BOOK ONE
First Strike
“Beware of one’s desires:
they can be our savior or our assassin.”
The Strategist
– 1 –
Chrissy
August 26th | 8:00pm
Houston, Texas
Five months earlier…
128 days until the Narco-Attack
On that clear-moon evening, many in the city—the one they call Houston, Texas—had departed from the responsibilities of their days to engage in the passions of their nights.
One of those many—a beautiful, young woman of promise and potential—slept peacefully in a bed safely encased within a well-furnished apartment. Five hours had passed since she removed that hideous pair of orange slacks from her store’s ‘featured’ rack. Orange was clearly a fall color, and, in Houston, fall started in October! Such, were the weighty decisions a fashion executive-on-the-grow must make.
Indeed, her days were engaged in the pursuit of a dream-career in women’s apparel. Her nights, however, were devoted to the desires of others. For, in the night, she was the other man’s daughter and no family’s child. A fresh, female beauty—smooth, refined, and of the twenty-one-year-old sort. Her personality—sparkling; her attentions—sought; and, for $20 a dance—her sensual excitements were provided.
For in the night, she was a stripper.
Christine Catherine Parker—Chrissy to her many friends—awoke to the unrelenting chirps of an alarm clock. Red numerals blazed forth the first truth of the evening: 8pm had arrived. Long, blonde hair cascaded across her pillow as she reached toward the nightstand and popped the snooze button. Her thoughts slowly drifted into conscious form.
Okay, ‘have to be at work by 9:30pm or pay that irritating door girl a late fee. Plenty of time… just gotta’ get up.
Then, she pulled the covers over her head and fell back asleep.
Born and raised in Houston, Chrissy was the family’s second child and only daughter. Her father—a busy oil executive; her mom—a prominent socialite: the family was close-knit only by the tenuous threads of wealth.
“I am what happens when the Boardroom meets the Junior League,” she would say to friends trusted to keep their silence. Sheer wonder, the marital union lasted long enough to create two children—yet, it did. Younger sister; older brother—the perfect family, or so it seemed to parents attached to reality by only a thread.
The family hailed from the proper, if not somewhat socially-restricted community of Memorial. Located a dozen miles west of Houston’s downtown area, this pocket-township bounded itself by economics—the invisible fence of mortgages. The well-to-do residents appreciated the exclusivity of their township. Of more importance to Chrissy: their five-bedroom home was a twenty-minute drive to the Galleria shopping mall; fifteen minutes in her sporty red Miata convertible; and ten on big sale days.
There were a lot big sale days!
Chrissy had graduated with honors from Memorial High School. The young woman then caused her parents a near fit of apoplexy when she refused to adopt one of the state’s two academic religions: the University of Texas and Texas A&M.
Jack Parker, her father, was a reverent Aggie. The man bled maroon and had dressed Christine in the school color from her birth until the notions of female puberty ruled out the stoic hue as a fashion option. When discussions of college came, the hopeful dad made many promises of tuition and spring break trips. Chrissy carefully considered the Aggie way of things: four years—dressed in ruddy brown, renamed?
Not going to happen.
Sandy Parker had graduated from the University of Texas, and her parents considered it a damn shame she’d married outside their faith. They figured matters could be set right with Chrissy and plotted their own college strategy. But, no such luck for the aged and fashion-unaware. U.T.’s school color was burnt orange. That was a fall color, and blondes with creamy skin were most surely spring-summer girls.
“How about the University of Texas, honey?”
Nope, not a chance.
When high school graduation neared, the college decision remained unmade. Instead, Christine Catherine Parker shocked her family and more than a few friends by accepting a promotion to assistant manager of her fashion boutique.
Yes, a college education mattered, but Chrissy also had a passion for her work. Week after week, throughout high school, she had sold more clothes than all of the other salesgirls, combined. This was not hard for an emerging fashion magnate to accomplish. Her store had the good taste to offer alluring styles for young women of the size zero to four varieties.
Chrissy split the difference at two: small enough to dazzle; large enough to encourage the size-six gals to endure the crushing pressures of a four. With a smooth appearance and a smoother style, she was adept at convincing her young female clients to apply daddy’s credit card in search of the most elusive of all girl-quests: looking hot!
The one-way transaction of fashion-sold was not all that enticed Chrissy. Her store provided an employee discount, and, with it, she spent less money buying clothes than she made selling them. Well, usually. But, during periods of profit or loss, Chrissy served in what she considered Heaven. That particular Heaven was twenty-five minutes away by her mom’s pace of driving; twenty minutes when she hit the lights right; and fifteen on big sale days.
The store’s assistant manager always knew when the big sale days were coming!
With her fashion store promotion in hand, Chrissy then applied to the University of Houston. Her reasoning was astute: U.H. offered a solid retail business management degree, and the school’s trademark color—scarlet red—matched her car. ‘Always acceptable, dressing for the ride—particularly on big game days!
So rarely are fashion preferences applied to the matter of college selection; so surely they were by Chrissy. Tuition was paid, classes were scheduled, the wardrobe went red, and the University of Houston had their aspiring fashion executive.
The three years since her high school graduation had passed easily. Chrissy, now twenty-one, would graduate in the spring with admirable grades and retail store management experience. A promotion to a corporate buyer position at her store’s New York City headquarters had already been promised. Her savings account of $15,000 sat in waiting for the move.
The truth—a quietly kept secret: although clothing sales did not pay well, stripping did. Chrissy had learned that lesson a year earlier when an attractive female client revealed the source of her enviable fashion budget.
The next night brought the young woman’s first visit to a topless bar. The manager introduced himself, and the standard interview proceeded: strip down to panties and dance on the precarious perch of five-inch heels. Both, Chrissy could do. It took a couple of drinks to get to the strip-down part, of course.
Six, by specific count.
The following week, the gorgeous blonde made her debut in the club. A drink was poured into her, and then another. Four more—and the top came off. To no one’s surprise, men threw their cash at the newest and prettiest of the strippers.
Three days later, an interest-bearing savings account posted a $700 deposit. In a year, Chrissy had saved enough money to pay for her move to NYC, rent an upscale apartment, and seamlessly step into the big leagues of the fashion apparel business.
The alarm clock began its second set of unwelcome chirps. Chris again reached to hit the snooze button. Her bedmate awoke, and a pair of chestnut-brown eyes settled upon her. She gazed back into the warmth.
“Hey buddy—mind if I sleep a bit longer?”
Patient, though her companion was, and of great care to lie still in their bed as long as possible, he fidgeted in his place. Intelligent silence spoke of the second truth of the evening.
I really gotta’ go pee!
The girl acquiesced with a comfortable hug shared with a warm, fuzzy dog.
“BH, you are so patient. Yes, of course, I’ll take you out. ‘Have to get up anyway. Wanna’ go… walking?”
Upon hearing those treasured words, BH bounded from his station at the foot of Chrissy’s bed and bolted to his box of dog-things. Within moments, the sixty-pound Keeshond—equally gifted in both fur and intelligence—returned with a walking leash stationed in his mouth. This, he placed within easy reach of his girl’s hand, lest no mistake be made concerning the aforementioned offer to go for a walk.
“Hey,” Chrissy whispered. “Help me wake up our roomie.”
Still inside the game they played on Chrissy’s work nights, BH barked his most sincere dog-yes and raced off toward the apartment’s second bedroom door. The blonde arose from her bed and set about the evening’s most entertaining, albeit somewhat dangerous duty. With a handful of dog treats retrieved from a container stationed upon the neatly arranged kitchen counter, Chrissy moved to the door and knocked.
“No answer, BH. Let’s try again.” A second, louder knock returned no stirrings. “Okay, you know the drill. Just remember—run like hell if the girl starts swinging. Ready?”
A joyous dog-yes was barked in return.
Chrissy threw the door open and lofted several of the biscuits in a neat arc. They landed in the middle of her roommate’s bed. “Okay boy! Go get ’em!”
BH launched himself in a matching trajectory. An irritated female’s voice penetrated sharply from underneath the sheets.
“What tha’ fuck? Parker! Color me—pissed!”
Lisa Hanson’s evening had begun with the pounce of a furry, rambunctious Keeshond. Sixty pounds of such, that is.
– 2 –
Lisa
Friday, August 26th
8:30pm
Houston, Texas
Chrissy’s roommate threw the sheets back and bolted up in bed. Eyes unfocused, hair disheveled—she was in the perfect position for an impromptu slathering by dog-kisses. Still within the boundaries of what BH considered a sporting game between friends, he knew to extend a few wet ones, quickly collect the remaining goodies, and then make a hasty retreat. Ear-tweakings and nose-thumpings had been administered on more than one occasion to the unwise dog who misjudged the temper of a rudely-awakened female.
“Wake up princess! ‘Time to rise and be beautiful,” Chrissy cooed in the sweet, mocking voice an attractive girl bestows only upon another of her kind. “It’s the last night of the Gas Supply Conference. Guys, Strippers, and Cash! Rich businessmen with no common sense! Whooo-hooo!”
Elizabeth Ellen Hanson—Lisa to the few people she wanted to know—glanced to her left and then to her right. Several moments passed before the surroundings of the room looked familiar. Her bedroom. In bed. Must be morning. No—night. Well, morning-night. Oh… whatever.
Her eyes were still unfocused—searching—as she uttered the third truth of the evening: “I wanna’ a bump of cocaine. No, make that two bumps. What do I get instead? A dog pouncing—every damn time.” The brunette frowned at her roommate. “Once—just once—couldn’t you throw a couple baggies of coke and not those freakin’ dog treats on my bed to wake me up?”
“Uh-uh. BH wouldn’t move a paw. Dogs don’t like drugs. They are too smart to mess with that stuff.”
“Yeah, well, they should,” Lisa muttered.
Chrissy smiled as she turned to leave. “The fluff-hound and I are going for a walk. Then, I have to call my brother for our weekly disagreement. I love him to death. I just wish he’d shut up about the stripping thing.” Words trailed her as she headed toward the apartment’s front door. “You have thirty minutes to come alive and get ready. I am not paying the late arrival fee again!”
“Whatever, bitch.” Then, Lisa plopped back down onto her pillow—or was it a ball of clothes under the sheets? Like that mattered at 8:30pm in the morning.
Whereas Chrissy’s world had been one of wealth and privilege, Lisa had grown up with deprivation and hardship. Her father—a distant memory of alcoholic rages; her mother—a current nightmare created by the OxyContins and Percocets of the medicinal world; and not one strand of sanity wove the family together.
Lisa had been left alone to raise herself yet sailed through high school with honors. As usual, her mom was far too blown to find the school, much less the auditorium, on the night of graduation.
Lisa’s older brother had disappeared years ago. He had a career in Chicago with some magazine; she wasn’t quite sure which one and didn’t care. Phone calls came only on holidays and were measured affairs of family indifference. This was a happy arrangement for a girl who had learned to trust only herself.
Alone meant safe.
Despite her hard circumstances of her childhood, the neglected young woman had grown into a vivacious beauty of uncanny intellect. Dark-haired and dark-eyed—Lisa had a suggestively alluring personality. Her sensuality stroked men’s desires. Then, when she wished to, she crushed their hearts. Lisa considered that the ultimate girl-sport.
Abused at age fifteen by one of her mom’s more heinous choices of boyfriends, Lisa had developed two methods for dealing with the opposite sex: take money from men and never be in a relationship with one.
That simple philosophy then guided her six-year career as a stripper at Houston’s premier topless bar—The Pump Room. Stripping, partying, the occasional for-fun-and-profit fuck of a minimally-disgusting client—this seemed enough to Elizabeth Ellen Hanson. And, now, finally, a sane roommate! Other strippers, she had learned by painful outcomes, were the worst of all possible choices. Sloppy housekeeping, constant partying, and customers over for more than the customary things: this was not acceptable to Lisa. Well, except if it was her housekeeping, partying, or customer home-visits in question.
Then, Chris arrived, and this one had some promise! It had taken a while to teach the shy blonde how to deliver decent table dances and not freak out when guys tried to put their hands down her panties—which most did. But, within two months, the money was flowing in. Chrissy made $400 to $600 for each night’s work. Lisa worked five nights a week and brought home $3000 or more.
Yet even in the ‘more’ weeks, her bank account never seemed to grow. Drinking was expensive; drugs insanely so; and, her roommate’s discount privileges did not extend to the hot outfits Lisa’s 5’7″, built-for-pleasure body deserved. The biggest cash drain came on the 15th of every month—that damn bill for the breast implants!
