Page 100 of Emmett
The two of us walk past the security check-in and into the club, met with loud bass music and flashing neon lights. I think that most people expect me to love nightclubs because I own them, but I would truthfully rather be anywhere else. Between the horrible noise these people call ‘music’ and the sheer volume of bodies, this is my nightmare.
I lead Colt toward the stairs that lead to the upper VIP level of the club, guiding him to table two, and I motion for him to sit as we approach the couch.
“My wife won’t be thrilled that you asked me to meet you in one of your brothels,” he tells me as he crosses an ankle over his knee.
“Won’t it be nice for you, then, to be able to tell her that the service hasn’t been available for three months.” I motion toward the security guard ahead of us, snapping my fingers in wordless instruction to send up our servers. “And she can thank your son for that.”
“Oh? How so?”
I nod as I pull a menu toward myself. “He reminded me of something that no one else could have.”
If I were speaking technically, the seed was planted before Emmett and I ever had that conversation, on a day that Fowler’s attack dog came into my office and referred to me as a ‘pimp,’ but I’ll never give credit to him for that aloud.
Two women dressed in brightly-colored bodysuits join us, each of them putting on a display of fawning over us because they’d like to show off for their boss and show me what great service they provide. Really, their only purpose here is to show Fowler that I’ve done away with the blues that my VIP girls were to wear in the past.
I order a cocktail, but Fowler insists on drinking nothing stronger than sparkling water, which is only slightly annoying. With his fingers tapping along the side of his glass, he finally leans back in his chair and asks, “What was it that Emmett did?”
“It was something that he said a few nights before we parted ways,” I explain. “We were having dinner together and I’d been telling him that I was frustrated with the girls hired to replace the ones that—Davishad taken because they were complaining.”
“As was their right,” he interjects.
Holding up a hand to quiet him, I continue. “Anyway, he’d looked at me as if I’d started speaking in tongues and told me ‘well yeah, they’re people, Nash.’”
A proud smile spreads across his face as he listens, and I try to hide my own that wants to join his.
It was such a simple thing for him to say, and it was something that should have been obvious. I’m not sure when I stopped seeing my employees as people; I’m not sure when I became so desensitized to them. Those five simple words flipped a switch in my mind and forced me to reconsider everything that I’ve done and worked toward over the past decade and a half.
The week after Emmett walked out of my life, I started a trial run of strictly-voluntary VIP service, which served a dual purpose: to see if the clubs could function well without it and to see which of the women working for me were unhappy with their jobs. When only two of them continued working the VIP section across all of my clubs, I had my answer, and the decision was made for me.
“My son seems to see something in you that the rest of us don’t,” Fowler tells me. “I have a maxim: don’t let someone tell you who they are, make them show you.Ifyou care about him the way you say you do, you’ll be willing to put in the effort to show us whatever it is that he sees.”
“And how would you suggest that I do that?”
With another pull from his drink, he taps his fingers on his glass again. “Start with your former employees. Shred their NDAs. Find them and apologize to them in person. Write each of them a personal check; not for a few thousand, either.” He rests his glass on the table in front of us and leans back in the cushions, draping his arms along the back of the couch. “Listen to their stories, should they choose to share with you.You put them through years of abuse and exploitation, and you owe them the space of hearing that. Should they need it, cover the cost of their counseling.”
“That’s quite a list of demands you’ve got, Fowler,” I joke.
“And I’m not finished,” he tells me. “Once you’ve done those things, I want to see you do something publicly good. Something that benefits you in no way, like a charity gala. I can give you a list of vendors and entertainment if you need them.”
“Let’s say that I go down your little list and tick off all of the boxes on it,” I muse. “The point of it is to…?”
“The point is to show us that you’re capable of being more than a selfish and cruel person.” Pushing himself to a standing position, he tells me, “Put in the effort for Emmett, and I might be inclined to believe him.”
His hand extends to me and I rise to meet him, giving a firm shake of his hand. “This might be the most civilized conversation we’ve ever had, Fowler. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“That makes two of us.”
•
A strange sense of comfort washes over me as I push the front door open, greeted on the other side by both Moose and Clover. They’re as opposite to each other as Emmett and I are, but also like us, they work well together. I honestly think that Moose will be crushed when we go back home.
The earthy smell of marijuana smoke hits my nostrils as I pass the living room, heading for the hallway that leads to Emmett’s bedroom.
One of those incredibly stupid cartoons that he likes so much plays on the TV – this one featuring a cat and dog fused to one another – and my pretty boy lays in his bed with his bare back exposed as he sleeps with his head on his arms and his comforter stopping low at his hips. I pull my own top over my head, dropping my slacks and stripping until I’m left in nothing but my boxer briefs. Climbing onto the bed and over top of Emmett, I press my lips to the small of his back, working my way up with soft kisses to his flesh until I reach his shoulder.
I lower my body onto his, forcing a tired groan from him. “It’s done, pretty boy,” I whisper into his ear. “No more hiding. No more sneaking around or looking over our shoulders.”
He moves to roll beneath me, letting out a satisfied sigh as I press my lips to his. “I’m not a hundred percent yet,” he tells me with his voice thick with sleep. “I don’t even think I’m fifty percent. I don’t want you to regret this.”