The Nightlife: New York Read online

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  NIGHTLIFE: NEW YORK

  By Travis Luedke

  The Nightlife: New York

  Published by Travis Luedke

  Copyright 2012 by Travis Luedke

  Book Cover Art by Joshua M. Allen

  http://www.freelanced.com/joshuamallen

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Adult Reading Material

  The Nightlife Series:

  I The Nightlife: New York

  II The Nightlife: Las Vegas November 2012

  III The Nightlife: Paris December 2012

  The Nightlife: BLOODSLAVE December 2012

  IV The Nightlife: London May 2013

  V The Nightlife: Moscow July 2013

  Young Adult novels by Travis Luedke (TW Luedke)

  The Shepherd October 2012

  BOGUS April 2013

  Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Travis-Luedke/e/B00911L5PS/

  Blog http://thenightlifeseries.blogspot.com/

  Website http://www.twluedke.com/

  Twitter https://twitter.com/TWLuedke or @TWLuedke

  Facebook http://www.facebook.com/TWLuedke

  Wattpad http://www.wattpad.com/user/TWLuedke

  Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/TWLuedke

  Email [email protected]

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 1

  Dead on his feet and ready to clock out, Aaron Pilan didn’t immediately react when Charlene groped a good handful of his ass. Burnt from a long hard shift of waiting tables, Aaron's delayed reaction wasn't anything charming or witty as his boss Bemichi would have preferred. Refilling Charlene's merlot that he'd already refilled one too many times, he dead panned, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” He realized too late, his question could easily have been misinterpreted as an encouragement to her advances.

  He definitely didn't want to mislead or encourage Charlene. It's not that she was unattractive, she had that “MILF” allure––Mother I'd Like to Fuck––of older more sophisticated women. The problem with Charlene came two-fold. She was both a regular customer, and of sufficient age to actually be his mother. She probably knew enough about sex to thoroughly corrupt his innocence, which, much to his chagrin, remained mostly intact.

  The real reason he chose not to fraternize with customers was his ever-present fear of the wrath of Bemichi that could descend upon his shoulders like angels of judgment bearing fiery swords. His boss Antonio Bemichi who owned the restaurant for two decades wasn't one to allow such indiscretions to pass without consequence. One of Aaron's coworkers warned on his first day in training as a waiter whispering, “Hell hath no fury like an Italian restaurant proprietor scorned.”

  Bemichi, like many Italians in New York, took great pride in his fine dining establishment and customer service. After-all the place was named after him, Bemichis Restaurant. Like many Italians, his fiery temper flared and screeched like a fountain fireworks display. Fortunately his tirades burned out just as quickly.

  Bemichi was actually a decent guy, and his restaurant was a pleasant place to both work and dine. Aaron enjoyed his work … most of the time. The interior décor of Bemichis resembled a New York Italian version of the Olive Garden with comparable pricing. The kind of place to bring the whole family, devour all the fabulous Italian pastas they could slurp down, and then waddle home an hour later feeling wonderfully sated without having emptied their wallets.

  In Charlene's case Bemichis held the added allure of hitting on waiters half her age while being secure in the knowledge that they would grin and bear it for propriety's sake. Aaron was a pretty good sport about it. He'd gotten used to her hands on his ass. He suspected she patronized the restaurant for the express purpose of fondling his behind when her liquid courage was sufficiently wetted. She seemed to go after him at around the third refill on the merlot. That should be her cutoff point, but then, he wasn't entirely averse to being groped occasionally. He sure wasn't getting any at home. She always left a hefty tip, a consolation prize for putting his wares at her fingertips.

  The game of ass-grab had grown old months ago. It was no longer surprising. At this late hour Aaron just wanted his shift to be over––like now. He watched the time tick by. The hands on the clock seemed to advance in exaggerated slow motion, mocking him with their lazy movements. Twelve o'clock midnight arrived not a moment too soon. He moved so fast making his escape out the door that he ignored the first call on his cell phone from his roommate Kyle. When Kyle called back seconds later he figured he better answer, it must be important.

  “Hey Kyle, what's up? I'm trying to get outta here.”

  “Hey guy, I gotta warn you. Delia's here with some friends, she just showed up a few minutes ago.” Kyle spoke over the top of techno music and laughter in the background. Aaron could almost make out the telltale snort of Delia's laughter that usually took place at his expense.

  “Did she say anything about me?” Aaron asked.

  Aaron’s first serious girlfriend, Delia had turned his simple existence upside down with the infamous words spoken in her usual flippant manner, “I think we should see other people.” This wonderful news was followed up by the even more infamous relationship killer, “But we can still be friends!” It had been a very long and humbling week since her mercilessly delivered one-two combo knocked him for a loop.