Lisa had given some thought to fucking her plastic surgeon; he was well known for accepting payment delivered by a personal touch. Unfortunately, he was ugly and married. Only the first attribute disqualified him, of course.
The front door of their Houston apartment closed, and Lisa awoke again. Chrissy appeared in her bedroom doorway, slightly winded from the walk.
“Have fun last night, party girl?”
“Oh, geez—last night? Fraunk and I were wired until 11am this morning! He’s got this new coke supplier—a weird-named guy. Fiyoz, or Fezzy, or some other sand-jockey name. ‘Didn’t think those types dealt, but damn—the coke he sells is ridiculously fabulous. ‘Something about being ‘ultra pure’.”
“So you stopped your ultra-pure party at 11am, or you ran out of drugs at 11am?”
“Same thing. The worst news is Fraunk can’t get any more of the stuff for three weeks! Why in God’s name is it so hard to find a dependable drug dealer?”
“Oh, the burdens of your life, Hanson. How do you survive them?” Chrissy grabbed the end of the comforter and popped it off the bed. A flurry of panties and short skirts fluttered into the air. Lisa frowned and started to speak. Her words were cut off.
“Shut up and get up girlfriend. We have to check in by 9:30.” The blue-eyed beauty surveyed the damage done by the night’s previous escapade. “Babe, Fraunk’s gonna’ need some extra time with your hair and make-up, tonight.”
Lisa looked into her dresser mirror. Yeah, it was a little out of place but what wasn’t in her life? Brown eyes focused back without apology.
“Well, screw you and your perfect hair. And where’s that furry dumb-ass?”
“On the couch, waiting for you, with his leash in his mouth. He is hoping you’ll take him for a walk before we head out to the club.”
“No way. I don’t do dog walks this early in the morning—particularly with that one. Too much fur, too little brains.”
“God, you are such a hooker. BH is your dog.”
“Yeah, well I am trying to fix that problem.”
“Well, fix it on the way to the club. Now get up.”
Lisa looked down at her feet and frowned. Only one was still encased in a black stiletto heel.
“Hey, Chris—‘you seen my other shoe?”
“You left it at the plastic surgeon’s office.”
“Damn. I’ll probably have to fuck him to get it back.”
– 3 –
The C-level Boys
Friday, August 26th
8:50pm
Houston, Texas
Houston, Texas! Whooo-hooo! The self-proclaimed Oil & Gas Business Capital of the World! Perhaps yes; perhaps no; but, judging by the pilgrimage of thousands of petro-biz executives to its annual Gas Supply Conference—the city was surely a Mecca of the industry.
The GSC had rolled into town on Monday. This was the kick-off for a week of non-stop business action studded with the sparkling cocktail parties and the backroom deal-making that determined the nation’s ability to heat and power itself.
At its confluence, executives from across the globe mixed, mingled, negotiated deals, and, at times, even behaved sanely. Each day sparkled with stunning announcements of company start-ups and strategic partnerships; each evening brought the taunting stories of who got hammered the night before and why his wife must never find out.
Friday—the last day of the conference—the C-level boys flew into town. Private jets from around the world; limos by the caravan; American Express cards by the wallet-full—the gas patch vibrated with power. Hidden meetings convened, and pens inked the biggest deals of the year. Then, finally—Friday night; the top executives loosened their ties and let the real business parties roll.
Whooo-hooo!
And, what a place for the party to roll! Houston was the Mecca of a second type of industry: strip clubs. Numbering more than mothers and priests wished to count, each had a private legion of young women who undressed in tantalizing ways. It was the business of teasing and pleasing—tops down, heels on, cash on the table, and no mercy shown!
On one side of the table dance: the gas patch executives—each sporting a teenager’s zeal to misbehave. On the other side: the young strippers—expert in the art of relieving men of their wealth. Money and power versus beauty and pleasure; the girls would win, and they knew it.
It was Friday night, and their C-level boys would soon arrive at their strip clubs. The CEO’s and CFO’s; the Chief Marketing Officers and Chief Technology Officers—the men who bought and sold the natural gas an entire nation depended upon: they commanded their employees respect, owned the company stock, and they had the corporate expense accounts!
Kane Hamilton and Bud Gossett were C-level boys and elite among the elite. Kane was the CEO of the New York Gas Pipeline. On one end, his network of pipes connected to the transcontinental pipe operated by TranState. On the other end, his system linked to hundreds of upstate customers. Kane controlled the flow of energy to massive industrial companies, city cooperatives, and the vast storage facilities that regulated the gas supply for a quarter of New York State.
Now a thirty-year veteran of the industry, Kane made his success the hard way. For years, he worked late, saved his money, and then bought a small gas network. The NYGP went big in the early 1990s when the Federal Energy Regulatory Committee issued their 636 order: a mandate that deregulated the gas transmission market. Overnight, hard-balling capitalism descended into the patch as independents bought and sold gas in competition with the major pipelines. Many companies tried; some survived; a few prospered; and inside one, Kane Hamilton’s steel will and his need for complete domination powered up full bore. The New York Gas Pipeline company’s fortunes skyrocketed. Years upon years of profit ensued, and now Hamilton could walk away from his business with hundreds of millions in gas patch money.
Big and barrel chested; harsh-spoken; and sometimes downright mean—Kane’s management style was as simple as it was effective: fire the incompetents before it becomes necessary to shoot them.
This was Hamilton’s last visit to the Conference, and he made the trip for a different reason than the usual schmooze, booze, and cruise action. He would fire an incompetent. Or, shoot him. With either outcome, his company would soon have an opening for a new President.
Hamilton wanted a young go-getter; someone with his energy and zeal for the industry; someone he could trust to take over the reins of his company—and that someone, he believed, was a deer-fuck named Bud Gossett: the Chief Marketing Officer of the New Jersey Gas Supply Company.
NJGS served eastern New Jersey, and western, and northern, and southern—well, all of New Jersey, to get right down to it. Bud Gossett was twenty-five years the junior of Kane Hamilton, but even at age thirty-six, his industry savvy had made its mark. His deals were clean, his clients were happy, and his competitors were left beaten and whining. Gossett’s business strategy: if there’s a brick wall ahead—speed up.
Bud’s marketing degree was from Rutgers, and, while there, he played football. Four years—first-string middle linebacker; the type of player who would find a way to put his helmet into someone—anyone—every down he was on the field. Off the field, a bright and engaging personality made him likable to his peers. Rugged good looks made him desirable to the women. Yet, his career dominated his life, and no one special answered his calls home. The business challenges of the gas patch are what heated the man’s heart.
In concept, natural gas marketing was a simple business. The C-level boys purchased gas pumped from wells in the Gulf of Mexico then piped it to the northeast through TranState’s 2000-mile-long pipeline. The gas was then resold to retail customers at a higher price.
The tricky part was to buy the right amount, at the right time, then sell it at the best price, at the best time. The trading day always ended, and, when it did, the only question was the color of the numbers: the black of financial profit or the red of business loss. Gossett posted numbers so black they were awarded a bold font in his company’s annual report.
There were the hard years of the Great Recession: red numbers ran deep, and the gas flowed slowly. But business was thriving once again! It was time to celebrate and what better place to conduct the celebration than at the most prestigious of all GSC events. TranState’s Friday evening dinner: a $75,000 gala hosted by the most powerful pipeline company in the world. Ninety of TranState’s best clients, their C-level boys, would be served the finest of food and drink by an army of waiters, a legion of bartenders, and an following-camp of cute, young hostesses.
From this lofty perch of corporate hospitality, TranState would debut the dinner event’s crowning spectacle: an ice carving! This year’s artistic effort promised to be the most extravagant ever: a replica of the TranState gas pipeline!
Some might have wondered about the aesthetic beauty of a pipeline carved from a thirty-foot-long block of ice, but the debate would last only until the flow valve was opened. Then, Champagne would pour freely from both ends of the ice pipeline, and, as the night progressed, comments of appreciation would flow in equal measure.
Damn fine ice carving Ryder! Don’t those TranState folks know how to deliver the bubbly! Whooo-hooo!
Dana Ryder, TranState’s VP of Operations, was responsible for hosting the affair. Hers, was the task of delivering the party extraordinaire’. As a warm-up to the culinary festivities, she had reserved the Galleria Maxxim’s hotel bar for the exclusive use of TranState’s top customers. By 8:30pm, Dana stood on watch in the only quiet section of the room: the one farthest from the cute hostesses—her honeys in the hive—and, my, how her boy-bees loved to dance around them!
Ryder’s marketing manager joined her. An overstuffed briefcase, two clipboards, and a harried look accompanied the junior-level executive. The young woman—three years out of college and five more before she would be of much use at all—surveyed those who stood in line at the bar.
“So—your first TranState Executive Dinner. Tell me what you see.”
The marketing manager cast a quick side-glance at the bar where drinks were pounded and shots were downed at a rate that would shame the lesser mortals of mass-consumption.
“It’s amazing how a few scotches can transform the power elite of the gas business into adolescent boys.”
“Yep.” Dana issued an across-room smile to a Delaware customer as he tried to drink Champagne directly from the ice-carved pipeline. He slipped and plunged head-first into the stream of bubbly. “The only difference between men and boys is the size of their—”
“Toys?”
Ryder shook her head and laughed as her Delaware customer decided a second, voluntary head-dunking might speed up the absorption of alcohol into his bloodstream. “No, honey, the size of their stupid mistakes.”
The TranState marketing manager giggled. A second frown from her boss snapped the young’n back into an all-business demeanor. Dana pointed toward Kane Hamilton as he entered the bar with his usual flourish of smiles and nods.
“There he is—that’s Kane: the CEO of the New York line. He wants Bud Gossett at his table. You got the seating chart right—didn’t you?”
A clipboard was scanned, and a nervous rustle of papers delayed the answer.
“Well—?”
“Uh, yes—Bud Gossett, sitting at table six. Front and center, next to Mr. Hamilton. Why is that so important?”
Dana shot a disapproving glance at her protégé.
“Because, Kane said it was important. Now, go find Bud. He’s in here somewhere. ‘Can’t miss him—tall, good looking, dark hair, and in great shape. He’s wearing a blue polo. When you find him, introduce yourself as my event manager, offer to buy him a drink, and then escort him to meet Kane.”
The younger woman smiled. Good looking, huh? Top gas patch executive—he has a lot of money.
Dana cut her off in mid-thought. “Remember the platinum rule for female executives. Never flirt with clients. We hire girls to do that for us—among other things.” Dana’s assistant blushed. “Now—get Bud next to Kane. Quietly. The hidden favors count the most.”
Dana watched as her marketing manager herded Bud toward the bar. Hamilton turned, noticed his presidential quarry, and hoisted his third shot of scotch to make a toast.
“Gossett! You gas-marketing deer-fuck!” he bellowed. “Get your ass over here son, we gotta’ deal to do.”
The two exchanged a handshake. “Kane, sorry for being a little late. I have two field reps in town for the show, and they needed to whine about how tough business in the New Jersey patch is these days.”
Hamilton leveled a glance. “So what did ya’ tell them?”
“Nothing. I let them whine.”
“Well, that’s not very motivational. I expected a different answer, Gossett.”
“They aren’t the ones I need to motivate. I hired their replacements two weeks ago and will fire them next if they whine.”
The salt-haired CEO chuckled and slapped a broad, fit shoulder. “That’s my boy—now we really have to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Dana asked as she joined the two men.
Hamilton’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Bud, maybe we oughta’ tell Ryder about the bet we made last year. God knows I can’t brag about it to my wife.”
Dana laughed. “This is going to be trouble. What have you two boys gotten into now?”
“Gossett’s got a bet to pay off.”
The TranState Operations VP sipped her Martini to hide a wry smile. A bet between the boys—one of the great devices men use to afford themselves a chance to misbehave. “So, let’s hear it. What did you two wildcats bet on?”
“Rutgers,” Bud answered miserably. “I played football there.”
Dana nodded. I know more about you than you can imagine, Buddy-boy. “You were the middle linebacker—first string, all four seasons. All-conference, the last two.”
Her personal knowledge was returned with delight. “Damn, Ryder, you’re good. No wonder we buy all our gas from you.” Then, he turned toward the main banquet room and pointed. “Hey—let’s get seated for dinner.”
Dana provided no escape; she wanted to see this one play out. “Nice try, Bud. Dinner can wait. I own it. Now—what’s the bet?”
