Got Mine (Men of Trance Book 1) Read online

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  GOT MINE

  ISBN: 978-1540707093

  Copyright © 2017 by Nicole Loufas

  www.nicoleloufas.com

  Editing by Holly Kothe with Indie Solutions,

  www.murphyrae.net

  Cover design by Murphy Rae,

  www.murphyrae.net

  Cover photo taken by FuriousFotog,

  www.onefuriousfotog.com

  Cover model: Joshua McCann, www.facebook.com/JoshuaSeanMccannofficial

  Except for the original material written by the author, all song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  Table of Contents

  title

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Shout Outs

  Men of Trance

  About Me

  Most of my parenting skills were derived from animated sitcoms and Adam Sandler movies. Since my father rarely made an appearance in my life; guys like Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin became my mentors. I’ve never strangled my daughter or attempted to run her over with the car, and yet, I’d still take second place to Homer for father of the year.

  Because one: I can’t afford a car.

  And two: I don’t have a killer job in a nuclear facility that probably offers an excellent benefits package.

  Fatherhood has been a learn-as-you-go experience for me. I can’t tell you how many times I wrapped my daughter in a t-shirt and plastic bag because I forgot to buy diapers. Or fed her fish-shaped crackers and apple juice for dinner. And maybe, just maybe, Lulu’s first word was shit.

  Could’ve been sit or spit.

  Tonight, I’m upping my game. I’m going full Mike Brady. Minus the suit and tie. Minus clothes period.

  If there is one thing television has taught me; it’s this:

  Good fathers make sacrifices.

  Whether it’s giving up on your dream to play professional baseball or shaving all your body hair, good dads provide a better life for the people they love. Believe it or not, there are men in this world who put their children first. I’ve never actually met one of these unicorns, but I’m pretty sure they exist. If things work out with my new job; I’ll be shitting rainbows by the end of the month.

  I turn off the shower, pull a towel from the silver bar on the wall, and perform a sniff test. I try to hit the laundry mat once a week, but when you have to decide between clean towels and eating; a case of ramen noodles wins every time.

  The struggle is real. But it won’t last forever. Not if I can help it. One day I’ll have so many fresh fucking towels I’ll need a closet to hold them all.

  Goals.

  Goals are good.

  Clean towels are even better.

  I wrap the funky smelling towel around my waist and open the bathroom door to find my only reason for living sitting in the hallway.

  “Why are you sitting in the hall, Lulu?” I step over a line of stuffed animals. “It’s too dark; you’re gonna ruin your eyes.”

  I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m pretty sure I heard it somewhere. “Go sit in the front room.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” She gathers her animal audience and shuffles down the hall.

  Lulu is a smart kid, and I’m not saying that because she’s mine. Lulu’s preschool teacher thinks she has a highly developed intellect and recommended her to a private school in the Mission District. I’m a public-school kid; I take pride in that. I assumed Lulu would go to my old school, you know, follow the tradition.

  When I told Lulu’s teacher my plan, she made a face. Since I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, I feed off the reactions of people that do. That face told me I was an idiot.

  I took a tour of the Elite Institute and right off the bat, you know this place is special. The kids sit on bean bag chairs or pillows, wherever they feel comfortable. No assigned seating. That blew me away. Until I saw the desks, not desks, workstations with ergonomically correct chairs. It looked more like a fancy tech company than a kindergarten class.

  Man, you should’ve seen Lulu’s eyes when we walked into the library. She couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. At the end of the tour, I let Lulu take the entrance test, and of course, she aced it. That’s when they hit me with the price. Just like a good car salesman.

  Twenty grand.

  That’s for one year. Not even a year, nine months.

  I know what you’re thinking, twenty G's so kids can finger paint, but it’s more than that. This is the kind of place that churns out CEO’s, and shit. I want to give Lulu every advantage to make it in this ruthless world. So, if you were wondering why I shaved all the hair off my body, that’s why.

  I check my duffel to make sure I have deodorant and a clean towel. Two things Giovanni told me never to forget. I zip the bag and look in the mirror. I’m not normally this narcissistic, but I’ve never been this cut. It took two months, six containers of weight-gainer, and countless hours in the gym to get here. I don’t think I’ve ever worked this hard for anything. My last job was picking up shit at a doggy daycare. That didn’t require any brain cells, let alone muscle.

  I’ve had ten jobs in the three years since Leeyan left for the army. While she’s off finding herself, I’m here doing whatever is necessary to make sure our daughter has a halfway decent life. I’m not asking for any awards. I know women have been doing this very same thing for centuries.

  I wish Leeyan were one of them.

  Everything seemed great on the surface. The problem with living on the surface is that sometimes you miss a step and fall into a hole. Leeyan fell about six months after Lulu was born. You can call it postpartum depression or whatever, but deep down I knew she didn’t want to be a mother. Leeyan had just enlisted when we met. Knowing we’d only be together for two months made every moment went spent together more intense and meaningful. We kissed deeper, laughed harder. I didn’t think I’d fall in love with her. I really tried to avoid it, but Leeyan isn’t the kind of woman you can love casually. It’s all or nothing with her, and I went all in.

