Wounds of Time Read online

  WOUNDS

  OF

  TIME

  WOUNDS

  OF

  TIME

  STEVIE D. PARKER

  atmosphere press

  © 2021 Stevie D. Parker

  Published by Atmosphere Press

  Cover design by Ronaldo Alves

  No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real places, persons, or events is entirely coincidental.

  atmospherepress.com

  In loving memory

  of Christopher

  VINCE

  I can remember it like it was yesterday: the day before Christmas Eve, 2011. Stock market had just closed, and two of the guys came into my office to grab me.

  “Vince, you ready?” Jimmy said.

  On that same day every year, a strip club a few blocks away opened early for us brokers. It was our “holiday party.” On the drive over, I clearly remember Jimmy asking me, “You going to pretend you like girls today?”

  I rolled my eyes. Jimmy was my right-hand guy and my best friend. He was a big guy, 6’5”, always well dressed. He liked showing off exactly how much he was worth. His sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the diamonds on his Rolex and carrying a Hermes briefcase that I poked fun at any chance I could. He always insisted on having his driver pick us up, even if we were just going a few blocks. He was extremely good-looking, at least that’s what the ladies thought. He never had any problems meeting women, and managed to score at least one number everywhere we went. I never could figure out why he didn’t mind paying for the attention of naked girls.

  “Hey, if I had his wife at home, I wouldn’t be looking at girls either,” Tom said.

  The guys loved talking about how hot my wife was. Samantha certainly was beautiful: brunette with blonde streaks, green eyes, great body. Always tan, no matter what the season. Cost me a lot of money for her to keep up with her body, between her personal trainer and enhancements. If you compared a picture of her now to when we’d first met, you wouldn’t even recognize her. Sure, she was hot—but not the same girl I met twenty years ago. I never quite understood why she felt the need to change so much.

  “Hey, I have a sixteen-year-old daughter at home, too—these girls don’t look much older than her. Sorry if I’m not creepy enough for you guys,” I said. They busted my balls every year, so I was used to it by now. I took off my tie and rolled it up.

  “Would you mind putting this in your murse?” I asked, handing the tie to Jimmy.

  “What’s a murse?” Tom asked, laughing.

  Tom wasn’t as good-looking or successful as either of us and he was much younger. He idolized Jimmy and me so much, he would have laughed at anything we said.

  Jimmy reached out and took the tie from my hand. “Well, Tom, it’s a man purse. I think Vince just has briefcase envy.” He smiled at me. “Where’s your jacket, sweetheart? Would you like me to hold that for you, too?”

  “I left it in the office—you get your nails done?” I asked, as I watched him place the tie in his bag. He held his hand up towards the window and examined his shiny nailbeds under the city lights.

  “I did, last night. See, that’s what I love about you, you notice the small things. On the topic of noticing, the only hard nipples I better ‘notice’ tonight are the ones on the chick on my lap. So, you’d better at least be wearing an undershirt,” Jimmy said.

  We kept giving each other shit as we entered the club. The interior was dimly lit, with drums pounding out a slow beat and red lights glimmering off the stage. The guys were already lining up by the stage, jostling each other to get the best view. I headed straight over to the bar to order a drink.

  Lou, one of the brokers, rushed over and intercepted me. “No wine at a strip club, Vince.” He looked at the bartender and said, “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Nicole.” The bartender batted her eyes and tossed her long wavy blonde hair with pink tips on the ends.

  “Nicole, get him a beer—a manly one.”

  I wanted a scotch, but I accepted the beer that Nicole poured from a tap and handed me.

  “Guinness manly enough?” she asked, looking at Lou.

  “Personally, I prefer blondes, but you’re right. I take Vince here as a stout guy, too,” Lou answered.

  Nicole grinned before walking to the register to add the drink to his tab.

  Lou lifted his glass to cheers me. “You know, up by the stage, they actually take their clothes off,” he said, after taking a sip.

  I didn’t respond, just half-smiled as he walked away. Samantha would be pissed if I came home too hammered. We hosted Christmas Eve at our house every year; I had no room in my schedule for a hangover. I settled on a barstool with my back to the stage. Every once in a while, one of the guys would come over to me, say Merry Christmas, and thank me for whatever it was they thought they were thanking me for. They were really just kissing my ass. I was their boss. Actually, I was their boss’ boss. If I were anyone else, they wouldn’t care enough to wish me much of anything.

  Nicole returned from the far end of the bar and paused across from me. “Why are you sitting here all alone?” She leaned over to emphasize her cleavage, as if her shirt wasn’t low enough already. She was probably in her thirties, so at least I didn’t feel too dirty talking to her.

  “Just enjoying my beer at the bar. Why, are you telling me you don’t want me near you?”

  “I didn’t say that, just wondering if you realized I don’t take my clothes off?” she said.

  I cracked a smile at her joke.

  “What does that mean?” I pointed at the Asian lettering inked into her forearm.

  “Live for the day.”

  “Live for the day,” I repeated, nodding. “I like that—funny, you don’t look Asian at all.”