Hamilton laughed. “You gonna’ let this lady beat you up? Just go ahead and tell her. She’s a big girl.”
The younger gas executive cleared his throat with embarrassment. “Okay… Hamilton’s crew and my crew ended up at the same strip club last year. After a few rounds, we started talking football, and I bet Kane twenty that Rutgers would make it to the college football playoffs.”
“Rutgers? Top four in college football? Not even close, Buddy-boy.”
Gossett’s lips pursed as he frowned. “Yeah, thanks for the update. Anyway, the bet was for twenty, and I guess it’s time to pay.”
Dana returned a taunt. “You two big shots bet twenty dollars? A whole twenty? Wow, how can your shareholders stand the pain?”
“Whoa there missy!” Kane’s scotch glass shook with the ice-rattle of ego. “Who said anything about twenty dollars? Deer-fuck here owes me twenty table dances. That’s $400. Plus, I might add, several rounds of motivational liquor for the stripper lucky enough to sit in my lap.”
Ryder’s eyes rolled. “I should have figured. There’s no vice like executive vice. Our dinner ends at 10:30, so you boys will have plenty of time to chase the G-strings. Do I need to recommend a club so you don’t take anything home that will set fire to your wife’s temper or my gas?”
Both men responded in unplanned unison: “The Pump Room.”
Ryder sighed. “Of course. Home of the proverbial CFMP.”
Bud questioned her by look.
“CFMP? C’mon Bud. ‘Come Fuck Me Pumps’. Those are standard issue for the girls of erotic pleasure and monetary ploy; the ploy being—take your cash in exchange for their pleasures.”
The three gas executives shared a laugh, and Dana signaled for another round of drinks.
“When you two are ready, I’ll have one of our limousines take you there—and get you back. Just be careful, guys. We don’t want to lose any of you to the barbarians of vice.”
Kane’s voice responded with burly confidence.
“We are the barbarians of vice.”
Whooo-freakin’-hooo!—was he ever wrong.
– 4 –
A Cuban Smuggler
Friday, August 26th
8:55pm
Houston, Texas
Ernesto Garcia was not a bright man. Maybe it was the Tequila he constantly drank; maybe it was his lack of education; but, like all men of Hispanic heritage, he knew who to respect and who to fear.
He respected his mother and grandmother. They were strong women of Cuban descent. To earn their descendants a better life in America, both of them had braved the drowning waters between Cuba and Florida. He feared Alejhandro Salazar, the head of the Cuban mob in Miami.
Recruited some years back as a driver for the ruthless drug lord, Ernesto was quickly promoted to the responsibilities of a smuggler. The work afforded his family the advantages of wealth, and, more importantly, he gained a status of enviable nature. El Jefe trusted him to run drugs worth more than his life.
Ernesto Garcia—El Pescadero (fisherman)—could quickly find the submerged packages of cocaine that lay in waiting off the shoreline of Miami. Well, usually. Sometimes, he had to find the Tequila bottle first.
Ernesto sat up in his bed. He checked his watch for the fifth time in three minutes: 8:58pm. Soon, the call from Alejhandro would come. He gazed at the table in the corner of the hotel room. A half-empty bottle and the Engineer’s laptop computer stared back.
The machine made the Cuban shudder; it seemed to have eyes that followed him, no matter where he stood. Another shot might calm his nerves, but if Salazar suspected he was overdrinking while assigned to such matters as watching those loco Jihadists, Ernesto and his family would suffer—those in Miami, as well as those still in Cuba. El Jefe’s reach was immense, and he killed the family to punish the one who had failed him.
The room Ernesto occupied was sparsely furnished with an uncomfortable bed and unattractive furniture made from a pressed wood that had shed its laminated bark. The window curtain’s color matched the rust stains in the bathroom sink. The ceiling fan rotated in uneven circles, and the television made no sound. The drug smuggler looked around in disgust. His pocket money could pay for any room in Houston. But, the Engineer had insisted on this type of hotel, and El Jefe’s instructions were clear: do exactly as Ibrahim asked. For now.
Quiet grumbling accompanied El Pescadero’s short walk to his bottle of Tequila. Next to it sat a flat brown package stuffed with pictures of naked chicas. Later that night, he would smuggle it into the second Muslim’s travel bag. Garcia took a swig and laughed. American pornography for an Islamic Jihadist—so gozar (fun), these efforts to corrupt Allah’s faithful!
The phone rang. El Pescadero jumped at the sound, drew in a deep breath, then answered the call.
“Ernesto—how are you?”
“Todo esta bueno (things are good).”
Alejhandro’s voice roared back with immediate disapproval. “I will tell you for the last time—speak English! We do not want the Muslims to think we are talking behind their backs.”
“Sorry, Jefe. I forget some things.”
“Perhaps one day you will need to forget your family.” Salazar allowed a silence to punctuate his threat before he continued. “Now—are you alone?”
“Si (yes).”
“Ibrahim, Mahmoud—have they arrived safely from Miami?”
Ernesto swallowed hard. The bus trip for the two Arabs had been a long one. Against the orders of El Jefe, he had flown to Houston. Twenty hours of road time on a bus? No bueno (not good) for a Cuban with money! The smuggler’s Tequila-soaked mind flurried with fear. A death sentence would follow if Salazar learned of the flight. Perhaps good news could save him.
“El Jefe! I met another one of the Jihadists! His name is Fayez.”
Alejhandro flew into a rage. “Uno?! The American authorities insist the world is full of fucking Muslim terrorists and hunt them with billions of dollars. But, no—not with us! Terrorists call from half-a-world away to introduce themselves! And, you have met only one? Esta de la pinga (that’s screwed up!)”
“Jefe—you told me to be careful. ‘Make no mistakes of hurry’,” you said. There was a self-deprecating tone in Garcia’s voice.
Salazar eased his words in reply. “Okay, Ernesto. Just keep close to Ibrahim. He will lead you to more of their ring. Now—what are you doing tonight?”
“We are going to a strip club. Ibrahim wants to learn of this American lust for cocaine. He has three small bags to sell.”
Alejhandro laughed. “So, our Muslim Engineer wishes to do the work of a drug dealer? Then we will teach him!”
Ernesto looked around the room; no one was there—yet, he felt the ears of others listened.
“Jefe, when we have found all the terrorists, what will you do?”
A dark, cold answer returned. “I will turn them into the American authorities—after I kill those who know too much.”
Arrested or killed? Ernesto winced.
Moments of time passed into more. Alejhandro knew that El Pescadero’s silence brought stupid thoughts.
“Have no concerns regarding the fate of our Muslim guests. All that I need from you is to learn the identities of their operatives.”
“Si, Jefe! Now, I must get off this line and go check on Ibrahim.”
The phone conversation ended. Ernesto immediately reached for the bottle of Tequila, bypassing all thought of using a glass. Alcohol poured into the drug smuggler, and he swallowed hard.
A second shot followed and then a third. The warmth of the liquor ignited a smile. Ernesto was amused.
Fayez—the loco Muslim he had just met—was already selling the ‘UltraPure’ cocaine supplied by El Jefe.
And he was muy bueno (very good) at it!
– 5 –
Three Jihadists
Friday, August 26th
8:55pm
Houston, Texas
As the world’s top oil and gas executives began their business conversations at the TranState dinner gala, a different discussion found its start in downtown Houston.
“Stop pacing and sit down, Fayez. You distract me, as I offer my prayers of thanks to Allah.”
Ibrahim Al-Saeed—eyes closed and head bowed—continued his prayer on the simple rug granted to him by his grandfather’s father. Ibrahim’s soul welcomed the darkness of night.
The Jihadist, known to his Leaders simply as ‘the Engineer’, opened his eyes and motioned toward the floor. “Fayez, perhaps you should join me in prayer. This will calm your thoughts and restore your faith in our destiny.”
The younger Muslim frowned at the reminder of his Islamic prayer responsibility, now neglected. A wallet, thick with $100 bills, pressed into his back pocket. The memories of his childhood in the Gaza Strip and the crushing poverty he and his family endured tore through his mind.
“There is prayer to Allah and there is American wealth, Engineer. Only one could solve the problems of my homeland.”
Ibrahim closed his eyes and bowed toward Mecca again. He prayed without concern for his surroundings. His Guard stood and faced the hotel room’s entrance door. Silent; motionless—no decisions were necessary to induce his actions. By instinct, Mahmoud would kill to protect the Engineer.
Ibbi focused inward. The image of a wristwatch flashed, and a silent tear formed. Even his prayers could not quiet the agony of the memory. Only Allah could assuage such, and his will would choose the time. A smile of patience accompanied Ibrahim’s silent prayer. Most surely, the time for action would soon come!
Fayez walked to the hotel room’s window. Six stories below, the busy streets of downtown Houston stretched out before him. The young Jihadist saw the wealth of America paraded before him: new cars; stores full of merchandise—none from the Gaza strip would ever dream of owning such luxuries.
Patience met its end, and Fayez faced his Leader. “Enough of your prayers. We must discuss Ernesto’s phone conversation. He is planning to betray us—there can be no doubt of this, now.” A look of hostile contempt crossed the younger Muslim’s face. “Our ally in the dealings of cocaine—he offered his friendship, and now he seeks to destroy us! How could this be?”
Ibrahim arose from his bowed position and slowly gazed upward. “Ernesto is an infidel, Fayez, and a stupid one at that. None of them can be trusted—the foolish, least of all.”
Fayez pointed toward the Engineer’s computer. Ernesto’s image stumbled about on the screen. “Stupid, indeed. The idiot does not know the laptop in his room is equipped with a webcam, nor does he understand how a WiFi enables us to see and hear him.”
“These Cubans have many useful skills; a mastery of technology is not one of them. We are fortunate in this regard.”
The younger Jihadist peered into his computer’s screen. The Cuban downed another shot of alcohol directly from a bottle. Fayez frowned. “Who was he talking to, Engineer?”
“Alejhandro Salazar.”
“Their leader? This puts too much at risk! Once the Cubans identify our Jihadist operatives, they will turn on us. Those they find will be arrested and imprisoned. Then, we will be killed, Ibrahim! Our Jihad will fail. We must cancel our operation to prevent this!”
Ibrahim’s fierce intelligence blazed. “We will not cancel anything, Fayez. As it is, the Cuban’s actions have been predicted. I am prepared to counter all of their attempts of betrayal.”
“Predicted? By whom?”
“The answers to such questions are not yours to know. We will move forward with the next step of the strategy—tonight. Think only of what you must do.”
“This ‘strategy’? Selling the Americans drugs so that we make money to better fund the wars in our homelands? What does this matter, if we cannot finish what we start?”
Ibbi arose from his kneeling position upon the prayer mat. A calm, paternal smile gentled his words. “Fayez, you do not understand that which we have now started.”
The younger Muslim’s surprise registered through shocked silence.
“Do not be offended. Only Allah needs to know everything—agreed?”
Fayez reluctantly nodded.
“For now, you will return to the hotel room Ernesto occupies, wait for exactly five minutes, then send the Cuban to me. You must not show any irregular behavior.”
“And, after that?”
Ernesto and I will depart for this nightclub of unholy behavior—the Pump Room. You have a wife waiting for you at home, correct?”
Fayez scowled. She is a wife only in shared bed space. No sexual favors were granted! Anger overflowed into words.
“Engineer, let us send Mahmoud to slit the throat of the Cuban betrayer. The drunken idiot will bleed faster for his intoxication.”
The massive Arab smiled. Angry, yellow teeth bared themselves in silent agreement.
Ibrahim motioned for no action on the part of his Guard. “I, too, wish for this Fayez. We will not kill Ernesto—yet. First, I must complete the test. We need him for this effort.”
Insecurity clouded further into the younger Muslim’s expression. “Will this also be a test of me, Ibbi?”
“It is a test of many things, my friend, but your capabilities are not chief among them. Have faith in Allah, and you will prevail.”
Fayez’s head lowered in the shame of loyalties, divided loyalties. “I have faith in Allah, but there is power in this.” The young Jihadist retrieved his wallet from the back pocket of his pants. A dozen $100 bills were removed and fanned out across the desk. “The Americans—they have the wealth and the power wealth brings. We must have this, too!”
“So, you think money is power?”
“Yes. Money buys weapons!”
Ibrahim placed his hand upon the prayer rug. To most, it appeared as an old, tattered relic of an ancient religion whose days of world power ended centuries ago. He caressed the two sides of the rug. One was made from silk and the other from cotton.