  The morning she placed the pregnancy test on the table next to my bowl of Lucky Charms; luck was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t have the best childhood, Leeyan lost both of her parents when she was young. My parents exist somewhere in the world; they just aren’t part of mine. I prefer it that way.

  We swore our daughter would have more and we would do better. Leeyan might have bailed on our plan, but I’m going to see
it through no matter what.

  The doorbell rings and Lulu’s little footsteps run towards the hall.

  “Check the window first,” I remind her.

  I have a little peephole set up in the window beside the door so she can look out without the person on the porch seeing her. We live in a renovated flat across the street from Dolores Park. It’s a safe neighborhood, but you never know who might knock on your door. I’m not exactly ducking my landlord, but I don’t want to see the guy right now. Rent was due two days ago, and I’m a little light. I need this job to work out, not just for Lulu’s tuition. My building is owned, was owned, by Leeyan’s godmother. She passed away seven months ago and her son, Dennis, took over. The guy is a first-class prick. Leeyan thinks of him as a brother. To Dennis, she’s the star of all his wet dreams.

  “It’s Sylvie!” Lulu announces, and I hear the lock click open.

  Sylvie is babysitting for me tonight. I wouldn’t be able to do this without her.

  I put on a white v-neck Polo shirt and jeans. Gio says I should dress casually to and from the club. It’s best to keep a low profile. I slide on a belt then sit on the bed to put on my Jordan’s. This is the kind of thing I wear when I go grocery shopping with Lulu or to grab a drink with the guys. To Giovanni, it’s low-key, but it’s the nicest outfit I own.

  I stand before the mirror and check off my list.

  Hair: My fade is on point.

  Face: Moisturized and clear of blemishes. My blue eyes glow beneath my newly shaped eyebrows.

  Body: I won’t go into detail, but my abs belong on the cover of Men’s Health. I’m just shy of six feet, but those few inches I lack in height were put to good use in the other areas.

  Yeah, I’m feeling myself a little right now. When you’ve worked as hard as I have, a little vanity is understandable. I’ve transformed my dad bod into a sex god.

  I walk into the living room and find Sylvie bent over picking up crayons. We had a friends-with-benefits thing happening before she met Aaron. After that, we became friends sans the benefits.

  “Hey, you,” I say and try not to look at her ass.

  Sylvie looks up and slightly gasps at my appearance. She recovers quickly and pretends I don’t look like a stud.

  “Hey,” she says as she picks up her son. “Say hi,” she coaxes Reese. He looks at me and continues fisting his mouth as Sylvie places him in Lulu’s old baby saucer.

  We don’t have much furniture, just a crappy IKEA couch and a table holding a 42-inch flat screen. Most of Lulu’s baby stuff is still set up; taking it down will make the room feel empty.

  “You ready?” She tilts her head and searches for something to criticize. I’m flawless right now, on the outside at least.

  “Ready as I’ll never be.” I squat down to kiss Lulu and look down Sylvie’s top. I don’t mean to be a perv, but hell. She’s wearing a baggy V-neck t-shirt. I can tell by the outline of her tits that she isn’t wearing a bra. Not that she needs one. Even full of breastmilk, her tits are stellar.

  “I love you, Lulu.” I kiss her head, and she stands up. “Bedtime is eight, don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

  “I know, Daddy. Good luck at your new work.”

  I lift her into my arms and smell her freshly washed hair. When it’s still damp, like now, and smells like coconut and flowers—it’s my favorite smell in the world. I want to tell her how much I love her. How I’ll do anything for her. Unlike Leeyan, I put Lulu before my happiness, my dignity. When Leeyan was here, she did all the things a mother should, but there was no joy in it. Lulu deserves better than a mother who treats her like a chore.

  “Come on, sweetie, let Daddy go to work.” Lulu unwraps her arms and legs from around me and moves into Sylvie’s arms. “Be a good girl while I give your daddy a present. She kisses my daughter then sets her on the floor.

  “Did you say present?” I clap like a tween girl as we walk across the hall into the kitchen. It’s a little room with a small refrigerator and stove. Leeyan found the red Formica table and black-and-white chairs at a garage sale. It looks like the fifties threw up in here.

  Sylvie reaches into her purse and hands me a matte black can. “It’s your first bottle of man-spray.”

  “Syl, I don’t know how to thank you.” I press the can to my chest. “We’re having a moment.”

  Sylvie flips me off. “Just make sure you avoid the face, everywhere else is fair game.” Her eyes dip to my crotch and back.

  The bottle says Tom Ford Oud Wood and looks expensive.

  “You need your own scent;” she explains.

  “What was your scent?”

