The Man Club

Chapter 2

Car blocks my pacing, faces me. He rubs my back with a swirling palm, attempts to calm me down. He whispers, “Gyles, take it easy. Don’t have an aneurism or heart attack over this s**t. It’s not worth it. Don’t let the club kill you. You can find another dancer for tonight. Stop worrying. No one has to bow down to Coben, although some men think they do.”

Car’s thirty, but he looks like he’s twenty. Smooth skin. Bright eyes with very little wear. Easygoing. Sweet. Soft-natured. He looks like an underwear model. Gorgeous. Handsome mixed with some pretty. Mature and immature looks. Somewhat studious. A gentleman’s gentleman.

I think he likes renting the spare bedroom from me in my Cape Cod. He’s made himself home here for eight months now. He’s comfortable along Lake Erie, new to Templeton, Pennsylvania. Planted here because he likes the calm lake instead of living in downtown Pittsburgh.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I just fired Coben…by text.”

He sighs. He knows Coben is important to the club, raking in the cash; a star at the place; a strong money maker who helps pay the bills on a monthly basis. Car hugs me; I don’t expect anything less from him because he’s the sweetest guy on the planet. A gem. A star. Simply generous with his heart and words. He kisses my cheek. I’m not surprised. Good guys like to kiss. He’s a hugger, too, and he’s compassionate.

When he pulls away from me, he says, “I’ll call Rocco. He can dance tonight.”

Car’s not an employee at the club, but he sometimes helps out with scheduling, bartending, and fry cook, but only when the club needs him, when I need him. He walks dogs during the morning and afternoon hours, sometimes in the evenings. It gives him available time to help me out at the club. I pay him under to table when this happens. He’s a good standby employee for me. The best. Someone I can rely on when I need him.

“Rocco doesn’t work outside of his schedule. He won’t do it.”

Car winks at me. He shares that adorable smile again: all teeth, narrow lips, tiny wrinkles around his mouth. “Trust me. He owes me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

How can I not know the details of Car’s life when he lives in the same house as I do? Are we this distant? Do we not share anything with each other? How close is he to Rocco Spar, one of the club’s regular dancers? Are they boyfriends? Have they slept together? What kind of past do they have that I don’t know about?

“You know Lock Sheldon?”

“I do.”

A nice guy. Married once. Has two sons in high school. Single now. Queer now. And he’s found his true self in the last year. A construction worker. Blue collar all the way. Sexy as hell. He’s looking for Mr. Right now that he’s divorced from Shannon Rae. Lock’s not the best dancer at the club, but he gives it a whirl. He holds his ground.

“Rocco wanted to introduce him to Lock. I set them up together. They’re on date number three and hitting it off just fine. Rocco told me he owes me a favor.”

“Will you call him?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll text him. Rocco only communicates with his thumbs.” This is how nice Car is. He’s using his favor with Rocco to help me out. Damn, the guy’s an angel or saint. He’s above and beyond a gentleman.

I understand. “If he says no, do you want to fill in and dance tonight?”

He laughs, thumbing his phone. “With my left feet? Do you want to lose all your business, Gyles?”

“No way. Forget about dancing.”

His phone dings. “Rocco responded. He’ll dance tonight. Plus, he said he had s*x with Lock. Big d**k. Great top. Rocco’s a happy man.”

“Tell him I said thanks.”

“Will do.”

He fetches a small roll of blue plastic bags that fits into his palm. “I have a dog to walk. Mrs. Glory’s St. Bernard.”

“Tiny. Isn’t that the dog’s name?”

He nods on his way out of the house with one of his favorite leashes in a back pocket of his jeans. “I like how you pay attention. You want to come? Maybe a walk will calm you down more.”

“Can’t. I have to get to the club.”

“No problem. We both have jobs. Things to do. It doesn’t run itself.”

He hugs me before he leaves the house: lightly, chests touching, head on my shoulder. His soft lips slide against the right side of my neck. Maybe he likes to kiss me. Maybe we’re more than a landlord and tenant. Is he falling for me after eight months? What’s going on? I’m not really sure.

I ignore the hug and kiss. Better things to do. A club to run. I don’t tell him he might be falling for the wrong guy, a certain someone whose club is running his life.

He waves goodbye and leaves the house.

I wonder when he’s had a boyfriend last. I should know this. How can I not know this because of all the morning cups of coffee we’ve shared in the last eight months? Does he miss living in Pittsburgh? Will he ever go back there to live? I wonder if he secretly works out because of his sexy tight ass. Does he have a gym membership somewhere in Templeton? Has he always walked dogs? Does he like cats? What’s his favorite color? Does he drink milk or eat bread? When is his birthday? Is he a top or bottom? Does he likes guys who look like me?

Hmmmmm…

He’s a mystery to me. Strangely, I wonder many things about Car that I don’t know the answers to, realizing we should spend more time together. Am I working too hard? Does the club really have to take up all my time and life? Am I far too dedicated to the place and not paying attention to other things in the world around me?

I do know a little about Car, though. He was born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Two wealthy cowboys adopted him when he was six months old. Car’s the only child of Brett Harding and Cliff Nelson. He’s had a good life, and he’s healthy. After growing up as a cowboy, he attended Texas A&M and obtained a degree in business. He gained a high-paying job and worked for the Westshire Foundation based in Pittsburgh; the company writes grants to protect animals. The foundation supports animal rescue, rehabilitation, research, and advocacy.

Car got tired of the job, the city, and moved to Templeton, Pennsylvania, next to Lake Erie. He’s told me he didn’t like the city noises anymore, the traffic, and craziness of downtown Pittsburgh. He wanted to change his life. Templeton called to him. My ad in the local paper for the spare room in the Cape Code called to him. We’re friends now. We’re roommates. I like having him around.

I stay behind. I take a shower. I drink a hot cup of coffee. I…

There’s a magenta-colored envelope on my bed. It sits on the left pillow. It says my name in script. I pick it up, slice it open with a thumbnail, and pull out a light blue note card. The note card has a personal message on it:

Gyles, thanks for everything you do for me. I’m very appreciative of your friendship. Car.

It’s not the first note card he’s left for me. It probably won’t be the last. He’s creative with this game, if it can be considered a game. I have approximately forty note cards from him in a shoebox in my bedroom. They say different things. Chin up, life is sweet. You look good today. Keep smiling. Be all you can be. Spread the joy. You’re losing weight, let’s have ice cream later. Don’t forget to be thankful.

I’ve told him to write a book with his warm slice-of-life anecdotes. Something short and sweet. Something that can make the world better.

Maybe he’s working on it. I’m not sure. I hope he is. Because his note cards always make me smile, and my heart to feel warm.

Car’s a good guy. One of the best I know. I care for him. But does he care for me more? Does he have tangled emotions for me? Again, I’m not sure. I guess time will tell. Perhaps someday, his feelings will be presented in one of his note cards.

I tuck the card away. In doing so, my cellphone rings. It’s Coben. I ignore it.

* * * *

Name: Rocco Spar

Club Member Number: 782-287-029

Stage Name: Spartan

Date of Birth: February 2, 1989

Occupation: Dancer

Height: Six-one

Weight: 182

Hair: Onyx

Eyes: Blue

Status: Single, but currently dates Lock Sheldon

Special Notes: Dark-skinned, maybe Pakistani, mysterious, quiet, a blur, but strangely attractive, hugely muscular, a gym monkey, tattooed arms and chest that tell stories of his past, but most men can’t get close enough to him to read his deceptive tales, except for Lock, of course