  Kyle paused for a second. Aaron knew he was probably trying to figure out how to console him. He’d been riding Aaron for the last week to broaden his horizons and do exactly as Delia suggested––see other people. Kyle made his opinions crystal clear. He told Aaron repeatedly he’d be better off with someone else. Kyle didn't care much for Delia’s manipulations.

  “Nope-not a word, nada.” Kyle got a kick out of throwing in random words of Spanish. He took two years of it in high school. “She's playing like everything's totally cool, she acts like she's happy to be single. Look, don't sweat it, there's plenty of fish in the sea.” Kyle spoke as though it was no big deal, but Aaron didn't believe it was really that simple to catch either fish or women.

  “The best way to handle her is to hook up with her friends. If that doesn't drive her crazy, then she doesn't deserve you”, sage advice from philosopher Kyle.

  “Do you think she told anyone we broke up?” Aaron was almost too afraid of hearing the answer to ask the question.

  “You mean that she kicked you to the curb? Yeah, the word's out and the rumor m
ill is crankin overtime. That boat has sailed, there ain't no stopping it. That's why you gotta get your game face on and strike back. You remember that girl Delia's always hangin with, the sexy one with black hair, Amber?”

  “Ahh … yeah, I think so.”

  “She's here right now, so hurry up, her tight little ass is ripe. And hey ... um … can you pick up some beer on the way home? You know how it goes. You get a few drinks in em' and the pants fall right off.”

  Only if you're Kyle. Aaron had never experienced the good fortune of having women's pants fall off. His limited intimate encounters taught him there was considerable effort and occasional begging involved in the removal of women's clothing.

  “Yeah, I caught some decent tips tonight. Will a twelve pack do it?” He already knew the answer, but to ask was habitual, an endless game he and Kyle played. Kyle never wanted less beer. Kyle always pushed for more, and he always had a plausible reason, “Better make it a case, I think we're in for an all-nighter.”

  “Alright, I guess I’ll get a case, just in case we need a case.” The cheesy punch line had ceased being funny months ago. But like most aspects of Aaron's life, it was a habit, a groove he'd fallen into that he couldn't get out of. He hung up and headed out the front door of Bemichis into the New York streets to do the same thing he did night after night.

  Kyle called for the beer. The moral support play wasn't his thing. In fact, Kyle was probably making moves on Amber at that very moment. He didn't mind too much. There were some redeeming qualities worth mentioning to Kyle’s benefit. Loyalty, yes loyalty would be one, and a never ending supply of unfailing optimism. The proverbial glass was always half full with Kyle-half full of beer.

  Aaron didn't make it home this night. He never made it to the corner drug store for beer. The moment he exited Bemichis, fate conspired to place two opposing and dangerous forces in his pathway; the timing so impeccably perfect one could argue divine intervention.

  The first party was a vision so remarkable, so drop dead gorgeous, she seemed surreal against the backdrop of grainy darkness and gloom of the concrete-asphalt streets. Aaron's world blurred out of focus. This sparkling gem of a five–foot blond–bomb package complete with cliché black cocktail dress and fuck me pumps was the only thing to remain distinct in his vision. As she locked gazes with him, nothing else existed in Aaron's universe. Nothing else mattered beyond this fabulously attractive woman gliding towards him with supreme grace and poise.

  * * * *

  As he was drawn to the blond like metal shavings to a powerful magnet, the second part of the equation arrived on scene. Aaron watched with fascination as an unmarked police cruiser drew up alongside her. He knew it was a cop car by the telltale spotlight next to the driver’s side mirror.

  The blond hesitated, appearing torn between giving her attention to them or him. She was so far out of his league. Why did she notice him at all?

  The men in the car beckoned to her. Her hesitation ended, she turned away from Aaron to begin conversing with the undercovers. She probably didn’t know they were cops. The one on the passenger side propositioned her, “Hey babe, what's goin on tonight?”

  Without missing a beat, the blond offered, “Monsieur would like to party? Un Ménage à trois? We can make a party, Oui?” She had an intoxicating French accent.

  Both detectives were out of the car in a moment, surrounding her in an unmistakably threatening stance. Aaron advanced on the trio to better hear their conversation. He stood ten feet away. He couldn't have taken his eyes off the blond to save his own life.

  The big, fat, bulldog cop verbally assaulted her in his Brooklyn accent. “Hey, who you workin for? I hope it's somebody we know. You gotta be paid up with the right people to work this street!”

  “I don’t work for anyone!”

  Aaron was further smitten as he watched her defy them in that cute little French accent. The bulldog grabbed her arm, “You’re under arrest!”

  The thin, bald, Barney Fife-looking cop, moved in to grab her other arm. They must think she’s a prostitute. How could they make such a mistake?

