Page 25 of Sticky Fingers

“Trust me, baby,” he says, angling his head downward towards me and lowering his voice, “there’s nothing tame about me.”

“Then why isn’t the Push Organization out there selling dope and making hits?” I ask with a shrug. “You act differently from the rest.”

“You really expect me to tell the daughter of the police commissioner my business plan as a crime lord?” he asks me with a smirk.

“Well, you already used accusations of her being an art thief to get her on a date,” I hit back.

“So, it’s a date then?” he retorts.

He’s got me pinned. I take a sip of my wine.

“It’s…” I start and pause again, “an audition.”

“An audition for what?” he asks.

“To see if you’re able to lift my boredom maybe,” I reply. He remains silent. “You’re very different from every other rich asshole I’ve ever met. And I’ve met quite a few.”

“And that’s because Iamdifferent, baby. I’m not like the others” is his only reply.

And this time he doesn’t seem to be fooling around. He actually means it.

No, he definitely isn’t like other crime bosses. Or even other men. So, if he isn’t the type of crime boss to meddle with drugs and murder, what kind of crime lord is he?

“Give me a bone to chew on, handsome,” I say seductively, once again brushing one foot against his leg.

He smirks.

“Alright,” he says, a tone of seriousness in his voice. “I don’t want to deal with all that shit because it’s not who I am. My money might come from crime, but I’m not a monster.”

As he says it, he places his elbows on the table and leans in toward me, lowering his voice. “Besides, I want to go legit. As fun as it is to move in the shadows, nothing beats basking in the sunlight.”

Can’t fault him for that, I guess.

“It may be a thrill for others, but for me…” he continues. “I want to keep all the shit I work hard for.”

“Is that so? Hard to go legit if all your money comes from—”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he cuts me short, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I have various legitimate businesses…the kind the cops can’t touch.”

“Such as? Don’t tell me you run laundry services. That’d be such a cliché.”

“Laundry services?” He laughs, and then finishes his wine. “Come on, I’m not an idiot. If you really want to know, a few years ago I came up with the plan to go legit in all my enterprises. I invested in a series of strip clubs. It grew phenomenally fast and spread throughout the country. It’s going to be my ticket out of…the less savory businesses.”

Strip clubs? Is he fucking kidding?

I can’t fault a man for making money, but…doing it like that? By exploiting the bodies of women for sleazeball men? Men who can only get a woman to undress if they pay for it?

“I take it you’re not a fan of strip clubs,” he merely says, seeing the look on my face.

“Not really,” I admit.

“You think it’s exploitive towards women who are down and out?” he asks me, and I nod. “That only douchebags who can’t get laid head to strip clubs to get women to undress for them?”

How is this man in my head?

“Listen, Malcolm,” I say to him, touching his arm, “you may very well get me in bed with you. And it may very well be good. But a man who makes his money off exploiting women… Well, he may get into my pants, but he’ll never capture my heart.”

You know what’s unreal though?