Page 23 of The End of Summer

“Please, don’t remind me.”

“Seriously, though? You did good, Brady. I’ve seen way worse. You got moves.”

“I used to dance when I was young.”

“Not likethat, I’m sure.”

“No,” I concede, smiling. “Not like that.”

“It’s just a shame you flipped at the end. That probably lost you some street cred.”

“It’s fine. I’m not trying to make this, like, a regular thing.”

“You say that now. Wait till you count what’s in that envelope.”

I shake my head. “It was just a one-time thing, to help with my bills this month.”

“You mean to tell me that you can’t spare another hour of your life for $800?”

“Is that how much you think it is?”

“Ballpark, yeah.”

I pick up the envelope from my center console. It’s very fat. “All in singles?” I laugh. “That’ll look classy when I go to the grocery store.”

“That’s why you just take it straight to the bank and deposit it.”

“Great. So the ladies at TD can allmake fun of me.”

“They don’t care. Money’s money,” Big Mike assures me.

“And how much do you get?”

“Oh, I’m flat rate - $200. Steve pays me direct.”

“I think I’d be happy doing what you do. That’s decent money. And you get to keep all your clothes on.”

“Sorry, my man. You’re too scrawny to protect the talent.”

“Scrawny?” I echo, feigning offense. “How dare you?”

Big Mike laughs, patting his belly. “I’ve got easily a hundred pounds on your little Slim Jim ass.”

“Rude,” I announce – but he’s right, and we both know it. “I’m solid muscle,” I reply. “And I’m almost as tall as you.”

“That’s true, but you weigh like a buck ninety-five soaking wet. I’d kill you if I sat on you.”

“Well, then, how about don’t sit on me?” I grin. He shakes his head, and we remain silent as the still summer air blows in through the cracked front windows. The words “sit on me” call to mind a moment, frozen in time – me, facing the shot girl whoI swear to Godis a doppleganger for Gretchen Andrews, the feeling of my fingers wrapped around hers, the fever from her body merging with the heat from mine to create a blazing chemical reaction that still stirs my lower half, even thinking about it now.

“You good?” Big Mike asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, shaking the memory out of my head. “I still can’t believe that I ran out into a parking lot in a fucking thong.”

“Not your finest moment.”

“What exactlyshouldI have done?”

“Well, typically, the night ends with you excusing yourself into the back office. I bring you your clothes andyou get dressed, and then I get our money from Arrow and we slip out the back door. The ladies always have food delivered right after the stripper leaves – it’s like if they’re not going to get laid, they need to satiate themselvessomehow– so they’re usually too caught up with tacos or sandwiches or whatever to even really notice the talent heading out.”

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