  “You gay?” she said.

  “No, I’m not gay…I mean, not that I have anything against gay people. But I’m wearing a wedding ring.”

  She shrugged. “They just legalized gay marriage in New York, so theoretically, you can be married to a man. But, if you’re not gay, you should turn around. Not to say that I’m not enjoying your company of course, but the main act is coming out.”

  I turned my stool around. The opening notes of “Santa Baby” filled the room. A pretty, young Spanish brunette strolled onto the stage from the left. She launched right into her striptease act: shimmying around the stage, grinding against the pole, taking her clothes off. A redhead emerged from the right. Same routine, different side. The two women met at the pole—touching each other, doing the typical stripper thing. The guys up front were eating it up. Dollar bills out, whistling, yelling stuff at the girls. I never understood why these guys got such a kick out of this. Most of them had wives at home. Did they not have sex anymore? I’d never had to pay for a woman to take her clothes off and I certainly wasn’t going to start now.

  I was about to turn back to the bar when she appeared during the third verse, strolling right out to the middle of the stage. The girls to each side started taking the new dancer’s clothes off for her. She was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen: golden blonde hair, green eyes. And thankfully, not so young that she made me feel like a creep. She had a tattoo of a rose that started on the back of her neck. The thorns wandered down her spine, wrapped around her ribs, traveled down her stomach, and well, I could only imagine where they ended. Her body was a work of art. Extremely fit and defined, with breasts that weren’t too small or too big, but perfect. Obviously real. I was instantly mesmerized. Without taking my eyes off of her, I asked Nicole, “Who is that?”

  “Bian
ca. I figured you might like her. Most men do.”

  An understatement. I couldn’t stop looking at her, almost like I was in a trance. Trust me, I tried. I couldn’t even finish my drink. I placed the beer on the bar and slowly rose from my stool and walked toward the stage. To this day, I didn’t know why, but I started playing with my wedding ring—moving the metal band up and down my finger. Why was I so nervous? No idea. She was a stripper. Her act was what she got paid to do. But I kept fidgeting with my ring, so uncontrollably that the stupid thing flew off.

  Damn. I panicked, dropping to my hands and knees and crawling on the floor, frantically searching for my ring. The club was so dark—all of the light was directed at the stage. I turned on my phone’s flashlight, but I didn’t see so much as a hint of gold anywhere. Samantha was going to flip out if I came home without a ring. I mean, she knew we went to the strip club every year, but she’d wonder why I took it off. She’d be right to wonder. Stupid move, Vince.

  I glanced up for a brief moment, and holy shit. There she was—Bianca, on the floor, on her hands and knees crawling toward me. My body stiffened. All of a sudden, her hands were on me. She touched me, urging me to my feet. Directed me into an empty chair. In a daze, I followed her lead and sank into the seat. She was even more stunning up close. On my lap. Dancing for me. So natural, so real. So beautiful, I wondered why she was stripping at all. She could have easily landed a modeling career if she’d wanted one.

  While she danced on my lap, the guys cheered her on, whistling and applauding. I almost forgot all about the ring, or the fact that I was even married until out of the blue, she slipped her finger into my mouth. Staring right in my eyes, she seductively slid her finger out, leaving behind a small, hard object with a metallic taste. My wedding ring, in my mouth. She must have seen it fall off, or at the very least, noticed me looking for it. She winked at me and smiled—the most beautiful, most pure smile I’d ever witnessed.

  The entire encounter was the sexiest thing I’d ever experienced. I was so turned on that, for the first time in my marriage, I experienced thoughts about being with someone other than my wife. I wanted to take this woman somewhere, anywhere. Just the two of us, alone. I didn’t know how or why, but she made me lose control of all of my senses. Like she had some sort of magical power over me. I usually didn’t get intimidated by anybody, and yet this girl, who couldn’t have been taller than 5’2” in her bare feet, had me shook. I felt like I was in middle school again, crushing hard on a cheerleader. I slid the ring back on my finger and watched as she returned to the stage to finish her act.

  BIANCA

  When my act was over, I went back to the dressing room, pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of leggings, and got ready to head out. I was happy that I only had the one show. I shuffled through my bag to find the Red Bull that was now warm. I was so tired that I could actually feel the bags under my eyes, as if they weighed a pound each. It was already 6 p.m., and I still had to get home, do my workout, and practice my routine for the 2 p.m. Christmas Eve matinee. My feet were so numb that I could barely even feel them.

  There was a knock. I opened the door and there was Frank, the club manager. I was so exhausted that just the sight of his balding head, protruding stomach and nasty expression made me wish he was there to fire me.

  “There’s a man requesting to talk to you at the bar,” he said.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know, must have slipped my mind to take a message. Go find out,” he said, his lip curling before he stalked away.

  I slid into my jacket, grabbed my things, and walked over to the bar. I spotted him instantly—the poor guy who had been crawling around on the floor, desperately looking for his wedding ring. Wow. Now that I got a better look at him, I could see he was sexy. He wore a light blue button-down shirt that looked great with his dark hair and eyes, and he had a very nicely shaped goatee. Something about him suggested money, but not in an over-the-top, show-off way. He was sporting a really nice Rolex on his wrist and a thin, simple gold chain with a cross around his neck.

