Goodman

An English professor at Louisiana Tech once told me that the better you are at writing, the less you have to follow the rules. Some students rolled their eyes at her, but I thought she was brilliant, poetic, and captivating.

Does this count as a disclaimer?

P.S. Statute of limitations is the shit.

Goodman. A last name worthy of an eye roll and assumption that he was not a good man at all. Probably a fucking dick, to be honest. But Chris Goodman was, unexpectedly, a good man. Good at most anything; good at sports, academics, running businesses, picking up women, fucking, and flawlessly disappearing after each one night stand. Good looking, too. Mid 30s, light brown hair that was once blonde now peppered with grays, held nicely in place with minimal gel, sporting a haircut that suggested military or police background. His soft, blue eyes creased at the corners from smiling often and were perfectly placed on his sun-tanned face that was lightly sprinkled with freckles. His jawline was strong and his neck was thick. He had an unusually thick neck and perfectly placed teeth that a dentist never needed to brace indicative of good health and phenomenal genetics. Chris wasn't just a good looking man, but fucking beautiful. A man usually isn't defined as beautiful. Yet, he was fucking beautiful. A well-balanced mix between a manly man and a Calvin Klein model. His "you can trust me" smile contagiously lit up the room while his eyes quietly danced around as if he was putting on a show, too. Putting on a show while scanning the room. Entertaining his people, reading other people, and enjoying every minute.

Chris had every reason to turn out less than par due to his upbringing in a small, racist hick town outside of Charlotte. If he hadn't Irish blood in him, Chris Goodman probably wouldn't have succeeded. Chris Goodman probably wouldn't have been a good man. Rarely do good men come into places like this, but Chris Goodman was a rare breed and everyone he came across knew that. Literally a blue collared work shirt, Express jeans, and Nike shoes fit Chris well. He looked content, confident, and financially comfortable in the dim, neon lighting. A decent mark for a stripper in 9-inch heels looking to make rent.

"Knock it over!"

The girls sitting with Chris were bubbly. Their stupidity was framed with blonde hair and covered with too much makeup. Their laughter hinted at loneliness.

"Knock over the money house!"

A sly smile creeped upon her lips, her eyes squinted, and brows furrowed giving the false pretense of hesitation.

"You mean this thing? Are you sure?"

She knew what she was doing; making her fucking rent and playing the game. Entertaining the stupid crowd who thought it was funny while she would have rather been at home, cuddled in her bed, reading bullshit horoscopes. But, here she was.

This group seemed better than the other money options at the moment so she played along. Her right hand was holding a Jack and Coke, fingers loosely squeezing a cigarette while her left smacked the stack of dollar bills into a pile that erupted into cheers.

"Next on main stage we have Guhraace."

Grace turned her head to look at the stage. Stage was the last thing she wanted to do. Reverted her focus back to the table full of drunk marks, sizing up every single face at the roundtop, holding a smile. She started towards the stage. After her set was over, she walked back to the table.

"Y'all mind if I sit with you?" she playfully asked while counting heads.

Six. Four guys, two of whom had money, and two girls that may or may not have girlfriend status.

"Grab a seat!"

Grace positioned herself next to a tall, slender man with icy blue eyes. The one she assumed was not with one of the girls. More importantly, the one would spend the money.

"Thanks love! So where the fuck are all yall from?"

Grace smiled real big and her eyes lit up. It was contagious, and she knew it. It was her best feature, and she played that card every Friday night at Deja Vu. The table of six reciprocated her smile.

"We're from Texas," said Eric.

Eric. A strange name for an Italian-Mexican man, she thought.

"TEXAS?! Texas is trouble!" Grace enthused and motioned like she was getting up to leave. Her long, dark brown hair dancing off her thin shoulders with each movement.

Grace was a shit-talker. Sometimes too much, but usually the customers enjoyed it and so she did it all the time. Why the fuck not? The table eagerly returned the smartass energy, all the while smiling and laughing.

"Hell yeah Texas! Where the fuck are you from?"

The table silently stared at her. All smiles, waiting for a response. Sitting on the far left was David, a lanky white guy with a sweet, goofy mouth that seemed to be on the verge of revealing the punchline to a joke. Beside him was Jon, a South American man with a New York accent. Jon was stocky, short, and strong. An apparent boxer. His black hair was slicked up and his style was overly fashionable. He wore more jewelry than the others. Jon had kind, dark brown eyes and a face that had seen both spectrums of life- white, entitled suburbia and the hood. Blondie #1 and Blondie #2 were next. Grace thought in that moment that all white females looked the same. To the right of Blondie #2 was Chris, then Eric. A big fucking circle of eyes ready to be entertained by the stripper. Grace was originially from South Carolina, but for whatever reason claiming the state Georgia made her more money. Possibly because of the overused line, "You're a Georgia Peach!" The only thing claiming South Carolina got her was accent jokes when she proudly said, "Sahowth Caraliiiina."