“Our faith is the power and our thoughts are the weapon, Fayez.”
“Those are old thoughts from an older faith. Not once in our father’s, father’s memory has our belief in Allah resulted in a victory of lasting nature over the infidels.” The sadness of his childhood poverty spoke its own truth. “I have found no comfort in my prayers.”
The Engineer shrugged. “So, your assignment will be pleasant. Take the money—this American power you are so eager to adopt—and spend it as you wish.”
Fayez blinked. His jaw dropped open.
Ibrahim laughed at the shock created by desires, fulfilled. “Now, young Jihadist, leave—and make sure that drunken fool Ernesto can find this hotel room. I wish to travel to the strip club—this ‘Pump Room’—with no further delay.” Eyes, dark with hatred, focused on the desk drawer. “Give me five minutes to prepare. Do you understand my orders?”
With a flourish of pride, Fayez placed his wallet into his pants pocket and smiled. “Yes, leader! I will do as you say!” Then, he left the hotel room. Ibrahim and Mahmoud remained: two Jihadists in control of one destiny; the destiny of America.
The words of a simple-minded Muslim guard marked one of the darkest turning points in America’s future.
“We are now ready, Engineer?”
“Yes, Mahmoud, we are ready. Hand me the cocaine.”
The Guard reached into his shirt pocket and removed three small plastic bags. Each was filled with a fine white powder. The massive Arab handed them to Ibrahim then stood back as if evil itself would soon appear.
“The cocaine the Cubans provided—it looks like the white sands of our desert!”
“And, such is the good fortune for us. Many things are of similar nature in appearance.”
The Engineer walked to the hotel room’s desk and opened the top drawer. A surgical mask, rubber gloves, and spatula lay waiting. He donned the mask and gloves with practiced ease. A single packet of white powder was removed from its place of hiding.
“Anthrax,” Mahmoud said in reverent awe.
“Yes. Now stand back. Though this strain contains no ionic charge to induce dispersion into the air, some of the spores may float about for a moment or two. I do not wish for you to share in the soon-to-come fate of the infidels.”
The Guard moved to the far side of the room. His back pressed against the wall in a unique display of fear from a man who did not fear.
In measured moves, the Engineer opened one of the plastic bags containing the UltraPure. The packet of Anthrax powder was snapped open. A few grains of the infectious spore were carefully placed into the cocaine. The tainted drug was then resealed in its bag and placed next to its two identical, untouched counterparts.
With a final nod of satisfaction, Ibrahim removed the surgical mask and gloves. “We are safe now. Others are not.”
“Leader, why did you not infect all of the UltraPure?”
“Allah will choose who receives the Anthrax-laden cocaine. The contents of one bag will kill; the remaining two will not.”
“What will happen to those who inhale the poisoned drug?”
“The Anthrax spores will directly enter their lungs. A pulmonary Anthrax infection—the most virulent of all—will take hold of their bodies within but a few days. Then, most surely, they will die.”
“Allah be praised for our new weapon.”
Ibrahim smiled. “Yes, Mahmoud—Allah be praised for the vices of our enemy.”
– 6 –
Shift Change!
Friday, August 26th
9:30pm
Houston, Texas
A red Miata convertible roared into the Pump Room’s parking lot. Pounding rock music and wind-blown hair signaled strippers on premise.The A-team had arrived! A high-speed pass pinned the valet against the wall, thankful his life had been spared—this time.
Lisa yelled over the music. “You missed two bumps and a parking guy, babe.”
Chrissy aimed for the only open parking space and hit the brakes. Tires screeched, and the security fence survived with one inch to spare.
“Whatever… be-otch. I am rushing because of you, and if we have to pay the door fee, your clothing allowance takes the hit.”
Behind the fence—the balcony of a second story apartment overlooked the car. Lisa glanced up. Oh, fuck me miserable. The cows are out tonight.
Two women in their mid-twenties stood above her. They were draped in loose slacks that provided room to spare for improvements in their fashion choices. The two topped off their glasses of wine, pointed down, and laughed. The evening’s sport of ‘taunt the strippers’ was on!
Chrissy glanced up and shivered. “Avoidance of the poorly dressed is the best policy, Lis. Get your stuff from the trunk and ignore them.”
Her roommate slammed the car door shut and nodded. “We have boys to entertain and wallets to empt—”
“Shift… change!” one of the girls on the balcony yelled out in a noticeably un-sober voice.
Lisa shot back a furious finger.
“C’mon Hanson. You know they’re jealous. Ignore ’em.”
“Like hell I will!” Lisa glared at the two girls standing on the second-floor balcony. Their girth supplied ample opportunity for her first reply. “I didn’t know Dave’s Dress-For-Less carried floral prints in tent size.” Lisa’s perfect body powered the taunting words, and she popped her top to display $5000 worth of high beams.
The valet guy yelled toward the balcony. “Strippers are mean. I’d leave them alone if I were you.”
Undaunted, the second of the two gals unleashed her Texas-sized twang. “Guess you two are prayin’ you’ll meet Mr. Wonderful tonight. Or, at least, Mr. American Express.”
That comment brought Chrissy into the fray. She carried her own Gold Amex, by God. In a form reminiscent of her days as Memorial High’s head cheerleader, she yelled back, “We’re all right, we’re okay, and we can take your men away.” Then, she issued a perfectly formed toe-to-head high kick. One of Chrissy’s sandals launched in a trajectory suspiciously close to the girls’ balcony perch. They ducked, but a wine glass met its maker in a tinkling shatter.
“Hey! You did that on purpose! We’re callin’ the manager!”
Chrissy and Lisa giggled as they raced off toward the club’s entrance. The offending sandal was left as hostage.
The bouncer casually opened the foyer door. “Missing something there, Chris?”
The blonde frowned. “Damn. Those sandals match half my outfits!”
Lisa shook her head in ultimate frustration. “You and your fashion issues—all day, every day. And, those cows are huge, fat-ass targets—how could you completely miss them? Color me disappointed, Chris.” The brunette then checked her watch. “9:35pm. Five minutes late. Wait—we can blame it on your missing shoe. Or—we had to keep the world safe from uninformed cows. You’re good at thinking up bullshit like that—so get your story ready!”
The bouncer just shook his head. Strippers. They don’t find trouble. They are trouble.
The entrance to the Pump Room was an elaborately decorated affair. To the left, a black-cherry counter, topped with marble and a golden cash register, sang its song of profit. Music, piped in from the main stage, announced the furious beat of hedonism. And, to the right, the neon lights of a retail clothes shop reddened the walls: ‘The Pump Room Boutique. Home of the CFMPs’. That was Chrissy’s second favorite place to shop—but only on big sale nights, of course.
A granite-faced door girl peered at them from behind the register. Not pretty enough to be a stripper; too mean to be a waitress—her job was to handle the check-in fees and maintain a uniformly unpleasant manner.
“Sign in.”
Lisa and Chrissy scanned the clipboard, checked their names, and noted the time—sans six minutes.
“Permits,” Granite Face demanded.
Both girls dipped into their purses and rummaged around until they found the city-issued licenses required to perform in a topless bar.
Lisa launched into her nightly complaint. “Who the fuck decided it was necessary to require strippers to get a license to undress? ‘Isn’t like they made us prove we can dance in five-inch heels and not fall on our asses. They just took our money and gave us these dumb-ass registration cards. I don’t get it.”
Chrissy, always humored by her friend’s less-than-subtle candor, simply shrugged. “Maybe a Baptist City Councilman found out his wife was stripping and wanted to stop the insanity.”
“Yeah—well I heard she was his girlfriend.” The strippers high-fived. Their celebration was a short one.
“9:37pm. Thirty-five-dollar late fee—each of you.” There was no hint of mercy in Granite Face’s voice.
“Listen, you stone cold bitc—”
Chrissy cut Lisa off with a slap to the back of her head. “C’mon, can’t you do the A-team a favor tonight?”
“Well—maybe. Two guys just came in. A drunk Cuban and some turban-head. They tipped big and asked me to send them a couple girls who like to party.” Dark desire crept into the door girl’s voice. “I think they brought supplies with them.”
A smile broke across Lisa’s face. ‘Party’, in strip club vernacular, meant ‘snort coke’. In an instant, her attitude toward Granite Face improved.
“Uh, listen—we’ll cut you in on some of the ‘supplies’, if you’ll let us walk in without the charge.”
The door girl returned the smile. “Hoped you say that. I already asked Fraunk what his situation is. His new contact—the guy he’s been buying the UltraPure coke from—is out for three weeks. The little homo is beside himself. ‘Cried for half an hour when he came in tonight.”
Lisa exploded in a stomp of stilettos. “God, why is it so hard to find a reliable drug dealer? C’mon Chris, let’s get our asses in gear and snag these guys.”
“How can we tell who they are?” Chrissy’s innocent question returned a look of disbelief from her roommate.
“Still got a lot to learn don’t ya’, kitten?”
Granite Face shook her head as if she had to explain the obvious. “I told them to go into the VIP room and sit in the back booth.”
“Oh, God, not that one,” Chrissy moaned.
Lisa lit up with a serious grin. “Yep, the fondle-booth. Just make ’em pay to play, babe.”
“Well, first, have Fraunk fix your hair. It’s all over the place.”
The brunette smiled with devious pleasure. She knew men.
“Honey, they won’t be payin’ to look at my hair.”
– 7 –
Hell and Heaven
Friday, August 26th
9:30pm
Houston, Texas
Ibrahim blinked in disbelief. He and Ernesto had been escorted through a private hallway of the strip club. Massive dark-steel doors, gilded in black wrought iron, stood before him. I am at the gates of Hell. Allah… grant me courage.
But, nothing in Ibbi’s life would have prepared him for what lay beyond those doors. The VIP lounge of the Pump Room—a venue of opulent decadence—was Heaven for some and Hell for others.
“Come, mi amigo!” Ernesto exclaimed as he slapped the back of the Muslim engineer. “Beautiful chicas and strong drinks are waiting for us. We have a special booth given only to the most important people, and we are the most important people, si?”
El Pescadero then carelessly extracted a $100 bill from his pants pocket and shoved it toward the bouncer. The man nodded without smiling. Ernesto grabbed the iron handles of the doors then flung them open with drunken zeal. Heaven awaited!
The Engineer moved through the doorway. The experiences of Hell pierced him. Speakers, floating beneath the ceiling like predatory birds in flight, boomed their noise. Lasers shot pulsing beams into clouds of eerie fog. Mirrored balls moved dots of light in all directions. Glasses of liquor crowded every table, as did the females of the establishment. Each was dressed in so little it made nothing appear as more. They were the whores of America—indecent and ignorant of Allah’s will!
Around him, girls danced as they undressed themselves into topless shame. A second song was blended in—even harder and more pulsing. The strippers went wild with movement—on fire from within and burning for attention. The Muslim stood in the midst of his God’s Hell.
Ibrahim saw three stages equally spaced around the room. Four feet off the ground—each had a golden pole reaching from floor to the ceiling. Upon each, a female was undressed and dancing. The Engineer, a man of studied disregard for the appearance of women, gasped. They were sensual beauties who could take a man from Heaven into Hell, and once there—left, never again to escape.
The first stripper to see Ibbi blew him a kiss sheened with lust. Uninvited feelings hardened themselves inside the Muslim’s loins, yet Ibbi did not hide his eyes. Courage in Hell is service in Heaven. This is my test!
A second dancer smiled at the Muslim then leaped for her pole. With three rotations, her body pressed to the ground and her legs spread into an unholy angle.
Ibrahim watched with silent hate. She is ready for the pleasures of a dirty floor.
On the third stage, a luscious beauty of dark hair and perfectly formed body shyly turned away from the Muslim. Finally—a woman of modest nature. That thought was crushed within seconds, as she bent over at the waist. Her long, sculpted legs were open wide and ready to receive the sins of men.
Ernesto wiped his arm across a slobbering mouth. “This is good, si? Tremenda punta; oh, sorry—tremendous whores, right?”
Yes, Ibrahim thought. They are infidel whores. But, only silence was heard.
“Ah, my friend is speechless. They do not have places such as this where you come from!”
A waitress walked toward the men. There was a purpose in her stride—the purpose of profit. “Hey, boys. Welcome to the VIP lounge. Our door girl says I’m supposed to take special care of you two. I have our best girls headed over—Chrissy and Lisa. They’ll show you such a good time, you’ll be thinkin’ about it for the rest of your lives.”
