Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) (3 page)

Hadn’t she known this day was coming? After years of being
turned away despite doing her best and working hard at her craft, she couldn’t
ignore the writing on the wall any longer. She was too tall and not whisper
thin enough to be a dancer. As much as she loved dancing, the dream of dressing
up in beautiful costumes and traveling the country to perform in front of
millions of people wasn’t going to happen.

She sucked in a lungful of air and thought about her
parents. Eventually she’d call them and break the bad news. They’d tell her
that getting the rejection letter wasn’t a sign of failure, it was only life’s
way of pointing her in the direction she truly needed to be traveling.

“Think of Abraham Lincoln,” her father would say. “How many
times did he fail before becoming President of the United States? And didn’t he
turn out to be one of the best presidents in history?”

Then they’d remind her she was a Reynolds, and Reynolds were
made of tough stuff. This setback, albeit a hellacious setback as far as
setbacks went, wouldn’t destroy her. Not if she didn’t allow it.

Would she?

Would she let this latest rejection ruin her life? Doom her
to a miserable existence until she died all curled up in the fetal position in
some corner on skid row?

Tatum opened her eyes and glanced up at Heather. “We still
have any of that blue agave tequila in the freezer?”

Heather nodded. Concern filled her lovely hazel eyes.
“Enough for a few shots.”

“Good.” Though her disappointment was enough to swallow her
whole, Tatum squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “After we’ve finished
that, we’re putting on our party dresses. We’re going out.”

Finding a bar in Austin, Tatum had come to know, was a lot
like looking for hot sauce in a Mexican restaurant. Everywhere a person turned
they’d be sure to bump into at least one, if not many, all of which had their
own flavor. The trick to a really good night out involved choosing the
appropriate bar to match the occasion. Much like pairing up the right hot sauce
with the food being served.

Tonight’s occasion centered around failure. Her miserable,
gut-twisting failure.

She needed a place where she could get thoroughly drunk
while simultaneously forgetting that she’d been turned down by every hiring
dance company in the United States, she would probably never dance
professionally and she had enough cash in the bank to pay for another tank of
gas. Therefore a dive bar, the seedier the better, was in order. The joint that
met that set of criteria, as well as being not too far away from the townhouse,
was Iron Rods.

As Tatum followed Heather up the sidewalk to the club, she
remembered why she hadn’t set foot into the place since her first year of grad
school. The large cinderblock building painted a garish purple from roof to
foundation had no distinguishing characteristics other than being plain ugly
and depressing. Even the sign hanging over the front doors was dimly lit and
drab. The most cheerful thing around was Tatum’s strappy yellow sundress and
her red Western boots. Unfortunately, tonight this dive above all others suited
her mood.

Why not have a few drinks in a gloomy bar and watch some
other miserable person dance to chase away her despair? At least the guys
stripping inside were earning a living at it. And the dancers were hot, lightly
oiled men dripping with testosterone who would do just about anything to have a
few bucks stuffed into their thongs. If that didn’t elevate her spirits at
least a bit, nothing would. Well, that and maybe returning home to find Officer
Murphy waiting in her bed completely naked except for a cowboy hat and a
shit-eating grin.

Muffled, thumping beats from the loud music inside vibrated
through the concrete steps leading to the club entrance. A set of glass doors
blocked out with blood-red paint seemed to offer a warning to those thinking of
opening them.

A sense of foreboding sent an icy chill over Tatum’s skin.
She studied the building and its ominous doors. Maybe Iron Rods was a poor
choice after all.

Heather reached into the front pocket of her jeans and
pulled out a wad of bills, then thrust the cash into Tatum’s hand. “Here. This
is for you. I want you to have a really good time tonight.”

Alarmed, Tatum took a booted step closer, blocking the view
from the street. “Are you out of your mind? Flashing money in this neighborhood
will get us both killed.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the eternal cheerleader hissed
back. “The only person nearby is across the road and asleep on a bus bench.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Tatum realized her roommate was
right. “Fine. But I don’t need your money.”

