliated, and whipped with a leather strap by an angry dominatrix – all for a reasonable fee.

A successful club for over a decade, it was recently shut down after the American Morality Association lodged several complaints with the local government, and gathered public support through online campaigns. The New World Council came to the rescue. Within a month several new bills were passed, including a convoluted law forbidding club owners from allowing their guests to engage in ‘lewd and unethical behavior that does not adhere to the values that are synonymous with the great state of New York’.

Except for the team of lawyers who drafted it, no one is quite certain what this seven-hundred page document actually means, but the short version for bar owners is this: if your patrons want to get on all fours, wear a studded dog collar and have a six-foot Amazon force them to lick her boots, they now have to do it in the privacy of their own homes.

So when the owners of Thrash closed their doors and moved back to Denmark, a decadent new playground for the young and powerful emerged in this prime real estate location: Club Platinum. It rapidly ascended the exclusive list of New York City hot spots, and
everyone
wants in. But apparently not everyone is as connected as Jens.

As they approach the velvet rope at the front entrance, a towering Samoan built like a Sherman tank slaps a hand down on Jens’ narrow shoulder. “If you’re standing this close to the front door you’d
better
be on the list.”

Donovan’s eyes dart nervously towards Jens, and back to the tank. He’s in no mood to be knocked unconscious for the second time in one evening.

Jens smiles, seemingly unfazed by the impending danger. “Jennum. Todd Jennum.” From his swagger and the tone of his delivery, it’s obvious that his irritating friend is trying to emulate an international super spy, which is somewhat difficult to accomplish when wearing torn jeans and a fairly ridiculous looking t-shirt.

A muffled sound crackles through the bouncer’s earpiece and he glances away, his frying pan-sized hand still firmly gripping Jens’ shoulder. “Yes, they’re here. Even if they’re wearing…
really?
All right. Yes sir, it’s all good.”

The bouncer unhooks the velvet rope from the brass pole and steps aside, forcing a tight-lipped grin. “Enjoy your evening... ‘gentlemen’.”

They breeze through the front doors and then pause, taking a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkness. The interior of Platinum is massive, ultra-modern, and no expense has been spared on art and décor; white leather couches line the walls, and abstract paintings seem to pulse and dance with a life of their own under spinning black lights. And the bar, built into a mammoth piece of frosted glass at the center of the club, stretches towards the ceiling, the pointed apex coming perilously close to scraping the exposed metal girders sixteen feet above. It looms enormous like the tip of an iceberg bursting through the dance floor.

The bronzed, long-legged servers could have been pulled from a runway in Milan. They navigate the crowded club delivering martinis, and collect sizable tips from Armani-clad businessmen for their efforts. It’s starting to become evident why the power brokers on Wall Street are willing to pay a small fortune for a cover charge, even after waiting more than an hour in line.

An exotic brunette, shrink-wrapped in a glittering silver dress, approaches Cole and Jens with a tray balanced on her palm. Aside from the owner – an obnoxious trust-fund kid with a ponytail and a wardrobe from the hair-metal era – no one
ever
gets into Platinum wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt. After a cursory examination she surmises that they’re either Internet billionaires, or have paid the bouncers off at the door. Either way they’d likely be good tippers.

Towering over Jens, she leans in close and shouts over the thumping bass, her wave of chestnut locks brushing his cheek. “So what will it be tonight, handsome?”

“Two bolt and brews.”

Her face contorts into a frown. “Sorry sir, we don’t serve Lightning Liquid and
beer
. Can I interest you in a martini?”

Jens plucks a hundred dollar bill from his money clip and places it on the tray with an arrogant smirk. “I don’t care if you have to wobble down the street to a convenience store in your ridiculous heels and grab us a six-pack of Lightning yourself. The next time I see you, I want you holding two B&Bs. And keep them coming, sweetheart.”

“Right away,” she says through gritted teeth before spinning and marching off.

At a bar or nightclub, most people act slightly out of character. They become willing participants in a form of social theater where they portray a cooler, sexier, smarter version of themselves – someone who’s generally more attractive to the opposite sex. Jens is not one of those people. He’s this obnoxious all the time.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, rubbing his hands together as he scans the bar. He’s ready to get down to business – and his plan, as always, involves his unwitting best friend. “Alright Cole, this is where shit gets real. I think it’s time for us to do some damage.”

Cole massages his forehead, bracing for a disaster. “What the hell are you talking about?” At this point he doesn’t know whether the pounding in his head is from the mild concussion he almost certainly sustained earlier in the evening, or the bass that’s blaring through the sound system, rattling his eardrums. Tinnitus seems to be part and parcel with the club-going experience but why does the music always have to be
so
loud?

Jens leans in, cupping a hand over his mouth.“Dude,
look
at you: the scars, the black eye…you’re
totally
bad-ass. This doesn’t work when you’re trying to score at the usual shitholes we hang out in, but check this place out, man – these girls are top-shelf.”

“So?” Cole replies with a heavy sigh.

“
So
, you’re the total opposite of the guys that these girls are used to dating. Harvard graduates, investment bankers, lawyers. Most of these guys have shit you could only
dream
of, like high-paying jobs, and sports cars, and sick vacation homes all over the world…”

Cole glances at his wrist as if to check on the time (he’s not wearing a watch.) “Wow, look at that, it sure is getting late. Thanks Jens, I’m
totally
cheered up. Maybe to cap off the evening we can head somewhere for an espresso, and then you can stick bamboo shoots into my fingernails while you light my balls on fire.”