Ernesto looked at the dark-haired beauty on stage three and started to speak, “Maybe we want to pick our own—”
Ibbi’s voice cut him down. “Quiet yourself, Cuban. You drink too much, and I will hear no more of your words.” Eyes, now fire-brown in color, focused on the young waitress. She backed up, not knowing why she suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“Take us to the VIP booth then send the females you wish us to meet. The ones who like to… ‘party’. I have explained this correctly, yes?”
“Uh, yeah—right,” the waitress replied cautiously. She surveyed Ibrahim. Three years of strip club experience sized him up exactly as he appeared. A foreigner in for the GSC. Company cash to spend. ‘Probably from some Middle East place where they got more money than sand.
“Y’all come on over this way and have a seat. Lisa and Chrissy will be here pronto.”
“Yes—send two strippers. Allow no more at our table.”
The waitress shot the doorman a wink then bounced off toward the back booth of the VIP Room. Ernesto followed her in a drunken, swaggering walk.
Ibrahim took a longer route—one that carried him by stage three. He motioned for the stripper to approach. She fell upon her hands and knees and moved toward him with the grace and power of a panther prepared to pounce.
The Muslim held up a $100 bill. “Do you want this?”
“Sure do, baby.”
With moves practiced dozens of times through hundreds of nights, the money disappeared into the girl’s black G-string. She moved closer to whisper in Ibrahim’s ear. “I want a lot of things.”
“I thought so,” Ibrahim responded with a hard, unforgiving smile that saved the woman from wondering if she would ever speak with him again.
It was a short walk to the table. The Cuban had already ordered a shot of Tequila and, by sheer effort of drunken politeness, a bottle of water for Ibrahim.
Two rushed strippers reached the VIP lounge door. A hand, perfectly tipped with red fingernail polish, grasp the wrought iron handle.
“Ready Lisa?”
“Guys, strippers, and cash—Heaven awaits!”
Chrissy nodded without wanting to; she hadn’t had any drinks. The door was opened slowly. Lisa pointed toward Ernesto and Ibrahim.
“There they are.” Within moments, she understood the situation. “The one on the left is drunk. He’ll be easy. The other one—yep, he’s Middle Eastern. He’ll be a harder challenge. Which one do you want?”
Chrissy sighed and shifted uncomfortably on her stiletto heels. “I want the cute and wealthy one.”
Lisa laughed. “Babe, you’re in the wrong room for that.”
“We are in the wrong business for that,” Chrissy said with unhidden disdain in her voice. “I need a drink.”
“Yeah, right, whatever. I’ll take the drunk one and empty his wallet. You keep the shy one occupied and whoever finds the party favors first, shares. Now—smile and stripper-up!”
Chrissy inspected her choice of apparel for the night: a black G-string covered only by a frilly negligee that made little effort to cover her breasts. “God, I can’t believe I wear this in public. I’m dressed like a slut.”
“Tonight, you are a slut. Savings account, remember? You’ll get your tiara back tomorrow, princess. For now, live the dark dream.”
Chrissy nodded and laughed at herself. “Right! Slut-girl ready and willing. Cape, optional.”
The two girls approached the table and smiled demurely in unison. As usual, Lisa took the lead. “Wanna’ play with the A-team boys? We have something you need so all we gotta’ find out is if you have something we want.”
Ernesto fumbled for his wallet, extracted a disorganized stack of twenties, and threw them on the table. “Si, chica. Will you dance for me?”
Lisa scooped up five of the bills and deposited them into her G-string. “Uhh, Papi, you keep shoving cash at me, and I’ll do a lot of things for you.”
The brunette unlatched her black bra and handed it to Chrissy. “I probably won’t need this for a while.” A whisper confirmed the strategy. “Go talk to the quiet one and keep the booze flowing for el Loco here. I’ll drain him in an hour. Bank on it, roomie.”
Chrissy nodded.
The next song started, and Lisa locked eyes with the drunken Cuban. “You’re mine now.” And, he was.
A steady voice, uninflected by alcohol, called out to Chrissy.
“You—female—come sit with me.” The Engineer placed his wallet on the table and motioned a second time. “I wish for your attentions.”
A conversation of unexpected nature unfolded between Chrissy and Ibrahim. Erotic sensuality had met religious fervor. Ten minutes; a half-hour; and then a full hour passed—and, not a minute’s passing was noticed by either. The talk was not of Allah or sex. The wallet did not open, and the clothes remained on.
Unbelievable, Chrissy thought to herself, as she downed her fourth drink. He is so respectful, so smart, and so nice. Words, warmed by alcohol, babbled from her.
“You are everything I imagined a Persian gentleman would be, Ibbi. The things you have seen; the places you have been—it is as if you are ancient but not old.” The lights of the VIP room danced with fascination in Chrissy’s blue eyes.
Ibrahim returned her steady gaze. He had not prepared himself for the intensity of attention an enticing American female can bestow upon a man that interests her. Rarely passionate, but now impassioned, he responded in sincere whispers, “And you, Christine, are more than I expected from a—”
“A stripper? Yes—tonight I am. Tomorrow, I will be a college student. The day following, a businesswoman.”
The surprise of a new perspective welled up in the Engineer.
“I would have wagered Allah’s treasures that you are as stupid as you are beautiful, yet it is the intelligent mind you possess.”
Chrissy smiled and felt unusually warm. She pointed toward the table, now full of empty Martini glasses. “Those are intoxicating! I can’t believe you let me have four. I am so buzzing!” A girlish giggle formed into an uncomfortable silence. Embarrassed at her own feelings, Chrissy turned away from Ibrahim and looked at her roommate. The Muslim’s inquisitive stare followed.
Lisa was dancing in front of Ernesto. Her tight, tan body had not seen clothing for more than an hour. It glistened with sweat that brought forth a bronze glow of intense beauty. Song after song, she had danced. Her breathing had grown hard and heavy in match to the physical exertions. Even then, she transformed each movement into an expression of sexuality. Chrissy, accustomed to female beauty of such magnificent caliber, could only shake her head in awe. God, she is so gorgeous.
Ernesto, for his part, was leaning against the back of the couch. His shirt tail was untucked. His legs were parted, and a Tequila shot stained his crotch. The Cuban drug smuggler’s face registered the expression of a five-year-old in the midst of a toy store pillage.
Lisa frowned at her roommate. “What the hell are you looking at, Chris. ‘Never seen a girl work for a living?”
The blonde shrugged and returned a casual smile just short of a smirk. “How many dances are you up to now, sweetie?”
“God, I don’t know. Fourteen; seventeen; maybe eighteen—how am I supposed to keep count? He won’t let me sit down.”
Chrissy cupped her mouth to hide a laugh. Ibrahim merely shook his head and said nothing.
“And, what about you?” Lisa asked between hard breaths. “Wanna’ get off your ass and join me for few?”
“Ibbi says he will take care of me when the time comes. You’ll do that, right?”
“I have not forgotten my promise to you, Christine.” Ibrahim reached for his wallet. “Here—will $500 be sufficient in exchange for the pleasantness of your company?”
Chrissy retrieved the bills and waved them toward Lisa. “There—you happy now?” she asked with a drunken taunt in her voice.
The math did not escape Lisa for a second. She had made $400 and put up with a disgusting Cuban who reached for the sweet spot during every damn dance.
Chrissy had scored $500 sitting on her ass and drinking Apple Martinis!
Lisa’s second mad finger of the night made the point.
“Yeah, fuck me happy, Chris.”
– 8 –
Departures
Friday, August 26th
11:15pm
Houston, Texas
The twenty-eighth lap dance ended. Lisa plopped down into her chair. She frowned at the Cuban. Ernesto was too drunk to move, and, with any luck, he would soon pass into a coma.
“I’m done. Too many dances, too little party.” Cranky eyes glared at Ibrahim. “So—where’s the fucking party?”
Chrissy’s hand shot to her mouth. Never before had her roommate been so brazen with words.
The patience of the Engineer kept the brunette’s desires working against themselves. “Lisa, may I first buy you a drink?”
“Fine, whatever—a shot of Jack,” she yelled back.
An expression of confusion clouded the Muslim’s face. “What is ‘Jack’?”
“Oh, Jesus, you don’t even know wha—”
“Lis, relax. I’ll handle this.” Chrissy signaled, and the waitress made a hasty approach toward her big-spending table. “A shot of Jack Daniels for the hooker and another Apple Martini for me.”
Ernesto bolted awake from his intoxicated trance. A bleary mind refocused on Lisa. “Holy Mother of Mary. You are a hooker, too?”
Lisa’s arms shot up in frustration. “God, please, kill me now. Take me to Heaven or send me to Hell. Either one, I don’t care.”
Ibbi leaned forward so that all could hear. “Lisa, do not trouble yourself. You will have what you want and, perhaps, more than you desire.”
“Si, chica. Our coke is—”
Ibrahim’s stern voice cut the words in half. “Ernesto, be quiet and enjoy your Tequila. I wish to speak with these women, and you interrupt intelligent conversation.”
“Ai-yi-yi, always so serious.” The Cuban stood up from the table and teetered a bit. “Necesito ir orino (I must go pee).” Wobbly steps then followed.
The Engineer shook his head with hatred disguised as dislike. “He is gone now, Lisa. Please, relax with us.”
A shot of Jack Daniels appeared. The glass was emptied in one swallow. “So, what do you want to talk about? The size of penis in Persia?”
Chrissy hit her roommate on the arm. “Be nice, Lis!”
Ibrahim smiled. “No offense taken. To answer your question, they are sufficiently large, though I do not make a habit of measuring them.” The Muslim then pointed toward the center of the VIP Room. “Before we attend to what you so eagerly seek, explain—that.”
Lisa turned to look. Sitting at a table: three young men; each were adorned in garish red clothing and gold chains that boasted of an invisible power. Crowded around them—twice as many strippers. Disbelief accompanied the brunette’s reply.
“You don’t know?”
“Stop it Lisa—of course he doesn’t!” Chrissy motioned Ibbi to move closer so her words did not cast themselves far. “They give cocaine to the dancers. Small amounts—nothing big or the club would shut them down. Fraunk gets most of the business here.”
“They receive all that attention—simply because they provide drugs?”
“Yeah, obviously,” Lisa replied as she glanced back over at the table. The women were in advanced stages of pharmaceutical delight—a delight she was not currently experiencing. She straightened herself in her chair and turned to face Ibrahim.
“There. You have your answer. Enough of this Jeopardy game. Where’s the stuff, Prince Ahab?”
Chrissy winced. “Lisa! You are being mean—”
Ibrahim silenced her with a steady nod. “It is okay, Christine. We did indeed speak of such things to the door girl.”
The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “So give it to me.”
The Engineer paused in thought. “The cocaine I place with you—what will you do with it?”
Lisa shot another unbelieving glance at her roommate.
“God, you ask dumbass questions. I will snort it—a lot of it. All of it, in fact.”
Chrissy put her head in her hands, wishing she could make the situation disappear. The brunette stripper and Jihadist glared at each other; neither would back down.
“This is interesting, your unstoppable desire to use the drug. Will you share this… blessing with others?”
“Well, geez, of course. My baby girl here likes a little party, too.” Lisa winked at Chrissy, who lowered her head further in shame.
Ibrahim glanced down at his wristwatch. The hard memories pounded into him. “I will give you what you want. But, you must first provide more explanation. In this club: how many people use the drug?”
“How should I know?”
The Engineer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three clear plastic bags. Each was filled with a half-gram of white powder; one was filled with a hacking, horrid death. He placed the packets on the table, slightly out of Lisa’s reach. “I will ask again: how many people in this club will purchase and inhale the drug tonight?”
“A couple hundred customers come here each night. Twenty of them probably want some, and most of the strippers use coke. Forty or so, maybe.”
“And, there are how many strip clubs in Houston?”
“Jesus! Who cares?”
The Engineer placed his hand over the three bags. Lisa scowled.
“About thirty. I don’t count the skanky ones.”
Math flashed through Ibrahim’s mind. Forty people times thirty clubs. 1200 Americans will use the drug in places like this tonight. The Engineer then pushed the three packets of cocaine within Lisa’s reach.
“Allah’s blessing will now be bestowed upon you and, hopefully, others.” A watch pulsed on the Jihadist’s wrist. Many others.