The rolling of Heather’s eyes spoke volumes, including the
fact her rich daddy in Houston would send her bucketloads of cash if she picked
up her phone and asked for it. To her credit, Heather had yet to make that
call.

“I’ll pay you back.” Tatum tucked the bills into her purse.
“But this place seems pretty dead. Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
Like
home, where we can put a pillow over our heads and forget today ever happened.

“We’re just early.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“That just means we won’t have to compete for the dancers’
or the bartenders’ attention. Lucky us, we’ll have more booze and hunky men
than we’ll know what to do with. And,” Heather added, tugging one of the door’s
metal handles, “we’re already here.”

“Ladies, Ladies! Welcome to Iron Rods,” a chubby Hispanic
bouncer shouted over the deafening roar of the music.

He pocketed a cell phone and popped off the stool he sat on
with amazing agility. Wearing a ball cap turned backward over extremely short
hair, long denim shorts that reached just below his knees and a T-shirt that
had to be at least a triple X, he looked more like an overgrown kid than a
tough bouncer. Tatum wanted to reach over and pinch one of his chunky cheeks.

“The party is just getting started and is only gonna get
better now that you two fine
chulas
are here.” He gyrated his plump body
to the rhythm of the playing song. Without warning, he stopped on a dime, arm
straight in the air and his finger pointed toward the ceiling in a disco pose,
face serious but wholly ridiculous. “IDs, please.”

Although a wall blocked the view to the bar and the stage,
the club felt unnaturally empty. Besides themselves and the bouncer, no one
else could be seen or heard. An alarm clanged in Tatum’s head, but Heather was
right. They were here and they should have great service. What could be better?

Returning home and finding Officer Murphy waiting in my
bed completely naked except for a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin. That’s
what.

After showing their IDs and paying the outrageous cover,
they headed in. When they turned the corner, Tatum fought the impulse to turn
around and demand their money back. They had just entered hell.

The club was empty with the exception of a few ladies
sitting near the stage and a table of women who, from the looks of the helium
balloons floating up from their chairs, appeared to be celebrating a birthday.
At the back, a fog machine coughed out a thin gray haze, adding to the
oppressiveness of the dimly lit room. A lone male stripper with a paunch
protruding over his zebra-print G-string swiveled his hips on the main stage.
Two other dancers, if what they were doing could be called dancing, swayed back
and forth on small elevated platforms in fluorescent thongs. Nearby black
lights gave their unimpressive packages a strange iridescent glow.

Dark, smelling of stale beer and thoroughly sleazy, the
place couldn’t be more dismal or disgusting. Far worse than she remembered from
her last visit, which hadn’t been exactly spectacular. But at least then the
strippers had been good-looking and fit, with fairly impressive moves, not a
collection of potbellies in absurd thongs shuffling to and fro. If the three
men currently shaking their bonbons provided a sampling of the dance ensemble,
then things at good ol’ Iron Rods had gone from bad to downright hopeless.

Apparently sensing her desire to flee, Heather grabbed
Tatum’s arm and dragged her to the bar. “Isn’t this fun? We’re going to have
such a good time. What do you want to drink? I’m buying.” Ever the perky pompom
princess, Heather lifted the corners of her lips in a smile, though in the
gloomy light the effort resembled a grimace.

Wiping down glasses behind the bar stood a bald mountain of
a man with skin the color of night. His thin T-shirt stretched tight over
freakishly large muscles looked as though it would tear to shreds at any moment
and left nothing to the imagination. A thick silver chain encircled his
substantial neck and held a cross, which came to rest between two enormous
pecs. Devoid of any expression, his face was the most intimidating Tatum had
ever witnessed.

“What’s it going to be, ladies?” he asked in a voice so low
and powerful it sounded unholy.

A shiver of fear pricked down Tatum’s spine. She took an
involuntary step back. She opened her mouth to speak, but the ability to form
words had fled to the safety of the next county. In her life, she’d never lost
her power of speech or her capacity to launch zingers if the occasion called
for it. The man was truly scary.

