Page 40 of Watch Me

“How many months were you giving lap dances for, huh? Grinding on some guy’s dick and then coming home to my house as if nothing happened?”

A young guy in a plaid shirt walks past, shooting a sideways glance at us, and I smile apologetically.

“Can you please leave?” I hiss at Tate. “I’m at work.”

“And I am here as a customer, trying to buy your services. Simple as that.”

I have no fucking idea what his endgame is here, no clue what even the point to all this is. But now Patrick’s nowhere to be found, and Tate’s on the verge of causing a disturbance.

“Fine,” I say to buy time. “Let’s go to a booth, and we can talk there.” I indicate the VIP booths at the back of the club and let him step forward and lead the way. “No lap dance, though. Just talking.”

Where the fuck is Patrick? One more look around the bar reveals that he is now nowhere to be found.

I check that Tate is walking towards the booths with his back to me and pull out my phone.

“Tate is here,” I text Nick. “He’s drunk.”

NICK

I DON’T PAUSE to think when I receive Zoë's text. I react immediately. I turn off the TV and put on my shoes. I’m in my car before I even start to question my actions.

But whether it’s a good idea or not, nothing could stop me from rushing to Zoë's side.

It’s not that I think my son is dangerous in any way—of course not. But the abrupt tone of her text, especially after what happened between us today, signaled urgency to me, one way or the other. The idea that Zoë needs me sends my pulse racing. And the idea that Tate is at the club, maybe confronting her about something, has my anxiety at red-alarm level. I need to be there, whatever is going down. I need to manage the crisis I’ve caused.

I tear into the parking lot and rush to the door, but then pause a few feet away to take a deep breath and compose myself. I’ll never get past the bouncers if I seem agitated. When I enter the club, I pay my ten-dollar entry fee and smile calmly. Two young guys walk past me on their way out, strangely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen at least one of them at the house.

“I want a lap dance from her, too,” says the one I think I recognize, laughing.

“Forget it,” says the other, as they step through the exterior door. “Tate is probably inside her right now.”

The air goes out of the small vestibule, and my vision tunnels. I’m seeing red as I step through a curtain into the main room.

I make a beeline onto the floor, ignoring the host who tries to seat me, and scan the crowd for Tate or Zoë. Finally, my eyes alight on one familiar face: the dark-haired girl we spoke to on my birthday when I was here with the boys—Jazmyn.

“Where’s Zoë?” I ask abruptly, touching her arm.

She whips her head around to me, and then recognition passes over her features. She points to the VIP area without needing any explanation.

“They’re back there.”

I take the small flight of stairs up to the VIP area in two steps and stalk down the corridor, throwing back curtains to shouts and outrage, indifferent to the gyrating bodies inside, until I find what I’m looking for.

Tate and Zoë sitting side by side on a bench, both looking wretched.

“What are you doing here, Tate?” I roar as I tear the curtain back.

What a sight. My son, my boy. It seems only yesterday he was an infant dressed in dinosaur onesies, a little boy with a favorite Spider-Man top. Now he’s a giant sitting next to a scantily-clad girl and glaring back at me with pure thunder in his eyes.

“Me? What am I doing here?” He looks at Zoë in disbelief. “The fuck? Did you… call my dad?”

“Get up.”

“Fuck, no. What the fuck?”

Zoë stands up, just a suggestion of flesh and iridescent fabric in the corner of my eye. I can’t let myself look at her, or I’ll lose all focus.

Tate isn’t looking at her, either. He’s locked on me as he stands up and demands, “Just what the fuck is going on here?”

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