CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
2004- Sticky Fingers
“Let’s go outside and get some air,” I suggested. I need a minute to think. Was this a bad idea or could this be something I’d be able to chalk up as part of my five days of fuck-it? Did I really want to enable this fuckin’ asshole who has been a thorn in my side since sixth grade? Was there any way a night like this could end well?
Once outside, I took a close look at Jake. Homie was a wreck. Like Steve-O and Bam Margera eating human excrement- level wrecked. Extending the night with a coke binge was probably not the best move, but he wouldn’t be doing himself any favors by getting on a train home to wifey in his present state. Anyway, didn’t Jake say he was buying?
“C’mon, Eula,” Jake did his best to drop a persuasive tone into his slurred speech, “Let’s go get some blooooooow! All the cool kids are doing it!” He tried to give me puppy dog eyes, but the look read more like “Danger, Will Robinson.” This was a bad idea.
I looked over to the next street corner, to see exactly where we were. My old dungeon, Sticky Fingers, was a 3-minute walk from where we stood. They’d be happy to see me show up with a drunk finance bro, especially as long as I handed over his gold card to the manager upon arrival.
“Okay, Jake,” I agreed. “I know where we can get you some blow. But first you’re gonna have to come up with about $400 in cash. Wanna hit an ATM?”
He nodded and we lurched to the nearest Citibank.
Once Operation “Get My People Paid” was enacted, we made our way over to Sticky Fingers. I rang the service elevator and we were whisked up to the top floor and directly deposited into the dark and dank environs of my first dungeon.
By the look on Jake’s face, Sticky’s was definitely another land that was far away from wherever he considered home. I quickly scanned the room- it wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t dead. I was pretty sure one of the smaller private rooms would be available- I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I needed to keep Jake contained.
I got us over to a banquette right near the coat check girl, and told Jake to sit. He went near comatose the second his ass hit the pleather.
“Jake! JAKE!” I snapped my fingers near his ear. At least Sticky’s kept their music at a reasonable volume. “Jake, gimme your credit card. I wanna buy us some drinks.”
“Which one?” he asked, as he fumbled with his wallet.
“Whichever one will get you in the least amount of trouble.”
He thought it over for maybe half a second and handed me his Morgan Stanley corporate AmEx.
“And gimme some twenties, please.”
He handed me the entire $400. I handed the girl a twenty and asked her to keep an eye on him. I slipped the rest of the money and the credit card into my little Ferragamo purse.
I walked over to the bar and saw my favorite manager, Flavio, giving instructions to one of the bar backs.
“Flavio!”
He turned, saw me and walked over to say hi.
“Chelsea! Long time no see,” he said. “You look good! So glad you stopped by.”
“Well, yeah, Flav. I have a little situation.” I gave him the run-down. My extremely vanilla “friend” wanted a very tame “wild” night out on the town. We’d need a small private room, with a waitress to bring us drinks. We’d need the house dealer to stop by and get me, so I could make a purchase, “but NOT in front of my friend,” and we’d need one vanilla domme to stop by and give my friend a lap dance and maybe a light spanking.
“Miss-tease is on tonight,” Flavio told me.
“She’d be perfect,” I replied. “Send her over in half an hour.”
I handed Flavio Jake’s corporate card and asked him to do right by me and not run up the charges. Then I handed him 80 bucks as a thank you. That left me with $300 for dominatrixes and blow. Drinks and whatnot would be covered by Morgan Stanley.