  I sighed. Sexy or not, I was in no mood to explain to another married broker why I wouldn’t give him a private dance. I hurried over to him, impatient to leave as quickly as possible.

  “My shift is over, and I don’t do personal dances,” I snapped.

  He seemed a little taken aback with my opening statement. “I’m not here for a dance; I just wanted to say thank you for giving me my ring back.”

  “You’re welcome.” I turned to leave.

  “Why didn’t you keep it?” he asked.

  Well, that was just insulting. I’d been warned about broker night—these guys really were something else!

  Annoyed, I pivoted to face him again. “Because I’m a stripper, not a thief. Oh wait, of course someone like you would think that if a girl’s stripping, she must be so desperately broke that she’d steal.” I had to admit, my tone was pretty nasty.

  He looked at the ground and made a face like he was embarrassed. Without lifting his head, he shifted his gaze back up to meet mine, like he was thinking of what he could possibly say to redeem himself from that last statement.

  “You’re right, that was a stupid assumption,” he said. “I’m sorry. If I looked like you, I’d probably be prancing around naked all day, too.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. He was actually quite charming.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I have a long day tomorrow. I can’t drink too much tonight.”

  “How about food? A meal? Not because I think you can’t afford to buy food by any means—just because I’d like to eat something with you. Anything you want… I’m not a picky eater. Please,” he said, making a ridiculous pouty face.

  Normally I would have turned down an offer like that, but there was something about him that enticed me. His smile, for one thing. He had such a nice, sincere smile. Perfect teeth and a dimple that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Plus, unlike most of the customers at the club, he looked me straight in the eyes when he spoke to me. The truth was, in that moment, I probably would have gone anywhere he wanted.

  “I know a place,” I said.

  As we walked, he told me he wasn’t a picky eater, but when I led him over to the little stand, he stared at the gyro cart as if I had just invited him to dumpster-dive. He shook his head and asked, “Seriously. I say anything you want, and you pick street meat??”

  I shrugged. “This is some good shit.”

  “Yeah, sautéed rat—real good shit,” he said.

  “It’s not rat; it’s lamb.”

  He gave me that lifted-brow look. “How many lambs you see frolicking around New York City?”

  I ignored him and looked up at the gyro man. He knew me well; I stopped there frequently. “Hey Bruno, two gyros with the works, please.”

  After Bruno dished them up, I handed one to him. He reluctantly took it, like the platter literally contained a live rat that might jump out and bite him.

  “Where are we even going to eat these?” he asked.

  “I know a quiet place.”

  He started following me as I walked toward the club.

  “Wait,” he said. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  I waited while he ran into the liquor store. A few minutes later, he emerged with a bottle of wine. I led him through the back entrance of the strip club, up the stairs, and to the roof.

  “Great view,” he said when we reached the top.

  It really was, especially at night. New York City all lit up. Beyond our rooftop, the Empire State Building stood majestic, glimmering red and green for Christmas. The lights spread all the way into New Jersey. I think sometimes it was hard for New Yorkers to truly appreciate how beautiful their city was, glowing at night. Even though I visited the roof frequently, I still often felt like a tourist, with the way I was enthralled by the whole scene.

  “We’re l
ucky the weather is okay. Remember the blizzard last Christmas Eve?” he asked.

  “How could I forget? I was stuck in my house for days. I love this place. I come here to think sometimes,” I said.

  He pulled out a cheap wine opener that he’d bought in the liquor store and opened the bottle. There was a nook on the roof that we were able to sit on. I was surprised when he sat right down without commenting on the cement being too dirty or cold.

  “They didn’t have glasses, so I guess we’ll have to drink it out of the bottle,” he said. “I know you said you didn’t want to get drunk, but a little wine won’t hurt anyone. Plus, I’m sure you have somewhere to be tonight.”

  “I don’t, actually. I hate Christmas. Also, I hope that bottle wasn’t too expensive. I don’t know the difference between good wine and bad wine.”

  He handed me the bottle. “Try it.”

  I took a swig.

  “Wow—that’s really good!”

  Normally I found red wine to be dry and bitter, but this was very smooth. Not too sweet. Tasted like they’d just blended the fruit together a second ago.

  He smiled. “Then I guess you do know the difference. It’s my favorite. And by the way, what’s wrong with you? Who hates Christmas?”

  I avoided his question by asking some of my own. “How old are you?”

  “Forty-one. You?” he said.

  “Twenty-five.” Older, but not too old. “What’s your name?”

  “Vince.”

  “Is that short for Vincent?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I like Vincent—does anyone call you Vincent?”

  “Not in years. My mother used to but usually only when she was mad, and it was more like, Vincent Anthony!”

  “Can I call you Vincent?” I asked.

  He paused to put his gyro down in his lap. He gazed directly into the eyes. “You can call me whatever you want.”