The brunette scooped up her bounty. “Yeah, right, whatever. Listen, Chris, this is getting a little weird for me. I am going to take a break and go to the bar.”
Ibrahim pushed back from the table. “We will also leave. I do not wish to further endure Ernesto’s drunken stupidity.”
Chrissy turned toward Ibbi. Her fifth drink had found its mark. “But, I want to dance for you!”
“No, Christine.”
Tears welled up in the young woman’s eyes. “Ibbi, please—don’t leave. We haven’t—”
Her words were cut off by a voice accented with unexpected concern. “Listen to me—very closely. What your friend has is some of the finest cocaine drug ever made. What you have is a choice. Beware of one’s desires, Christine; they can be your savior or your assassin. Do not let them be your assassin.”
Chrissy nodded a drunken ‘no’. She wanted to feel good, too.
A final escape was offered. “All things filled with vice are equally filled with consequences. Do not pursue your vice.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Lisa grabbed her roommate’s hand and pulled her up. A shove moved the drunken girl in the direction of the lobby’s dark-steel door.
“No, Lis—please! I want to stay. I like him.” Chrissy looked back. Her Persian Prince had already left the table.
Two minutes later, Ibrahim and Ernesto were in a cab and headed to their hotel room.
The first bag of cocaine would be given to the door girl.
The second, to Chrissy.
Lisa would keep the third bag as her own.
The hell of a hacking, horrid death was but a few days away for one of them.
– 9 –
GSC Arrivals
Friday, August 26th
11:40pm
Houston, Texas
Lisa pushed her roommate through the exit doors of the VIP Lounge. The Muslim and the Cuban were nowhere in sight.
“Good. They’re gone. It’s time to forget true love, princess.”
Chrissy wiped a tear away. Two more followed. “But, I liked him!”
“How many times have I told you? Never fall for a customer.”
The blonde nodded in miserable agreement.
A compassionate hand wiped the tears from a reddened cheek. “Tell you what—I’ll take care of the door girl. Let’s meet in the changing room and get our party started.”
“I don’t want a bump now.”
“Okay, go to the boutique and buy yourself a new outfit for God’s sake.”
Another sniffle announced the obvious. “It’s a GSC night, dummy. Nothing’s on sale.”
Chrissy was deposited at an empty table in the main lounge. Lisa headed toward the front entrance. She had a delivery to make and men with money to find. The foyer doors burst open and a determined brunette cruised through them in a stiletto-heeled stride. A broad chest was squarely placed in her path, and a chance meeting between two people changed twenty lives.
“Whoa! Careful honey,” Bud said. Lisa stumbled a half-step backward. Masculine green eyes penetrated her. A breath of charmed enchantment escaped from the brunette. She shook her head and blinked.
“Sorry. I… umm—I’m Lisa.” Where the hell did that come from? I am never shy around men. A second look provided the answer. He’s hot!
Lisa didn’t hear the words; she was -far too smitten to listen. Her emotions fluttered as she took a quick up-and-down glance: broad shoulders; a smile of dominant confidence; and a body that could protect, please, or punish a woman. Lisa knew handsome when she saw it. And most of all—his eyes: piercing, green, and sparkling with energy. When they locked onto hers there was no boyish survey of her slutty clothes or a fake, insulting wink. Bud knew an opportunity when he saw it.
The trance was broken when Granite Face spoke in her cigarette-stained voice. “Hey—over here guys. Cover charge.”
Lisa’s composure returned. “Well, are one of you boys gonna’ take care of business? Naked girl-pleasures await.”
Bud snapped to in a second. “Kane, tonight’s my treat. Let me pay.”
Hamilton had already noticed the immediate attraction between his new company President and the stripper. “Like hell you will, Gossett. Just make sure your gal doesn’t wander off.”
The CEO shuffled through his wallet and nonchalantly pulled out a Black American Express.
Lisa’s eyes widened a bit more. “Damn, cowboy—that can buy a Caribbean island!”
The executive shrugged and smiled. “Don’t get excited, honey. It’s the company’s credit card.”
Lisa glanced back at Bud with a questioning look.
He smiled and whispered in return. “Kane is the company.”
A tan, toned arm immediately cast itself around Bud’s neck. “Okay, Buddy-boy. You two are with me tonight.”
Bud chuckled. This one had some fire in her. “Lisa, maybe you can help us pick out a friend for Kane. I owe Big Money twenty lap dances. ‘May as well be someone you approve of.”
“Big Money?” Kane responded. “Who made me Big Money? I want to be the big muscles one.”
Lisa laughed—a pleasant, genuine one. A wink upped the ante. “Wait’ll you see who I pick for you.”
Hamilton called the bet. “She’s hot, she’s willing, or she’s drinking alone.”
“Do you like blonds—comma—sexy?”
“Hell—comma—yes!” Kane repeated, laughing at Lisa’s style and confidence.
Granite Face handed back the Black Amex. “All paid up, guys. Ahhm—Lis. I assume you have something for me.”
The stripper swallowed hard. “Oh, yeah, I got your tip.”
Lisa started toward the counter. In her worry about the exchange, she forgot the small step up. The toe of her five-inch stiletto missed its intended destination, and she fell forward. Halfway through the descent, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. For a moment, she was suspended in air, weightless and flying. The save came too late. Lisa’s hands flew open to prepare for the impact of a hard landing. A twenty-dollar bill fell from her grasp, and its concealed contents tumbled free.
Two pairs of eyes instantly focused on the dropped bounty. Bud reacted immediately. A quick point provided the necessary diversion.
“Kane, the boutique is over there. ‘How about you and Lisa pick out a new outfit for your date.”
“Excellent idea, Gossett. ‘Always the man with a smart plan.” The CEO gestured toward the shop with over-expressed chivalry. “Lisa, I don’t know a damn thing about stripper outfits. Mind lending an opinion?”
Lisa smiled thinly, grasped Kane’s arm, and escorted him away from the cashier’s counter. As Hamilton entered the shop’s doorway, she paused, turned toward Bud, and whispered, “Thanks—I owe you one.”
Bud winked and motioned her toward the store. A smile of tremendous appreciation glowed from Lisa’s face.
With Kane safely out of visual range, Bud scooped up the packet of cocaine. There was no undue shock on his part. He had used the drug once and regarded the experience as ridiculous. His party hosts got jacked up way too high on the stuff then constantly peeked out window blinds—convinced the DEA was spying on them. This was a surprising concern, considering they were partying on the twenty-fourth floor of a condo tower.
Bud handed Granite Face the bag of cocaine. Then, his cordial nature disappeared. The blaze in his eyes spoke of a willingness to destroy anything that threatened the one who now entranced him.
“Do not ask Lisa for drugs again. Is this clear?” The door girl nodded and meekly accepted the offering.
“That was kind. You’re good to go.”
It’s often said: kindness can kill.
The odds were now one-in-three that kindness would soon kill her.
– 10 –
Pleasant Connections
Friday, August 26th
11:55pm
Houston, Texas
When Lisa, Bud, and Kane entered the main lounge of the club, Chrissy was sitting at a table by herself—still upset from her forced departure from the company of her Persian Prince. Lisa felt bad for a moment, but she knew her best friend. New clothes could cure any emotional ill plaguing her fashion-princess roommate.
“Kane, over there—that’s Chrissy.”
Hamilton nodded with a boy’s smile backed by a tycoon’s Black Amex. “Whoa! You say she’s sad? Hell, girl, what does she look like when she is happy?”
“You’ve got the gifts. Go find out.”
Bud popped Lisa’s backside. “Behave.”
A slight sting brought the smile that had destroyed the will of a thousand men.
I don’t have to behave, Buddy-Boy. I got what you want.
The main lounge was three times the size of the VIP room. Five platforms were adorned with golden poles. Upon each, strippers provided their dark delights to the men crowded around them. Wave, after wave of husbands and fathers placed their ones, fives, tens, and twenties into G-strings already stuffed to the limit with the bills of hedonism.
A dozen more girls were engaged in the erotic science of lap dancing to extract money from men.
Waitresses—in full sprint to serve drinks; Bartenders—flipping bottles and flashing smiles; and—in the middle of it all: 200 gasmen played the games of adolescent fervor. Friday night—the last night of the GSC: money and power in contest with beauty and pleasure.
Whooo… freakin’… hooo !
Chrissy sat at a table in the far section of the room. The white table cloth, glass-encased candle, and plush, empty chairs seemed to invite others to join the prettiest of the A-team strippers. Her expression did not.
Lisa would have none of it. Big Money was in town, and she was ready to inflict a torrent of lap dances upon she-of-the-perfect-hairstyle. The brunette walked directly toward her roommate with Kane and Bud in eager follow. A devious wink preceded her words. “Hey, girl—I brought two nice guys to join us.”
Chrissy nodded with a miserable smile.
“Oh, my roomie is still down. Kane, hand me the goodies will you?” A large bag, white-topped with lace and frills, was placed in the center of the table. “Here—this is for you. Now stop acting like a love-scorned zombie and see what daddy brought you.”
Chris cast a doubtful look at her present. “What’s this—one of his company calendars?”
Bud shook his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding me Lisa? A guy gave you a company calendar?”
“Yeah—GSC, last year. The idiot even signed it for us, like some rock star or something. Too bad his name wasn’t ‘fucking moron’. That would have fit.”
Bud popped Lisa on her butt. She giggled.
“Now open the bag, Chris. Big Money bought you some gifts.” A second wink perked the blonde up. “Expensive gifts.”
Chrissy refused to be impressed. She’d heard it before.
“Big money, eh? Let me guess, Lis—he paid for this with a Green Amex.”
“Higher,” Lisa replied with a patronizing smile.
“Gold Amex?”
“Much higher.”
Astonished blue eyes widened to their full potential. “A Black Amex? It must be a company card.”
Lisa shoved the package closer to her roommate. “He is the company. Now sit up, shut up, and behave, bitch.”
Chrissy shifted into her proper-girl pose. Two seconds later, she tore into the gift bag.
“Oh, Hell yes! Clothes! So what do we have here? White thigh-high’s—best quality in the boutique. Good boy, Kane. These won’t run the first time I wear them.”
Hamilton smiled and nodded even though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Next—hmm—a G-string.” Chrissy dangled the skimpy thong in front of her date. “Gotta’ love a girl who can wear a size two, eh?”
Kane swallowed hard. “Two is good honey. Two is very good!”
Chrissy smiled. The A-team was making the play!
“Now—what else did you bring me? Oh—a Cami Set top and pink, at that! Pink is always an appropriate color for a strip club, regardless of the fashion season.” A smile was extended toward Lisa. “Good choice roomie.”
Lisa rolled her finger through circles in the air. “So glad you are pleased—”
Bud interrupted. “Isn’t that called a ‘Baby Doll’?”
Chris sighed and shook her head, a bit peeved at the interruption. “Guys think anything short and frilly is a ‘Baby Doll’ outfit. This, however, is called a Cami Set. Not a Camisole, mind you. A Cami Set.”
Bud shrugged and hoped there wouldn’t be a test later.
Chrissy paid him no attention and continued, completely absorbed in her dissertation on stripper fashion. “Cami Sets come with matching G-strings, and usually have—yes, here they are—two garter belts.”
The blonde stretched them up and down several times then winked at Kane. “These tend to pop a little when I take them off. ‘Just so you know.”
Hamilton was not concerned about knowing anything. He was simply trying not to drool.
To properly complete the unwrapping, Chrissy rummaged through the bottom of the bag. A gold-lettered business card was retrieved:
Compliments of Kane Hamilton. CEO, NY Gas Pipeline.
Lisa smacked Kane on the arm. “Damn it! I told you to skip the card.”
“Well, at least it is not a calendar, Lis.” Chrissy held the Cami Set up and admired her new fashion acquisition. Then a disapproving frown crossed her face.
“Wait—if you have a Black Amex, why didn’t you buy matching pink heels? I know they have some in stock.”
Kane sputtered. “Lisa?”
The brunette shook her head. “Don’t worry, Big Money. The girl always wants more clothes. Now, c’mon Chris, let’s get you dressed and the party started.”
The stripper’s dressing room was busy with twice as many girls as usual, but a place was quickly cleared for the A-team dancers—one of whom, on the occasions necessary, threatened death-by-stiletto-heel.
Chrissy could easily fit her sleek body into the Cami Set, but the Apple Martinis argued with her coordination, and she fumbled with the first garter belt snap.