“Come on, man, don’t you get it?” Jens throws an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling him close. “These girls spend all day getting their nails done and buying diamond encrusted purses,
bored
out of their goddamned minds. Do you think they come out at night hoping some asshole in a business suit sits down next to them and brags about his quarterly earnings?”

Cole’s eyes wander around the room, now searching for an
actual
clock, but Jens persists.

“These chicks dream about a guy like
you
: a mixed martial-arts fighter who can chug a beer, kick someone in the face, and then take her to the nearest bathroom and plow her home like a pack of sled dogs.”

Cole shoots him a sidelong glance. “And what are
you
going to get out of this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your ulterior motive,” Cole says, folding his arms. “You know, the only reason you ever offer to pay for anything?”

“Ulterior motive? Come on, man, how long have you known me?” Jens puts a hand on his chest, doing his best to appear confused by Cole’s blunt accusation, though it’s clear he’s not.

“Long enough to know when you’re up to something.”

As if a director had just screamed, ‘cut!’ Jens suddenly drops the act. “Okay, so when you
do
find the right girl, and you’re ready to close the deal, just casually ask if she has a friend with her who’s looking to hook up. Just be cool about it.”

“How do you know she’ll have a friend?” Cole asks.

“Hot girls in bars are like wild tigers out on the prowl, man: they
always
travel in packs.”

Cole scans the crowd again, this time with a frustrated groan. “If I do this,” he says, holding up a hand, “and that is a huge ‘if’, here is the deal:
you
pay for drinks all night. And I get to borrow the Buick if I need to drive her somewhere.”

“That’s my man!” Jens shouts victoriously, clapping his hands. He quickly turns to face the dance floor and furrows his brow, as if he’s delving deep into concentration. “All right, choose your target carefully. You don’t want to go for the best looking girl in the club because you just know she’s already getting hit on every five minutes. That’s a dead end. Don’t get me wrong, you wanna shoot for hot, but not
so
hot that she’s used to the constant attention.”

As Jens continues his
prolonged lesson about dating outside your league, Cole is drawn to a young woman sitting at the bar, sipping a multi-colored cocktail.

“It’s always good to look for a flaw,” he muses aloud, “but not something
overly
distracting or off-putting. Try to find a girl with a strange looking mole on her face, a lazy eye or something, like a—”

Suddenly Jens is on mute, and the thumping bass seems to quiet.

The girl glances over her shoulder and catches Cole’s gaze. She holds it for just a second, lips twitching at the corners. Her long raven hair is pulled into a ponytail, exposing an intricate tattoo of angel wings that decorate her entire back. With her backless halter, leather arm wraps and the small diamond stud in her nostril, she stands apart from the crowd of generic-looking beauty queens that surround her. If Donovan didn’t know any better he’d think she hadn’t been to this location since Thrash was in business, and was somehow unaware of the change in management (and the dramatic shift in social etiquette).

As if drawn by a magnetic charge, Cole begins to cut through the dance floor, legs moving of their own volition carrying him towards the bar, leaving his oblivious friend to finish his speech alone.

“…or even a missing tooth could be a plus. Preferably a molar, because if you—” Jens turns and finally notices his friend plowing through the crowd, and identifies the target he’s headed towards. He smiles warmly, like a proud father sending his son off to college. “May the Force be with you,” he whispers under his breath.

The dark-haired girl pivots dramatically in her stool when Cole approaches.

Cole wipes his sweaty palms on the side of his shorts, unaware that’s he’s nervously repeating the same gesture over and over. He’s intimidated, but not by her beauty. She
is
beautiful, though not in the perfectly symmetrical way that you see on magazine covers. It’s her confidence that strikes him. It’s an ineffable quality that radiates from behind her haunted eyes – it’s as alluring as it is disarming.

She arches an eyebrow. “Hey cowboy. You have an opening line?”

A bead of sweat forms at his hairline, heat rising in his cheeks. Even the impending threat of being smashed in the face by a two hundred and eighty-pound professional fighter has never been this terrifying. “I’m kind of new at this, so I was hoping we could skip the opener and move straight to the awkward small-talk portion of the evening?” Donovan shrugs and cracks a nervous grin. He’s never been good with ‘suave’, so he’s hoping ‘boyish charm’ will be enough to break the ice.

“I like it,” she says with a small nod. “No bullshit. That’s a refreshing change, especially for a night at Platinum.” She grabs the empty chair to her left and swivels it in Cole’s direction. “Sit down and let me buy you a drink. But you’re going to have to earn it.”

“What’s the price?” Cole asks, trying his best to mask his confusion.

“Tell me if she was a blond or a brunette.”

He frowns. “If who was a what?”

She takes a short sip from her straw, sucking down the remaining drops of her pink and orange cocktail. “
Come
on
. I’ve seen a lot of dudes take a lot of ass-kickings, but when a guy gets beaten this badly, it’s almost
always
because of a girl.”

Cole sits down and leans against the edge of the bar. “My ex – who is a redhead, by the way – has nothing to do with my current condition. At least the external scars and bruising.”

She straightens her posture and pitches forward. “Wow, this isn’t some boring, getting-to-know-you chit-chat, is it? This is actually interesting. Don’t hold out on me, cowboy, let’s hear some details.”

“So you want to know the specifics of how I had the still-beating heart ripped out of my chest and stomped on by the evil bitch I used to date? What are you, some kind of sadist?”