to a hospital. Comparing it to the few serious fights he’s been in, growing up and after, this is just worse than the norm. Except for the extra hurt around his body and shoulders, where he figures he took some kicking—that and the slight ringing in his head.
But washed up and wearing clean clothes—a button down shirt and crisp black jeans from the gym bag in his trunk—and with about five Advil kicking around in his bloodstream, he feels all right, good enough to drive and make sure things go according to plan at the club. He waits to cross the street with Maxine on his arm; she takes it as they leave the sidewalk and he looks over at how she’s done her hair: still up but now wet-looking, with chopsticks holding it together in a tight bun. She wears her makeup like a pro—tasteful and not overdoing it, a bit less than when she worked behind the bar. Her dress is low-cut, showing off her assets even better than the tight top and the pants—more left to the imagination but the lines all clear, her smooth legs and her arms revealed; the tease and the want get Jack’s mind racing.
At first Jack didn’t think Maxine should come, but when she came out of her bedroom ready, looking like this, he couldn’t argue. Her body slims in the middle, the dress accenting it, making her top and bottom individually stunning. As she walks ahead of him to the ropes and a bouncer, Jack notices that her calves look great, tight over her high heels: enough muscle that he knows she works out.
The bouncer waves them through a set of red velvet ropes toward a door under a sign that says “The Mirage.” When he recognizes Jack, he smiles, claps him on the back, which hurts, and says, “My man. Nice to see you out tonight. Looking good.”
“Good,” Jack says, thinking the last time this guy probably saw him was a mug shot from the cover of a tabloid, his face gray from junk and taking Victoria’s clubbing. “What’s up?”
They shake as Maxine pulls Jack along, toward the open doors.
Inside, Jack follows her through a set of black curtains, to where she hands two red tickets to a blonde at a window who works the register. Next they walk down a hallway and come out into a huge, high-ceiling, wide-open two-level room with loud techno music and kids dancing all around them. When Jack’s eyes adjust to the light, he sees there’s a walkway leading up to a balcony, that the dance floor seems even bigger because its ceiling is so high. He points out the balcony to Maxine, leans closer to try and talk, wanting to say that Castroneves said to meet upstairs. Instead he just yells, “Upstairs.”
As they make their way through the kids and across the dance floor, Jack takes Maxine’s hand. He leads her up a set of stairs and then to the walkway above the main floor. At the entrance to the second level, there is another set of bouncers, and these two smile when they see Jack, say his name even, and let him by. “Good movie,” it looks like one of them says, but Jack, reading lips in the loud techno cacophony, can’t quite believe that’s what the guy really meant.
Still, he smiles back and touches the guy’s bulky arm.
They walk up to where tables have been set up around the balcony so men in suits and women in dresses can sit in black chairs, drinking cocktails out of glasses, and look down on the dance floor below. The drinks of choice seem to be wine and martinis here, instead of the bottled water, drinks in plastic cups and chewing gum downstairs. This much is still like Jack remembers the clubs from his days on the scene, back when he and Victoria would make it out at least two nights every weekend, their days turning more and more into nights that became a push to see the sunrise, and then sleeping through the day.
Now Jack’s life features order, exercise and calm, the view of the Bay in the morning, and knowing that he’s doing the right thing. He thinks of the satisfaction he’s supposed to feel, but he misses
But washed up and wearing clean clothes—a button down shirt and crisp black jeans from the gym bag in his trunk—and with about five Advil kicking around in his bloodstream, he feels all right, good enough to drive and make sure things go according to plan at the club. He waits to cross the street with Maxine on his arm; she takes it as they leave the sidewalk and he looks over at how she’s done her hair: still up but now wet-looking, with chopsticks holding it together in a tight bun. She wears her makeup like a pro—tasteful and not overdoing it, a bit less than when she worked behind the bar. Her dress is low-cut, showing off her assets even better than the tight top and the pants—more left to the imagination but the lines all clear, her smooth legs and her arms revealed; the tease and the want get Jack’s mind racing.
At first Jack didn’t think Maxine should come, but when she came out of her bedroom ready, looking like this, he couldn’t argue. Her body slims in the middle, the dress accenting it, making her top and bottom individually stunning. As she walks ahead of him to the ropes and a bouncer, Jack notices that her calves look great, tight over her high heels: enough muscle that he knows she works out.
The bouncer waves them through a set of red velvet ropes toward a door under a sign that says “The Mirage.” When he recognizes Jack, he smiles, claps him on the back, which hurts, and says, “My man. Nice to see you out tonight. Looking good.”
“Good,” Jack says, thinking the last time this guy probably saw him was a mug shot from the cover of a tabloid, his face gray from junk and taking Victoria’s clubbing. “What’s up?”
They shake as Maxine pulls Jack along, toward the open doors.
Inside, Jack follows her through a set of black curtains, to where she hands two red tickets to a blonde at a window who works the register. Next they walk down a hallway and come out into a huge, high-ceiling, wide-open two-level room with loud techno music and kids dancing all around them. When Jack’s eyes adjust to the light, he sees there’s a walkway leading up to a balcony, that the dance floor seems even bigger because its ceiling is so high. He points out the balcony to Maxine, leans closer to try and talk, wanting to say that Castroneves said to meet upstairs. Instead he just yells, “Upstairs.”
As they make their way through the kids and across the dance floor, Jack takes Maxine’s hand. He leads her up a set of stairs and then to the walkway above the main floor. At the entrance to the second level, there is another set of bouncers, and these two smile when they see Jack, say his name even, and let him by. “Good movie,” it looks like one of them says, but Jack, reading lips in the loud techno cacophony, can’t quite believe that’s what the guy really meant.
Still, he smiles back and touches the guy’s bulky arm.
They walk up to where tables have been set up around the balcony so men in suits and women in dresses can sit in black chairs, drinking cocktails out of glasses, and look down on the dance floor below. The drinks of choice seem to be wine and martinis here, instead of the bottled water, drinks in plastic cups and chewing gum downstairs. This much is still like Jack remembers the clubs from his days on the scene, back when he and Victoria would make it out at least two nights every weekend, their days turning more and more into nights that became a push to see the sunrise, and then sleeping through the day.
Now Jack’s life features order, exercise and calm, the view of the Bay in the morning, and knowing that he’s doing the right thing. He thinks of the satisfaction he’s supposed to feel, but he misses
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