"Jorrjah," Grace said, gleaming.

"Well you're a Georgia peach then, huh?" Eric beamed at his cleverness.

"Something like that," she lit another cigarette.

"Hey Chris! You're from the East coast, right? North Carolina?" Eric purposefully asked to keep the conversation alive.

Chris was talking to Blondie #2. Midsentence he turned to Eric, responded with a too-short "yeah", and cocked his head back to the girl. His short response bothered Grace, but she brushed it off. She turned her attention to Eric.

A few drinks and dollars later, Grace began to excuse herself.

"Well it was nice to meet all y'all. I've gotta go make my rounds, but I'll check on y'all in a bit."

"Wait a minute! Can I get your number? We're having a party later."

Grace stared at Eric. She rarely gave her number out. Okay, she gave it out pretty often but usually to regulars and potential sugar daddies. However, she was fed up with her job. Always working and no play. She pursed her lips, titled her head mulling the idea over.

"Hell yeah," she smiled.

Numbers were exchanged, the table continued to enjoy the Shreveport nightlife, and Grace continued to work.

"What y'all bitches doing later?" Grace called out into the dressing room. She kept her eyes down and focused on facing her ones in the dressing room. No response. Grace paused, looked up, and said "Any of y'all wanna come to a party? El dorado."

El dorado was a casino within walking distance from the club. A main hub for locals, tourists looking to get laid, and women in the industry looking to get paid.

"No? Okay well I guess I'll just go fuck myself then."

"How much money?" one of the strippers called back.

"Not sure. Honestly just going to party."

Case closed. If there was no money, there wouldn't be any other girls going. Grace checked out, got dressed, tipped the DJ, and left. Her brand new Honda civic purred as she was pulling into the parking garage. She loved that fucking car, but she hated the payment. Grace parked, rolled her windows up, and checked her makeup and hair. Strippers. People give strippers a lot of shit about being nasty, but Grace disagreed. Strippers are some of most well-kept people. Always checking fucking makeup, hair, tampon strings, and everything in between. She checked her phone. A text read "Room 1222". Grace took a few deep breaths, opened her door, and headed into the casino.

She arrived at the casino's hotel door, checked her phone, knocked, and walked into an unpleasant surprise.

"Hey girl!"

The only person in the room was Eric.

"Hey love, what's going on? Looks like a party."

"Oh yeah, everyone else is in another room snorting pain pills or something."

"How lovely."

"Would you like a drink?"

Grace nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. "Fuck this" she thought.

Eric eagerly handed her the drink. He was smiling way too much. Anticipating something that was most definitely not going to happen.

"You look nervous!" Eric laughed.

She wasn't. Her right hand instinctively lifted toward the crease between her breasts and fingered her heart-shaped locket. Eric needed to be the nervous one.

"Oh I'm sorry! Haha I guess I am. I mean, you said a party and well..."

Someone knocked at the door. Thank fucking God, she thought. Grace jumped up, walked to the hotel door, and opened it. Chris came through, buzzed, and in a hurry. He walked past her.

"Hey man sorry I forgot my phone," he said.

Grace stared at him hoping he would catch her "save me" look. Chris either ignored her or didn't catch on.

"Hey I thought this was a party, where did all y'all go?" she directed the question at Chris.

"Oh uh, everyone's in different rooms. Okay I'll see y'all later!"

Chris left just as fast as he came.

The room was silent for a minute. Eric had this stupid grin on his face like he was about to get lucky. Grace's phone rang. Mia. One of her coworkers.

"Hey girl, what's up?"

"Girl what you doin'? Wanna make some money?"

"Girl I'm at Eldo right now at this party." She cut her eyes towards Eric.

"Fuck that party. Come on. $500 a piece."

The phone clicked.

"Hey love, look I gotta go to work. Thanks for inviting me though."

"But why? Stay with me. We can hang out for free."

Grace laughed the first legitimate laugh all night. Eric's face sunk down.

"No offense love, but I don't do shit for free except party. And this ain't no fucking party."

Grace headed toward the door, and Eric followed.

"I'll walk you out then."

She respected Eric for remaining a gentleman.

The two walked into the hallway and stumbled upon the party. Everyone except Derek and Blondie #2 were there. Blondie #1 was banging on another hotel door.

"Y'all good?" Grace asked Jon in passing as she kept toward the elevator. The banging finally stopped and a hotel door opened. Chris walked out in basketball shorts, a hard-on, and a big ass smile on his face. For what it was, he looked cute. Grace rolled her eyes, laughed, and walked away.