Page 8 of High Rise Secrets
I don’t have to glance back at her to know I hurt her feelings by dismissing her. I mentally shake my head and berate myself for being a class-A asshole.
“H-have a good weekend, Mr. Freeman. See you on Monday. I’ll call Mr. Hughes’ office first thing on Monday and have an appointment made for you, and get some information and leave it on your desk.”
I nod without looking at her, and when I hear the office door click into place again, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial dear old Dad’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Ethan, you haven’t called me in ages. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Did you purchase a membership atRISEfor me?” I have a feeling the moment the words are out of my mouth, I know the answer.
“Ican’t even get a damn membership. What makes you think I bought one for you?”
Hmm, that’s interesting.
“Why not?”
“No idea. I tried for years and was always denied. No way it’s as good as Vince Perelli’s place, though. I heard these girls actually fight back. Shame, really.”
Fucking asshole.I am going to have to do some research on this. Someone has to be paying my dues if I’m on the damn list. Who the hell would be paying for them though? Looks like my weekend will be spent digging through records and information. “Thanks anyway, Dad.” I try to hang up and he stops me.
“Since you have a membership, how about you help your old man out and invite me there one night. It’s been a long time.”
My face twists in disgust. His strip club ‘habits’ are the reason Mom left in the first place, although not without a nice chunk of his money. Dad used to conduct a lot of business there, schmoozing potential new clients and getting serviced.
The only reason I went there all those years ago was as a present from him for doing so well in school. Dad thought it would be a good way to start learning the ropes, and I idolized him then. I would have done anything to make him proud of me at the time.
He sent me there with a few friends whose family were part of other well-known companies. He wanted me to start the process of gaining new clientele and paid for the whole night—alcohol, private dances, andher. Ember. My recurrent wet dream. I saw her on stage and knew I had to have her. Was I a bastard for it?
Yes. I know I was.
“No, thanks. I’m sure if they won’t give you an invitation, they have a reason. Later.”
“Boy, you listen to me,” he cuts in, his tone condescending, “I made you into what you are. Don’t be an ungrateful bastard for it. If it wasn’t for me stepping down, you’d still be—”
Oh, this is a laugh.“You didn’t step down. The boardforcedyou out,” I grit through my clenched jaw. Anger pulses through my veins like fire, ready to disintegrate anything that comes close. “If I remember correctly, you caught some heat for your love of women and questionable morals. Thanks anyway, Dad. I always enjoy these pleasant chats with you. Go fuck yourself.”
I end the call before I have to listen to anything else coming out of his mouth. Times like this I wish I was on a phone I could slam down. It was always so much more satisfying.
I search for the strip club online, but there isn’t much that’s easily accessible. The phone number and address are listed at the top, and there are a few small local articles from years ago talking about the new business and how applications were open for potential clients.
The last article I find is aForbes thirty under thirtylist.It’s an article about the owners, a group of four women who go by The Madams, and it talks about their journey and why it was important for them to open a club run by women.
It’s fascinating the way these women see the club. They see it as a safe haven, which is the complete opposite of how I think any man would ever see it. These women offer emotional support, along with self-defense and some of the most state-of-the-art technology to keep their workers safe.
According to the article, in order to become a member, each patron has to undergo an extensive background check. Only if everything clears are they allowed in. I never gave my permission for anyone to do a background check on me, especially not for a membership.
There must be someone who’s able to give me some sort of information as to when I agreed to have my background looked into. I dial the number from the website, and it rings before switching over to voicemail.
“Hello, this is Ethan Freeman. I need some information about my membership status. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
* * *
It’snine o’clock when my phone rings with a restricted number. “It’s Ethan.”
“Hello, Mr. Freeman. You called earlier inquiring about your membership status?” a sultry voice over on the other end asks.
“Yes. How long have I been a paying member of the club?”
“According to our records, you have been a member since we first opened eight years ago.”