Lisa threw her hands in the air. “Oh, for God’s sake—here, let me do it.” A few quick snaps finished off the job. “You feel beautiful now, fashion princess?”
Chrissy nodded; new clothes always got her worked up and ready for action. “Let’s put the Black Amex to work, roomie.”
“That’s better! Oh, wait, before we go—here’s something from Mr. Intense Arab.” Lisa handed her roommate a small bag of the UltraPure.
“Goodie! A little bumpy-wumpy to get the party started!”
“Bumpy-wumpy? Geez—you turn into a freakin’ fourth-grader when you drink.”
Chrissy giggled. “So what? I’m having fun now. Where’s yours?”
Lisa patted her clutch purse. “I kinda’ like Bud, and he did me a big favor in the lobby. I think I’ll wait for a while.”
“What?” Chrissy replied, unbelieving. “My little coke-slut just said no? The Heavens will fall.”
“Oh—shut up and go do yours. Bud wants to buy some dances for Kane, and your gonna’ do them, bitch. Bumpy-wumpy, or not.”
Chrissy headed for a bathroom stall and locked the door behind her. Two sniffs, then a sneeze sounded. Lisa shook her head. What an amateur.
Lisa knew her roommate would take another five minutes to make sure her new cami-whatever fit right. She left the girl’s room and headed toward Bud. Wow. That’s the first time I wanted to be with a guy more than party with coke!
When she saw him again, she knew why.
A dozen G-string adjustments and ten minutes later, Chrissy returned to the table. Lisa looked up in complete shock. She had never seen her roommate’s eyes so blue and shimmering. Unnatural excitement accelerated the stripper’s words. “Who’s paying for the dances?”
Lisa raised her hand and waved petulantly. “Umm, that would be me, honey.” A stack of twenty-dollar bills dropped Chrissy’s mouth wide open.
“That has to be—”
“Uh-huh. Already counted ’em.”
Lisa handed Kane the first twenty. “Don’t give her this until after she has taken off that Cami-thing you bought her.” A smirky smile shot out toward Chrissy. “I hope you can take it off faster than you put it on, or you’ll be dancing ‘till noon tomorrow.”
“Oh Lis—I can’t believe you are going to make me—“
“Live the dark dream, bitch. Now drop the top and give us twenty!”
Kane laughed, sat back, and politely folded his hands in his lap. Yet, for all his expectations, the New York Gas Pipeline CEO had no idea what type of education he was about to receive.
To Lisa, stripping was work, and she was not one to hustle with words. She relied on her intense beauty, a tight body, erotic moves, and a healthy amount of grinding in her customer’s lap. Chrissy, however, had studied tap, ballet, and modern dance. Though her parents would have been aghast at the thought, those expensive dance lessons converted quite nicely into the skills necessary to provide table dances of the ultimate sensual nature.
But—her style was more than a grinding lap dance; it was the perfected art of taunting a man’s emotions and playing upon his deepest desires: erotic sex with a beautiful, young slut.
A new song started. Chrissy unhooked her top and pushed Kane’s chair back with the force of an ultrapure energy. Her cute expression disappeared; the ruthless conquest of a man now drove her smile.
With perfect balance, Chris pressed a flirty kiss onto a cheek flushed by desire. Words dripped with a golden tease.
“You ready, Big Money?”
Then—the dance started.
One at the table was frozen by his own lust; all Kane could do was watch in sheer wonder. Moves, perfectly timed; touches of sex, promised—the girl’s body and woman’s sensuality were in complete control. One dance, two dances, then five; each was hotter and more accurately aimed at the base desires of the man.
A light sheen of moisture glossed in moon-glow across Chrissy’s skin. Breath, barely moved by the exertions, came forth only when useful to whisper the words of lust. “Do you like me, Kane? Do you want me?”
Bud tried not to gawk. It would not have bothered Lisa if he did; she, too, was captured by the erotic motion. All she could think was—damn, that bitch is hot.
When the fifth lap dance was completed, Chrissy released them from her spell. She had barely broken a sweat—so complete, her training and so fit, her body. Smoothly, as if she had always belonged there, the blue-eyed beauty slipped into Kane’s lap and wiped his forehead with a napkin. He was sweating enough for both of them.
A waitress approached the table. “Y’all ready for another round?”
Lisa responded first. “Yeah—Jack and Cokes for me and my guy. Big Money wants a gin and tonic. Bombay Sapphire, right?
Hamilton was in no mood to argue with any suggestion made by the A-team.
“And the hooker will have another Apple Martini.”
Hamilton’s jaw dropped open. “A hooker? Really?”
Chrissy shrugged and smiled with a sweetness that hid the lioness’ claws. “For you, honey, I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Now, go get some more cash. I have rent payments in NYC coming soon.”
Lisa laughed. Female beauty had met male desire. Game over.
As the night continued, four people merged into two couples. Kane and Chrissy engaged in discussions of his business, the gas industry, and the topic of most interest to her: how he spent the $250,000-a-year required of all Black Amex holders. The answer came back in four words: “A private Lear jet”.
Lap dances then went up to forty dollars a pop.
Bud and Lisa were having a totally different experience; they each found sensual delight in the other’s presence. Within minutes, it was apparent they had many things in common. Both liked to get drunk on Jack and Coke. Which, in turn, eased them into the true nature of their desires: they desperately wanted to fuck each other senseless.
On several occasions, Bud asked Lisa to dance for him. She declined. The hook was being baited. Finally, he could stand the tease no more.
“Isn’t that how you make your living?”
Lisa noticed his effort made to mask the boyish disappointment his gift might not unwrap itself. The hook was set. She was ready to reel him in. “I’ll dance for you anytime you want, Bud Gossett. Now, later, or—”
“—forever.”
Lisa winked and caressed her man’s jet-black hair.
“Thought so. Now, let’s pay the check and go find a bed.”
– 11 –
Planned Departures
Saturday, August 27th
2:00am
Houston, Texas
By club rule, the girls could hang up their G-strings and leave at 2am. This presented some logistical issues for Lisa, Chrissy, and their two gas execs; all were in various stages of inebriation.
Chrissy was somewhere between completely screwed-up and downright obliterated. Kane matched her at the eight Martini mark and hovered around pretty damn drunk. Bud came in at a point or two below the legal limit to drive but couldn’t remember the location of the club’s exit. Lisa had earned herself a Jack and Coke buzz, and, more importantly, a fine guy. She knew exactly where the exit doors were.
“Okay, boys—sweet, soused Chris won’t be driving anywhere.” Lisa then played the helpless-female gambit. “Kane, when we get outside, would you be a sweetheart and call for a taxi?”
Hamilton roared back in an overly-loud response. “No one is going home in a cab! Big Money is taking you home in a limo.”
Lisa silently winked at Bud. “So nice of you to offer, Big Money.”
Chrissy and Lisa almost tripped over themselves as they hurried into the girl’s dressing room to change into their regular clothes.
“Hey—wait,” the blonde said with a mischievous smile. “I wanna’ do another blast!”
“More? Haven’t you had enough tonight?”
“No! This is great stuff, and you can’t have any of mine. Mine is mine, and yours is yours, because yours isn’t mine, and mine isn’t yours.”
“God, you are such a fourth-grader when you do coke.” Lisa pointed toward an open bathroom stall. “Now, get in there and do your stuff. I’m going to wait for a while.”
Lisa was waiting for her when Chrissy opened the door. Three sneezes, two watery eyes, and one stumble announced the obvious.
She had snorted all her UltraPure.
The girls bounded out of the dressing room and into the lobby. Granite face still sat behind the register counter. Lisa noticed her moves were jittery, and a fake smile crossed her thin lips. Yep, she did all her coke.
Kane pushed the club’s door open in triumphant exit. “Okay, girls, the limo is already here. Wait—it never left!” Then he burst into a broad barrel-chested laugh and waved the Black Amex card in the air. “Nothing ever leaves Big Money!”
Lisa walked to Bud and entwined her arm with his. “I am staying with you tonight, right?”
Her new guy responded with a look of green-eyed desire. “Every night, gorgeous.”
It was Kane who cast an odd gaze at Chrissy.
“Honey, where’s your other shoe?”
The blonde fell apart in drunken laughter.
“A fat girl stole it.”
– 12 –
Pleasures Offered
Saturday, August 27th
2:10am
Houston, Texas
The limousine driver—his black uniform still perfectly pressed—stood at crisp attention. Hamilton motioned with a nod and the smallest of gestures. The rear door snapped open. Lisa peered into the cavernous interior; what she saw brought forth thoughts she had never dared to dream. Money. Power! Somehow—some way—I will have this.
Lisa popped a flirty wave at Bud, hopped into the limo, and disappeared into the back seat. Bud peered in after her. Long tan legs invited a touch, and the short dress suggested a deeper experience lay beyond. The brunette gazed into her man’s stare.
“Want more of this Buddy-boy?”
An excellent offer, the gas exec decided. It was time to close the deal. He loaded himself into the seat across from the entrancing woman. Lips touched.
Chrissy piled in with the coordination of a drunken second-grader. Giggles, spaced by sneezes, suggested something other than alcohol was at work inside the girl. No one noticed. Second graders always have runny noses.
Hamilton followed the three, still waving the Black Amex. Lisa knew it was a flag of surrender.
“Will you lovely young ladies please come to the hotel with us?”
Lisa shrugged. “Well, Kane, I normally don’t hang around with my customers after I leave the club. Maybe I’ll make an exception tonight. Let’s stick with the guys—right, roomie?”
Chrissy sniffled then sneezed.
“Something wrong with her?” Bud asked.
“Allergies,” Lisa replied as she pulled her roommate next to her. She cast a hard look. “Deal with it, Parker.”
As the limousine departed the Pump Room parking lot, Chrissy’s voice broke into sobs. “Lis… I want to go home. Now, please.”
Damn, the girl fucked herself up on coke. Color me inconvenienced. “Uh, guys, I think our party-girl is about done for the evening. Y’all mind if we drop her off at our apartment?”
“That’s probably best,” Kane replied without too much disappointment in his voice. “Mrs. Hamilton might look past some boyish fun. That would not include taking a twenty-two-year-old to my hotel room. How about you, deer-fuck? What would Mrs. Gossett say?”
Lisa’s jaw dropped open a full two inches. Her head snapped toward Bud. A stare, wickedly hurt in nature, formed in her eyes. Bud calmly whispered into her ear, “He is messing with you, Lis. There is no Mrs. Gossett—yet.”
A frown followed her breath of sheer relief “Kane, you’re such a dickhead. Don’t tease me like that!”
Hamilton laughed with a good nature. “Welcome to the gas patch, honey. Play the game, or you’ll get played.”
Chrissy’s next sneeze was followed by an increasingly incoherent moan. Tension crept into Lisa’s voice.
“Kane…”
“Yes, of course we’ll drop Chrissy off at her apartment—with one condition attached.”
“Oh, God—what now?”
“You have to promise you won’t leave the limo. My new company President is obviously in love, and he won’t be worth a damn to me if you wander off.”
Bud blushed, and Lisa giggled in pure delight. “Can I stay here with you… deer-fuck?”
“Woman! You may call me Bud—and only Bud.” A light swat to her thigh reminded Lisa that her man was not to be toyed with—until they got the hotel room, of course.
“All right, but you have to get her into the apartment safely, Kane. You okay, Chris?”
A miserable nod provided the answer. She was not.
The key fit into the apartment’s door lock with no resistance. Hamilton heard a dog barking from inside. Not unfriendly, but not friendly, either.
“Someone in there I need to know about before we open the door?”
“No,” Chrissy replied. “Just my dog. Well, Lisa’s dog. Oh, never mind. BH won’t bother you. He’s three parts sweet and no parts brave.”
A hard cough followed.
“Here.” Kane handed her his handkerchief.
The young blonde wiped her nose. “Thanks. Umm—you want it back?”
“Sure.” He had several grandchildren; the minor messes of life brought no concern. “Hand it to me, and I’ll wash it later. Just get inside and take care of yourself.”
Chrissy nodded with a tear of appreciation then disappeared behind the door.
Kane turned and walked slowly back to the limousine.
He was worried about the girl.
What he did not consider, was how much he might now need to worry about himself.
– 13 –
Pleasures that Cost
Saturday, August 27th
2:50am
Houston, Texas
Twenty minutes later, Bud and Lisa unlocked a different door—the one that opened into the executive suite of the Maxxim Hotel. Two hearts beat at a rapid pace. One lover was flush with hot female passion. The other was breathing heavily with pure masculine power. Relentless desire drew them closer to the flame.
