17 Black

17 Black -- Chapter 2

The next few shows he played, Harry was distracted and he knew it. He felt bad for the fans-they'd paid hundreds of dollars, showed up in all their garb, prepared to have a life-changing experience, and were greeted with a man who was distracted at best.

He couldn't help it-every time he closed his eyes, Bambi's desperate face flashed across his mind.

And so did the subtle crush of the velvet carpet. And the flashing neon light. And the creak of the wooden chair. And the darkness, of course, the sweet, sweet darkness he craved to dance across his face. The anonymity of it all. The facade, the dance, the show.

He eventually admitted to himself that he wanted to go back.

Briefly, Harry considered flying back to Atlanta, slipping in the doors in between his tour dates, apologizing to Bambi and trying to find the fire behind her eyes that he was sure was there. But, he couldn't toy with that idea for very long. Sneaking back to Atlanta would be hard to hide, especially with paparazzi and his fans, let alone trying to somehow sneak into a strip club again. It was hard enough the first time-he couldn't risk doing it again.

So, back to the drawing board he went. He scoured reviews online, seeking through seedy websites and forum posts, desperate for a place to give him any hint of the spark he'd hidden deep inside. He tried San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, nearly every place on the West coast he visited.

And then, he reached LA.

His surrogate mother, he felt as though this city raised him into the man he'd become. Of course, he grew up in Holmes Chapel, and he owed his childhood to that place, but he found his manhood in Los Angeles. And, truth be told, when he was honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way. The city had its downsides-major downsides-but, at its core, it was a place for dreamers. And Harry considered himself one of them.

And, just like anything else, there was a dark side to dreams.

Plunging deep into the seedy underbelly of LA, taking advantage of the brief week-long break he'd scheduled in his tour to rest in his real bed again, he tore through reviews like a mad-man. His search had consumed him, his desire for something more, something different, engulfed him, and he didn't even quite know why. He just knew he had to do something about it. He just needed to feel alive again.

So, when he found a small club named 17 Black, for almost no reason at all, something clicked in his brain.

He didn't do any more research on the club; all he knew was that it was close, it was private, and it was very, very expensive. The evening before his show, he pulled up the address, and, without a second thought, nearly flew down the street in his white Mercedes Benz, chasing the brief flutter of feeling in his chest.

When he arrived at the club, he grumbled, staring down at his glaring screen in the dim moonlight, wondering if he'd gotten the address right. It didn't look like a high end club at all-in fact, it looked like a dump. It was a large brick building, with the parking lot wrapping from the left side around the back, with the front half covered in a slick black marble, the door looking very out of place-dark cherry double doors, almost vintage. Above the door hung the large head of a stag, with glistening gray neon glaring above it, showing off the name of the club-17 Black. Other than that, the front of the club gave nothing else up about its insides.

Feeling hesitant, stilling his shaking hand, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open, slowly slipping inside.

Once again, he was overwhelmed with how different and yet how similar this club seemed to the others. The floor was wooden rather than carpeted, with a few steps leading down into the large viewing area, filled with sets of tables and chairs, lit only with small flickering candles made of antlers atop them. The large black Proscenium stage was nothing new-it was even made of the same plywood he'd seen before. Snaking around the right side of the viewing area was the large bar, lit with the cool neon lights that wrapped around the bottom and top of the bar. To the left of the viewing area looked what was almost a runway, the dark crushed velvet carpet making an appearance once more, leading around to a small ramp that connected to the stage, with doors leading off from it. Harry briefly wondered about the women he'd find inside, about what women had resigned their lives to this place.