Chapter 7: Sharp Dressed Man

The Wet Spot pulsed with life, a kafkaesque kaleidoscope of neon lights and pounding synth music that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the bones of everyone inside. The air was thick with a heady mix of spilled cocktails, coconut suntan lotion, and cheap cologne, blending into a sensory assault that was as much part of the experience as the music itself.

Mr. Pearson was at the epicenter of it all, lounging in a semicircular booth upholstered in garish zebra print that seemed to glow under the blacklight. He was a study in sleaze: his gray pinstripe suit was just a shade too shiny, the buttons of his shirt undone far enough to reveal a nest of chest hair adorned with a chunky gold medallion. His gelled-back hair gleamed, and his grin was the kind of smirk that promised nothing good.

Surrounding him were a parade of women, each dripping with excess.

To his left, Legwarmers Laurie leaned into him, her bubbly laugh cutting through the music. She was all blonde curls and bright eyes, her hair teased into a halo of impossible volume. A neon pink one-piece swimsuit hugged her slender frame, every curve accentuated by the high-cut design that made her legs seem to go on forever. The leg warmers on her toned calves sparkled faintly with embedded glitter, and she swung one leg over the other as she popped a strawberry between her breasts and pushed it towards Pearson’s lips.

“Careful, sugar,” she cooed, her voice high and airy, “don’t bite too hard. These babies are imported.”

To his right, Sapphire Stiletto was the perfect contrast: icy and aloof, a modern femme fatale. Her jet-black hair was slicked back into a tight, high ponytail, accentuating the sharp angles of her face and her piercing blue eyes, which surveyed the room with calculated indifference. She wore a silver miniskirt so short it was almost a belt, paired with a cropped leather jacket that framed her bare, taut midriff. A martini glass dangled from her fingers, the electric-blue liquid inside catching the light as she swirled it lazily.

“Imported strawberries? How gauche,” she murmured, her voice low and dripping with disdain. She leaned into Pearson just enough for her breath to tickle his ear, her cold, polished tone belying the heat of her body pressed against him. “Though I suppose ... a man of your ... appetites ... is always hungry for something nice and juicy.”

Pearson laughed, his gold tooth glinting in the light. “Oh, Sapphire, you know me too well. Nothing better than a taste of the berry.”

On the dance floor, Trish and Tiff stole the show. Identical twins with matching see-through leotards, they moved in perfect synchronization, roller skates flashing under the club’s strobes. Their toned legs flexed with every spin and dip, their glossy red hair flowing like twin waterfalls of fire. They circled each other like orbiting planets, their movements fluid and hypnotic, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

“Hey, Mr. Pearson!” Trish called, her voice sweet but loud enough to cut through the music. “How about a spin?”

“Or maybe you’d prefer a ... double dip?” Tiff added, her tone matching her sister’s, her wink exaggerated enough to send a ripple of laughter through the nearby crowd.

Pearson tilted his head back and roared with laughter, the cigar between his fingers leaving a faint trail of smoke in the air. “Later, ladies, later! Business before pleasure, though I can guarantee you ... we’ll get to the pleasure soon enough.”

The twins blew him identical kisses before twirling back into the crowd, their moves so suggestive it left no doubt in anyone’s mind what kind of “pleasure” they had in mind.

At the edge of the booth, Bambi perched precariously on the table, her gold prom-dress shimmering like molten metal. Petite and doe-eyed, she had the kind of youthful innocence that was clearly cultivated, her every movement calculated to exude an alluring naivety. Her heels were absurdly high, and her legs, though shorter than the others’, were sculpted to perfection.

“More champagne, Mr. Pearson?” she asked sweetly, leaning forward to refill his glass. The angle of her pose gave him a view down the plunging neckline of her dress, the tops of her pert, small breasts rising and falling with her breath.

Pearson grinned, his hand snaking out to rest on her thigh, fingers brushing just under the hem of her dress. “Don’t mind if I do, sweetheart. Keep it coming. I’ve got a long night ahead.”

The women giggled and fawned over him, their voices blending into a symphony of flirtation and coy admiration. Pearson soaked it all in, basking in the attention like a king holding court.

Yet beneath the bravado, there was something hollow in his eyes, a shadow that not even the pulsating lights could disguise.

“Ladies, ladies,” he said, waving his cigar in the air like a scepter. “You know why I keep you around? Because you’re the best this world has to offer. The finest of the fine.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And in this world, that’s all that matters. Being the best. The richest. The most desired.”

The women tittered their agreement, but Pearson’s smirk faltered for just a moment. He downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp, slamming the empty glass onto the table.

“And you know what the biggest shame about that is?” he continued, his voice growing darker, more bitter. “It’s all bullshit. Utter empty meaningless bullshit.”

The laughter died away, the women exchanging confused glances.

Pearson’s grin returned, but it was forced now, a thin veneer over something more desperate. “But hey, that’s what makes it fun, right? Living in the moment. I mean it’s not like this is going to go on and on and on and on and on and last for a literal eternity, right? RIGHT?”

For a moment, his gaze drifted, not to the women around him, but to the far corner of the room, where a flickering neon sign read “No Exit Here.”

His laugh was loud and brash, but the shadow in his eyes deepened.

“Now, who’s ready for round two?” he barked, grabbing a fresh bottle of champagne and popping the cork with a flourish. The women cheered, their confusion giving way to the intoxicating pull of his charm.

But as they leaned in closer, vying for his attention, Pearson’s gaze lingered on the sign, a crack in his facade. A haunted look in his eyes revealing the truth he couldn’t escape any more than he could escape this town.