“Two vodka and club sodas, please,” Heather ordered,
unaffected by the severity of the bartender’s looks.

Drinks in hand, they waded their way through a sea of
tightly packed but empty tables and chairs to the stage. They had no difficulty
finding a decent spot in the front row.

Overhead, the song playing through the crackling speakers
slowly wound down, as did the redheaded stripper on the main stage.

“Ladies, put your hands together and show some love for Mad
Dog,” an overly enthusiastic voice announced.

Tatum searched the dark room for the voice’s source. She
found a narrow set of steps that led to a loft outfitted with electronic
equipment. There a lone DJ sat, microphone in hand. She blinked, doubting her
vision. With the exception of the color of his shirt, the disc jockey looked
identical to the chubby bouncer.

The heavyset man tossed the mic to his left hand and flipped
a switch with his right, starting another song. “Now coming onstage, the man
you all have been waiting for. He’s a pirate with plenty of booty and an
amazing treasure. Let’s make some noise for Captain Chris!”

The few ladies in the club clapped and screamed as a
stripper in a ragtag pirate costume jumped out from behind a curtain onto the
stage. He pranced around in black Army boots, dodging and weaving in a
make-believe fight while slicing the air with a plastic sword.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tatum groaned. They were on
the town to help her forget her troubles, yet the club and everything in it
delivered nothing but disappointment. Rather than being lifted out of her funk,
she could feel her frustration build.

Heather pushed Tatum’s shoulder. “Will you stop already? At
least he’s better looking than the last guy.”

“That’s not saying much. My eighty-year-old Uncle Clyde
looks better than the last guy.”

Maybe going out at all had been a bad idea. Her feelings
were still too raw. Anger, melancholy and the sense of being an utter failure
swirled around in her head like the ice in her cocktail. Every decision she’d
ever made had revolved around being a professional dancer. If she couldn’t do
that, what would she do for the rest of her life? Make macchiatos?

When the music crescendoed, the stripper ended his swordplay
and tossed the fake weapon to the back of the stage. He stroked his chin as he
regarded his audience, occasionally pointing and waggling his eyebrows at
individual ladies. With an awkward flair, he removed the red-and-black-striped
sash he wore as a headband and tossed it to an elderly female standing near the
stage with several bills in her hand. Though the sash amounted to little more
than a long scrap of fabric, the aging woman rubbed it against her cheek as
though it were a prized possession. Piece by shabby piece, the stripper shed
his costume while more ladies crowded around to tuck money in his thong or
throw dollars at his feet.

Compared to the other dancers, Captain Chris was the most
handsome and his physique was by far the best. But neither the club’s poor
lighting nor his fake tan from a bottle could hide the block of white skin from
his neck down and up his biceps where a shirt had protected his flesh from the
sun.

“They should have named him Sailor Farmer Tan,” Tatum
quipped. She took a sip from her drink and frowned. “We did ask for vodka in
our club soda, right?”

“Huh?” Heather leaned over the small table. “I didn’t hear
you. It’s so loud in here.”

“Taste your drink,” Tatum said into her roommate’s ear.

“Oh, okay.” She lifted the glass to her lips, waited a
moment, then took another swig. She shook her head. “I don’t taste any
alcohol.”

Watered-down drinks were the last straw. The wild concoction
of emotions brewing within her bubbled over. The time for calm had passed. She
needed action. Something to release the rage and hurt trapped inside. She’d had
enough of being stomped on by life, and by God she would not sit still while
this seedy little club stepped on her as well.

Tatum picked up both drinks and marched to the bar, fury
feeding her temper. Something in her day was going to go right, and having a
decent drink to dull her pain wasn’t too much to ask for. So what if Conan the
bartender looked as though he could snap her in half. If he so much as blinked
the wrong way, she’d jump over the counter and make him wish he’d never poured
a drink in his life.

The bartender had his broad back to her and appeared deep in
conversation at the end of the bar with another man she hadn’t noticed before.
How she could have overlooked the stranger was a mystery.