  * * * *

  She studied the two fools on each arm. She examined their auras and evaluated her options. The colors emanating from their auras indicated arrogance and a sense of entitlement. Like so many others who came before them, these men craved power over her. It was a base instinct to control and possess as if she was a new toy to play with. Their selfish desires disgusted her, like a rotten stench surrounding something putrid. She read the nuances of their hatred towards all women stemming from a sense of inadequacy. Their souls held a deeply rooted taint from a lifetime of police corruption fueled by greed.

  They were a prime example of what was wrong with the world today, authority figures seeking out the seemingly weak for predatory purposes. But it was nothing new. She'd been dealing with the sick desires of small minded men for a very long time. She couldn't help but shiver with disgust and loathing, an involuntary reaction to something so unpleasant.

  Glancing at the handsome boy, she immediately noticed the severe contrast between the foul detectives and the purity of spirit evidenced in his aural coloration. By comparison he appeared a saint, worthy of canonization in his child-like innocence.

  His overt infatuation for her held a magnetic attraction she found hard to resist. She wished she'd followed her initial impulse to ignore the detectives when they stopped their car. She should have focused on this adorable innocent who was so taken with her. As she watched the colors of his aura shift, she perceived his indignant response to the detectives man-handling her. A window of opportunity opened up.

  * * * *

  Aaron burned, outraged at the audacity of the grotesque, fat, ugly bulldog of a man assaulting the blond goddess. An involuntary cry tore from his throat, “Hey! Leave her alone! Get your hands off her!” He couldn't believe either of these crude creatures would dare lay hands on the beautiful blond vision of perfection who spoke in an intoxicating stream of French obscenities.

  “T'as une tête à faire soutier les plaques d'égouts!” She blasted the bulldog. Aaron recalled just enough French to know she’d told him his face could blow off manhole covers. She continued with, “Voulez-vous cesser de me cracher dessus pendant que vous par lez”, further expressing her disgust by telling him to stop spitting on her while he spoke.

  Never ceasing her tirade of lovely French filth, the blond struck at the bulldog in a blur. In one swift move, she broke his hold on her wrist and clawed his face, leaving a trail of bloody slash marks across his left cheek. Without pause she instantly pivoted and punched Barney Fife in the nose with a gratifying crunch sound, and a backward head snap. A splat of blood flew through the air. She pivoted a split-second later to face the bulldog with a Taser in hand, magically snatched from Barney Fife after breaking his nose. The combat unfolded before Aaron's eyes like a scene from a martial arts film. The heroine had the appearance of moving with super human velocity. By comparison to her whip-like actions, the detectives seemed to be in slow motion.

  Aaron's jaw dropped. He stood in complete awe of the scene taking place before him. He had difficulty accepting these bizarre events for reality. As the shimmery cocktail dressed wonder woman fired her stolen Taser, Aaron recognized the bulldog was not truly as slow as he had seemed. He had a pistol drawn and moving upward in a sweeping arc.

  Aaron's dream state shattered along with his heretofore unremarkable and short life when the Taser struck the bulldog at precisely the point when his gun sights aligned with Aaron. The electric shock of the Taser began a domino effect. All muscles and tendons in the bulldog’s body clenched, including his trigger finger. The sharp crack of the gun resulted in a slug passing through Aaron's chest and out his back, knocking him to the ground with the impact.

  The pain came seconds later, delayed. When it hit it was all-consuming, overpowering. Nothing existed beyond the horrible agony of his body torn to shreds by the wicked projectile. He wasn't brave or manly o
r noble like all these scenes of bullet wounds from Hollywood films. He screamed and howled like a baby, and promptly blacked out from the overwhelming agony.

  * * * *

  SMACK, SMACK, SMACK. Aaron felt someone smack him three times. He beheld an angel with a halo of light around her tousled blond curls like the corona encircling the sun. She had the most succulent puffy lips and a benevolent shine of concern and compassion.

  “Are you an angel?” His beautiful seraph began swearing in a stream of melodic French.

  “Le réalité' et toi vous ne vous entendez pas, n'est-ce pas?” She remarked on his disconnect with reality. He didn’t know what to say. How do you greet the angel of death?

  She resumed her obscenities, “C'est vraiment des conneries!” The words seeped in slowly, sparking a memory from French class––this was bullshit. Are angels supposed to curse?

  He was so tired, cold, numb. Is this what it feels like to die? He drifted back into unconsciousness content in the belief that heavenly hosts carried him off to a better place.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  She knew she couldn't stay on the street. The detectives would not remain incapacitated for much longer and the gun shot would probably bring a 911 call from the restaurant down the block. The unfortunate boy who foolishly tried to intervene on her behalf was bleeding to death. A decision had to be made. She felt guilty, responsible for what happened to him. If she had paid closer attention she'd have disarmed the fat, idiot cop before hitting him with the Taser.

  “C'est pour toi je suis la'.” She tried to comfort the young man in his pain and delirium, letting him know she was there for him. In times of extreme stress, most of her speech regressed to French.