Julian takes me to an exclusive nightclub on the Upper West Side, but there’s no single customer in sight. It appears it hasn’t opened up yet for the night. I tense up as I scan the vast bar area, manned solely by a muscled bartender in a classic vest and white shirt with tattoos on his arms.
But seriously? He brought me here? The professor really is peculiar.
Is this something he frequently does? Bringing women to nightclubs?
But nope. I’m not his woman.
“Mateo. My usual,” Julian says to the bartender as he approaches the bar.
“Si, señor. And for the señorita?” Mateo asks, his Spanish accent precise and clear. He also has a pretty high voice for such a large and powerful man. I bet he can sing in falsetto up to a higher C5 note.
“Mudslide, please,” I say. It’s my usual drink when Lo
