Scotty, Jessi and
Charmaine; they’d been family for over fifteen years. Their bond
had been forged on the street, three homeless kids living hard to
escape hell at home. When he turned eighteen Scotty joined the
Army. He’d been Special Forces, skills he brought back to the
street after serving for six years.
Despite being the owner of the club and
three other thriving businesses in Orleans Parish, Scotty still
liked playing bartender from time to time. At six feet four and
with muscles all over, he could also be the bouncer. One of several
professions he’d had in his murky past. But his formidable presence
wasn’t the reason Club Mellow was so peaceful. The clientele kept
it that way. They needed a discreet safe harbor to meet like-minded
people. Upscale hook-ups is how Jessi sarcastically described it.
Singles and couples retreated to the softly light elegant club to
live out their fantasies.
Charmaine came to ease the sexual tension
that gnawed at her when she felt threatened, lonely or stressed. A
psychologist had helped Charmaine understand that her
hyper-sexuality resulted from years of sexual abuse. She and
Jessica had suffered at the hands of their two successive
step-fathers. They’d come to associate sex with all emotions.
For Jessi, sex became a means to an end; a
way to be in control. Of course the sense of control wasn’t real.
It only lasted the few hours she spent servicing her clients; tying
up men or women, ordering them to surrender to Jessi’s every whim
until they screamed in ecstasy. Then she plunged back into a dark
place that only drugs could banish.
All this insight came from six years of
therapy for Charmaine. Dr. Lance told her that one day she’d accept
true intimacy and love, and then she wouldn’t need Club Mellow.
Charmaine knew differently. Unlike Jessi, Charmaine loved sex. The
physical pleasure of being with someone as an adult and by her own
choosing was Charmaine’s drug. Charmaine didn’t have all of the
answers. She didn’t need them. Her life worked for her. Mostly.
Scotty strolled over to Charmaine’s booth
after his employee, the real bartender, took over. He held two
short tumblers with dark gold liquid in each hand. He plunked one
down on the table in front of Charmaine’s almost empty glass. Then
he eased his tall frame onto the leather seat across from her, took
a swig from his own tumbler and sighed.
“Hello Charming Charmaine,” Scotty rumbled
in his basso voice and winked at her.
She finished off the last bit of whiskey in
one tumbler and picked up the full one. “Beam me up, Scotty.”
Charmaine took a sip and let the whiskey tickle down the back of
her throat.
“Jim Beam,” Scotty said completing the old
joke they shared.
They shared a companionable silence for
another ten minutes, watching couples and some threesomes get
acquainted. Everyone chatted as though they were just out with
friends. Soft laughter and conversation floated around the room.
Smooth jazz mixed with R&B tunes played over the sound system.
Through an archway was another room with a dance floor and a stage
raised a foot higher. The regular Saturday night band would start
to play at nine o’clock. Scotty and Charmaine exchanged a few
sentences of small talk the way southerners did before getting down
to business.
“So was I right?” Charmaine asked and
studied Scotty.
“On target. Keisha is a grifter, a con
artist who hit it big time when she married James LeLand Front, an
older man with money. Good money, too,” Scotty said. He raised his
glass in a mock salute. “Go on with yo bad self, Miss K.”
“How good?” Charmaine asked.
“He sold his packaging business in 1983 for
a cool ten million to a Fortune 500 company. At thirty-five he was
too young to just put his feet up. Dude started a high tech company
three years later. Four years later he sold that company for one
hundred million. Set his four kids up and did consulting. He had a
heart attack and a stroke in
Charmaine; they’d been family for over fifteen years. Their bond
had been forged on the street, three homeless kids living hard to
escape hell at home. When he turned eighteen Scotty joined the
Army. He’d been Special Forces, skills he brought back to the
street after serving for six years.
Despite being the owner of the club and
three other thriving businesses in Orleans Parish, Scotty still
liked playing bartender from time to time. At six feet four and
with muscles all over, he could also be the bouncer. One of several
professions he’d had in his murky past. But his formidable presence
wasn’t the reason Club Mellow was so peaceful. The clientele kept
it that way. They needed a discreet safe harbor to meet like-minded
people. Upscale hook-ups is how Jessi sarcastically described it.
Singles and couples retreated to the softly light elegant club to
live out their fantasies.
Charmaine came to ease the sexual tension
that gnawed at her when she felt threatened, lonely or stressed. A
psychologist had helped Charmaine understand that her
hyper-sexuality resulted from years of sexual abuse. She and
Jessica had suffered at the hands of their two successive
step-fathers. They’d come to associate sex with all emotions.
For Jessi, sex became a means to an end; a
way to be in control. Of course the sense of control wasn’t real.
It only lasted the few hours she spent servicing her clients; tying
up men or women, ordering them to surrender to Jessi’s every whim
until they screamed in ecstasy. Then she plunged back into a dark
place that only drugs could banish.
All this insight came from six years of
therapy for Charmaine. Dr. Lance told her that one day she’d accept
true intimacy and love, and then she wouldn’t need Club Mellow.
Charmaine knew differently. Unlike Jessi, Charmaine loved sex. The
physical pleasure of being with someone as an adult and by her own
choosing was Charmaine’s drug. Charmaine didn’t have all of the
answers. She didn’t need them. Her life worked for her. Mostly.
Scotty strolled over to Charmaine’s booth
after his employee, the real bartender, took over. He held two
short tumblers with dark gold liquid in each hand. He plunked one
down on the table in front of Charmaine’s almost empty glass. Then
he eased his tall frame onto the leather seat across from her, took
a swig from his own tumbler and sighed.
“Hello Charming Charmaine,” Scotty rumbled
in his basso voice and winked at her.
She finished off the last bit of whiskey in
one tumbler and picked up the full one. “Beam me up, Scotty.”
Charmaine took a sip and let the whiskey tickle down the back of
her throat.
“Jim Beam,” Scotty said completing the old
joke they shared.
They shared a companionable silence for
another ten minutes, watching couples and some threesomes get
acquainted. Everyone chatted as though they were just out with
friends. Soft laughter and conversation floated around the room.
Smooth jazz mixed with R&B tunes played over the sound system.
Through an archway was another room with a dance floor and a stage
raised a foot higher. The regular Saturday night band would start
to play at nine o’clock. Scotty and Charmaine exchanged a few
sentences of small talk the way southerners did before getting down
to business.
“So was I right?” Charmaine asked and
studied Scotty.
“On target. Keisha is a grifter, a con
artist who hit it big time when she married James LeLand Front, an
older man with money. Good money, too,” Scotty said. He raised his
glass in a mock salute. “Go on with yo bad self, Miss K.”
“How good?” Charmaine asked.
“He sold his packaging business in 1983 for
a cool ten million to a Fortune 500 company. At thirty-five he was
too young to just put his feet up. Dude started a high tech company
three years later. Four years later he sold that company for one
hundred million. Set his four kids up and did consulting. He had a
heart attack and a stroke in
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