  Sylvie cringes whenever I ask her about dancing. She worked at a club for three years and didn’t go back after Reese was born. She’s in phlebotomy school now, and works part time at a nail salon. Most of her income is from Reese’s father. The guy hasn’t seen his son in a month, but he never misses a child support payment.

  “If I was on stage I usually sprayed on some cheap Bath & Body crap. When I worked the floor, I brought out the big guns. Gucci, Dior.”

  Smell is the strongest sense linked to memory. All I had to do was a get a whiff of Sylvie’s perfume, and I’d get hard.

  “What was the one I liked?”

  “Gucci Bamboo.” She kind of shudders. “Ever since I was pregnant with Reese, the smell of that makes me yak.”

  Leeyan was the same way when she was pregnant. It’s like her nose was on a higher frequency. She could smell one of Giovanni’s blunts on my clothes as soon as I walked through the door.

  “Thanks, Sylvie. For this.” I hold up the bottle. “For everything.” She’s my go-to whenever I need a sitter, a recipe, a break.

  “Just give me a hug, and we’ll call it even.” She wraps her arms around my waist. Most girls go for the neck, not Sylvie. She’s a waist hugger. “I can do without sex, but hugs are a necessity.” She moans softly into my chest.

  “Definitely.” I enjoy her body pressed to mine for a few seconds before letting go. I always break away first.

  “Remember,” Sylvie pokes me in the chest, “those cute little hipster bitches are just there to have fun. Take their money and come home.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I walk out of the kitchen and pick up my duffel. Sylvie already gave me an earful when I told her I got a job at the club. She warned me about balance and drawing lines. People make stupid decisions when money is on the table or the floor.

  “For real, Theo. Keep your head in the game.”

  I open the door and turn around with one of my sexy stares. She pulls lower lip with her teeth and looks at me like she wants to lick the icing off my cake. I like that I still get to her. Feeling wanted gets me off. What can I say, I’m a dude.

  “I got this, Sylvie.”

  I open the door and walk out almost convinced that my positive attitude is real. I’m scared as shit of failing.

  The pressure is so real.

  I walk through the park towards the train. A group of girls no older than fifteen is sitting on a blanket, passing a pink S’well bottle around. One of them has long dark hair and blue eyes. She’s wearing a Mission High School hoodie. My alma mater. She is Lulu ten years from now. Sitting in the park on a Friday night drinking with her friends because that’s what public school kids do for fun. I’m not saying kids that go to private school wouldn’t steal a bottle of their parent’s wine and or do a little Addy to stay up all night playing Scrabble. I want to believe educated kids have better ways to entertain themselves.

  Smart kids equal smart choices.

  If I want Lulu to have a fighting chance, that starts with the Elite Institute. If sending to her a hipster school means I have to dress like a cowboy and swing my rope for a room full of drunk women; then yee-fucking-haw.

  I’m a little anxious when I walk through the back door of Trance. It’s the same feeling I used to get before pitching in a big game.

  I want it to start so it can be over.

  Instead of pit
ching a no-hitter, I’m hoping to make a few hundred dollars to start my daughter’s tuition fund and pay my rent.

  Giovanni makes up to a grand on a good night, three hundred on a slow one. Gio’s specialty is getting married women to drop two hundred dollars on a private dance. Two or three of those a night and he’s set for the week. Giovanni is tall, lean, and has the face of a demigod, but my best friend’s greatest quality is his confidence. He can get a nun to drop to her knees and convince her that sucking him off is God’s will. He’s that good, and he’s my mentor.

  I walk through the kitchen; the cooks don’t bother looking up to see who is passing through. They don’t get paid to care. Whatever they’re cooking makes my stomach growl. I didn’t eat lunch or dinner, Giovanni’s orders. It isn’t about being bloated or watching my carbs. It’s other bodily functions that can kill your career before it gets started.

  Trance is in an old building in North Beach. You can smell the history of this place as soon as you walk through the door. The musky, damp stench of old wood and dirty carpet mixed with stale booze and desperation. The back of the club is a series of hallways and doors. Arrows on the bright green walls direct you back to the main room so drunk women can find their way out. Pictures of past and present dancers line the walls. I wonder if a black and white version of my face will ever adorn this hallway. Do I really want it to?

  Music in the main room rattles the frames. The bass drop is nothing compared to the roar of the crowd. The guys on stage now are what Gio calls the duds. Dancers that didn’t make the cut, but weren’t total dogs. They’re here to keep the ladies entertained until the real show begins. Someone like me usually starts out as a dud, but Gio is vouching for me, and I can dance. When my mom did work, she taught dance at a local studio. I’ve been crashing hip-hop and contemporary classes since I was seven. I got the dancing part down. It’s the stripping that I’m not sure about.

  I’ve watched Giovanni’s show a few times. He makes it look easy. Fun even. In theory, having a few hundred women screaming to see your chest is something every man dreams about. In reality, those screams sound more like a hoard of lunatics than a room full of horny women. Is there really a difference?