The door flew open then closed with a slow, tongue-touching passion. Face to face, inches away from one another, Lisa spoke first.
“Now I have you, Bud Gossett. You, are so mine.” An enticing giggle set about its work. “You cannot possibly imagine what I want you to do with me.” Lisa’s head dipped down in controlling submissiveness. A shy smile looked up. “Forever, right? You promised—forever.”
Green eyes penetrated her, but Bud said nothing.
The sleek brunette moved a few steps back and raised her hands above a body built for the needs of male pleasure. “Like what you see, honey? It could be yours, or it could be another’s… ”
Bud’s breathing deepened. What he saw, he had to have. “Yes, Lisa. Forever.”
A silence: long; deep; scary; and erotic—pulsed between them. Then, the giggles continued their work.
“Well, color me taken, baby.” Lisa’s thoughts then turned to the serious business of keeping her man hot and wanting it. “Tonight. Do you want me in slut-wear and come-fuck-me pumps—wet and willing? Or tan and naked—wet, and willing? You wanna’ pick, or shall I?”
Bud shivered in delight. God, I love the way this woman talks. She has no fear of herself.
“Choice two,” he replied. He’d had enough of slut-wear and stiletto heels for the night. Now, he simply wanted her.
“You got it. I’ll meet you in the bedroom. Two minutes. Be naked. I am not responsible for what happens to innocent shirt buttons if you are not.”
Bud smiled. He knew the next two minutes of his life would be among the longest ever. In another way, he wanted them to last forever.
Lisa emerged from the main parlor room. With erotic confidence, a perfect female body was presented for her man’s pleasure.
“You… like?”
Breathless, astonished words were returned. “I want.”
“Tell me what you want, babe.”
“I want to—” Bud’s words stopped short. A look of frustration clouded his face. “It is hard for me to say those words, Lis.”
The brunette caressed her body with an inviting motion. “I want it hard in me, not hard for you.”
In an explosion of motion, Bud shot up from the bed. His jaw set with determination. The smile of masculine confidence returned. “I want it hard, soft, nice, mean—every way possible.”
Lisa winked at him and slowly turned herself in a circle with the erotic skill of a woman who had danced for a thousand men, all the while knowing only one man would matter.
“You can have everything you want: a friend, a slut, a whore, a companion. Then, Lisa glanced up as if she were pondering a question of the ages. A naughty smile emerged. “And, what about this?” A clear plastic baggie, full of white powder, revealed itself from its hiding place in the palm of the stripper’s hand. “We’ll have wilder sex if we do it together.”
Bud sat back on the bed. With the slightest of frowns, he shook his head back and forth. “No. I do not want that in my life, our life, and to be completely clear—your life. Question asked. Question answered. Now, show me what you will do.”
A smile of enthralled pleasure emerged from inside her. He is so hot when he takes control. Now, is the time to choose. Be smart, girlfriend—you don’t get many chances like this.
A powerful female mind considered the nature of two intense pleasures that she knew would never exist together. The choice was made. “I want to be with you. Now watch, babe—this is why they call it snow.” Lisa emptied the UltraPure into her hand and held it up to her lips. “Make a wish.”
Bud took a deep breath. Hope filled him.
Lisa then blew across the top of her palm. Within a second, the white powder expanded into a cloud of translucent mist.
A deep smile of masculine appreciation followed from the one who had made the wish. “Oh, thank God!”
A female giggle lightened the moment. “So, what was this about fucking me hard and mean? Now, you have to show me how you’ll do it.”
His hand reached out for hers. Bud Gossett’s gaze penetrated Lisa Ellen Hanson with a fierce, spell-casting effect. A powerful motion pulled her into bed.
Lisa knew there was no reason to resist. When control was granted by the woman, power was established over the man. Something entirely different than the gaze of Bud’s eyes would soon penetrate her.
He had wished for a long, wonderful, and love-filled life with his woman.
In seven days, Bud would know if that wish was to be granted or destroyed.
– 14 –
Two Good-Byes
Saturday, August 27th
10:00am
Houston, Texas
When Bud and Lisa awoke, they discovered something else they had in common. Neither were ‘morning people’. Not by a long shot.
“Bud, honey, the fucking phone is ringing.” The irritation in Lisa’s voice did nothing to raise the man sleeping next to her. A sharp poke to his ribs produced the desired effect.
“Geez, Lis, how about you answer the call?”
“You sure about that, Cowboy? I don’t want to piss off Mrs. Gossett if she’s calling to check on her sweet husband.”
Lisa blew a puff of air into Bud’s ear to add taunt to the tease. He swatted at the bother and buried his head underneath the pillow. Damn, he wakes up even harder than I do. This’ll be fun.
Lisa picked up the phone. “Uh, hello.”
A booming voice replied. “Good morning, missy—where’s Bud?”
Twenty seconds of conversation passed. Lisa’s face lit up in a broad smile.
“Really? C’mon, Kane. You are teasing me again.”
Hamilton’s answer convinced the brunette this was a very good morning to get up early.
Lisa hung up the phone and cuddled next to Bud. She ran her hand across his broad, powerful chest. “Hey. Wake up. Your boss just called.”
Bud stirred back into semi-consciousness. “So—what’d he say?”
“Well,” Lisa continued with a factual tone in her voice, “Kane asked me to fly back to Albany with him. That’s in New York State, isn’t it, honey?”
“Ah—yeaaa—”
“Okay, good. I have always wanted to visit New York State. Your new CEO has a ‘luxurious’ apartment up there. He was going to give it to you, but Kane likes me more now, so you have to find a different place to live.” A devilish grin explained the subversive plot. “Or, move in with me.”
“He said that, eh?” Bud smiled and looked at the irresistible beauty. “Did he say anything else?”
“Well, yes. If you were nice to me last night, you still have a job and can fly back with us.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d let him know.”
“So—was I nice to you last night?”
Lisa rubbed her wrists. They were reddened and chaffed from the intense pleasures of a contested nature. “Nice? You did me so hard I damn near passed out!”
“Good. Then tell Kane you’re a happy girl so I can keep my job and fly home with you. He wasn’t kidding by the way. He owns a Lear.”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “No! Really? I am flying on his private jet today?”
“Yes—you are.”
Bounces and kicks accompanied a girlish scream. The top sheets flew off the bed. “I’m flying on a Lear! How cool!”
Bud laughed and covered his head with the pillow. Lisa snatched it away. A wink was waiting in ambush. She stopped moving immediately and gazed back.
“Maybe we should practice joining the mile-high club before we get up there?”
The question was answered by motions, not words.
An hour later, Chrissy stood in the doorway of her roommate’s bedroom. Her arms crossed. “What do you mean you are leaving with Bud? Leaving for where?”
“Uh—Albany, Chris.” The tornado of clothes flying out of Lisa’s disorganized closet subsided for a moment. “That’s in New York.”
“Yeah. Albany, New York—about two-thousand fucking miles from here, roomie.”
“Right, two-thousand fucking miles—gotcha’.” The tornado of clothes resumed. Some even managed to fall close to the large piece of luggage Lisa had thrown onto her bed. “Kane keeps his jet at Houston’s Hobby airport. We leave in—“ Lisa glanced at her wristwatch. “Damn! The limo’s going to be here in 15 minutes.”
Sheer panic clouded the brunette’s face. “Oh, Chris—I don’t have any nice clothes. Short skirts, tank tops, crotch-cut jeans, sure. Slut-wear to the max. But—” Tears welled up.
“Geez, I can’t stand to see a hooker cry. This is exactly why I kept suggesting you buy at least a couple of respectable outfits. You never know when a rich guy will ask you to fly to Albany in a Lear jet. ‘Happens to me all the time.”
A laugh parted Lisa’s tears. The look of desperate helplessness remained.
“Oh, good lord,” Chrissy said, as she left the room. Three minutes later, she returned with a carefully folded stack of clothes. “Here—a gift from the fashion goddess. Pants outfits, skirts, a matching jacket, some blouses, and—God—I can’t believe I am doing this.” Chrissy held up two pairs of low-heeled pumps. “These are my favorite Pradas, bitch. I want them back, or you will die a shoeless woman.”
Lisa nodded with the appreciation only saviors are granted.
“Yeah, right, whatever,” Chrissy continued. “Just tell me you are not jumpin’ into the Jell-O without knowing what flavor it is.”
Lisa rubbed her wrists and licked her lips. “Oh, I know what flavor his jello is, baby girl.”
Ten minutes later, Chrissy’s voice commanded attention. “Lis… HANSON!! Get your ass out here. The limo’s outside.”
The brunette, dressed in a perfectly-fitting cream-colored pants suit, a silk blouse, and matching heels emerged from her room.
“Oh… my… Lord,” Chrissy said, as Lisa presented herself for the first time, dressed as a woman of culture and means. “Well, you have the perfectly-gorgeous part down. Now, let’s get you a little closer to the on-time part. Checklist: confirm, Hanson.”
Lisa snapped to attention.
“Suitcase, outfits packed. Neatly.”
“Well, sorta’.”
“Good enough. How about bras, undies; please tell me you packed undies.”
“Shut up, bitch. I packed them. Both pair!”
The two girls giggled.
“Shoes, belts, purses, jewelry, makeup,” Chrissy continued.
“Check.”
“And, finally,” the blonde said with a sardonic smile, “did you pack a ridiculous variety of naughty skirts, scandalous tank-tops, and other such slut-wear that would shame a street-girl?”
“Well, of course! That’s common sense.”
Chrissy just shook her head. “Now get out of here before I break down.”
Lisa picked up her luggage and started toward the door.
“Wait!” Chrissy grabbed her roommate and spun her around with a firm grip. A sweet face darkened with uninvited feelings.
“Two things: first, if your brother calls—what do I tell him?”
A voice, grown instantly harsh, replied: “Tell him I am dead.”
“Lisa—no!”
“Well—then promise me that you won’t tell him I am happy and living a good life.”
“Okay, Lis. How sad. I guess I understand.”
The two girls hugged.
“Can I please leave now? I can’t be late for this one.”
“Not quite. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Chrissy pointed down. Stationed at Lisa’s feet, a loyal dog—his walking leash expertly placed within reach. Sad brown eyes asked without words: Are you leaving me? But, he knew—good dogs always know.
Lisa broke down in tears. Memories flooded her. Three years ago, he was a reject from another stripper. BH had arrived in her home in bad shape: starved; lonely; and the sullen look of a kind one who had never received kindness in return.
With consistent care, BH’s health returned, and he adopted his new woman with all the love a good dog could muster. Lisa reached down and retrieved the leash from his mouth. His eyes glistened with patient hope, and a woman’s heart broke completely.
“Oh, God,” she said, as tears cascaded down her cheeks. She bent down to stroke his head and furry ears. “You have no idea how much I needed you. I didn’t save you. You saved me!” A warm, pink tongue deposited a kiss on Lisa’s cheek.
“You two won’t be there. It’s so far away. I’ll be okay—right, Chris?”
“You’ll do fine, Hanson. You are ready. You have always been ready.”
Lisa looked toward her best dog-friend; the only one in her life who had always been there for her. “Chrissy will take good care of you. I have to… go.” Slowly, she handed BH’s leash to her roommate, then, for the first time in her life, broke down into sobs.
“We’ll see each other again, Chris. I promise!”
Chrissy froze the stream of her feelings. Tears would come later and in torrents. “Of course! New York City isn’t too far from Albany. We’ll be close again in just a few months!” A second breath steadied Lisa’s roommate. “Now, there is an incredibly lucky man waiting for you. Go with him. He deserves your love.”
In a time far shorter than either girl wished for, a beautiful brunette, dressed to such perfection it seemed as if she was the sunrise herself, waved goodbye and disappeared into a black limousine.
Chrissy closed the apartment door and collapsed onto the couch. BH joined her in his usual spot: six inches away and with his head placed gently in his best friend’s lap. Furry dog ears received grief-sharing strokes. Tears flowed down the blonde’s cheeks. Her sadness was not alone; her hopes cried, too. Soon, she would fly away to her own brilliant future and the career she loved so much.
One hour later, a private jet streaked into the sky,
Lisa could come back at any time—Kane had promised this.
But, the promise Lisa had made to Chrissy would be one she could not keep.
Elizabeth Ellen Hanson would never again see Christine Catherine Parker.
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