As if on cue, as if exactly on cue, The Wet Spot erupted in chaos. A DJ, shirtless save for a neon pink bowtie, leaned into his turntables with a wild grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, you know what time it is!” he roared into the mic, his voice distorted by enthusiasm and cheap equipment. “It’s Reverse Limbo Time!”

The crowd erupted into cheers as surfboards, pool noodles, and inflatable palm trees were hastily shoved into position to create an impromptu obstacle course. Two bikini-clad blondes—dubbed The Limbo Twins—began frantically spinning hula hoops lit with sparklers while doing handstands. Their synchronized giggles rang out like a manic melody as they balanced on roller skates.

“Let’s see how low we can go ... while still getting high!” the DJ continued, pulling a confetti cannon out of nowhere and firing it directly into the crowd.

A shirtless bartender began flipping bottles like a circus juggler while patrons hollered for increasingly ridiculous drinks. One guy in a muscle tee screamed, “I’ll take a Sex in the Driveway! Extra umbrellas!” Another hollered for a cocktail served inside a hollowed-out coconut and that the hollowed-out coconut had to be served inside of a hollowed out pineapple.

The bar’s aquarium exploded.

The reason didn’t matter; it was just one more layer of mayhem. Tiny tropical fish flopped helplessly onto the dance floor as people screamed and danced in the rising puddle. From the debris emerged a woman in a bedazzled wetsuit, holding a live lobster aloft like some kind of glittering oceanic queen. “Dance-off!” she bellowed, and before Pearson could even process it, the lobster was wearing sunglasses too.

“Pearson!” a scantily clad bouncer roared, his pecs glistening with inexplicable baby oil. “You’re the judge!”

“Oh, for the love of...” Pearson muttered, tugging at his collar. His gold medallion felt tight. Like really really tight.

The Reverse Limbo began, contestants contorting themselves over bars raised higher and higher, performing flips and backbends while trying not to spill their neon cocktails. At least three people spontaneously burst into flame, only for the sprinkler system to rain down multi-colored water.

And all of it was aimed at Pearson.

A cheerleader in a metallic miniskirt grabbed his hand and tried to drag him toward the surfboard. “Come on, Mr. P! You’re the limbo king!”

“No, no, no,” Pearson growled, wrenching his arm free. “I’m not doing this again. Not tonight. Just ... just not tonight OK?”

A disco ball descended from the ceiling, but instead of spinning, it exploded into a shower of glittering miniature basketballs. A group of jocks immediately began a pickup game, dunking the tiny basketballs into martini glasses while shouting, “Pearson! Get in here! Show us your moves!”

“Pass!” Pearson barked, sidestepping a waitress who had somehow ended up wearing stilts.

Everywhere he turned, the narrative pulled at him with its absurd, irresistible gravity. He narrowly avoided a bikini-clad girl carrying a tray of tequila shots balanced on her head. “Mr. Pearson!” she called, spinning in circles like a deranged carousel. “Tequila for the king of the deal!”

King of the deal.

That one nearly got him. He could feel the hook digging into his brain, trying to reel him into yet another scene where he would have to chug tequila, negotiate a billion-dollar deal, and somehow end up with a group of precocious all pissed at him by sundown.

No. Not this time.

Pearson’s eyes darted to the exit. His heart raced as he calculated the steps. The door was a beacon, glowing faintly with freedom, but the path was a minefield of lunacy.

A roller-skating waitress careened past him, her tray of flaming cocktails spinning wildly. He ducked just in time, feeling the heat as one of the glasses ignited the wig of a nearby dancer. The flaming dancer didn’t scream; she pirouetted like an Olympic figure skater, spinning faster and faster until the flames extinguished themselves in a burst of sparkles.

“Pearson! Dance-off with me!” she shouted.

“Rain check!” he called, using the distraction to slip behind a velvet rope.

But something wasn’t giving up.

Two bodybuilders appeared, one on either side of him. They carried an oversized briefcase emblazoned with the words BIGGEST BUSINESS DEAL EVER in glowing letters. “Mr. Pearson,” one of them said in a deep, booming voice, “the future of capitalism depends on you signing this.”

Pearson didn’t even slow down. “Tell The Capitalism it can wait!”

He sidestepped a conga line of synchronized swimmers, ducked under a flying pair of sequined platform shoes, and narrowly avoided tripping over a live parrot wearing a tiny Hawaiian shirt.

At last, he reached the door. His hand grasped the handle, and for one fleeting moment, he thought he was free.

But then, a voice called out from behind him.

“Pearson!”

It was Legwarmers Laurie, holding out a golden surfboard shaped like a dollar sign. Her wide, sparkly eyes brimmed with adoration. “Don’t you want to win the beach?”

For a heartbeat, he almost turned back.

But then, with a guttural growl, and more willpower than he thought he still possessed, he yanked the door open and stepped into the night.

The muffled chaos of the bar faded behind him, replaced by the soothing sound of waves crashing against the shore. The cool night air hit his face as Pearson stepped into the rain, its warm patter against his suit jacket. The deluge slicked his hair back even further, if that was possible, tracing rivulets down his face, but it couldn’t wash away the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.

But he’d done it—escaped, at least for a moment.

Pearson leaned against the side of the building, his breath ragged. His gold medallion felt heavier than ever, like a noose made out of iron that was dragging him down to the dirt and choking him at the same time. He wanted to take it off. But he couldn’t quite do it. He stared at the distant horizon, where the moonlight danced on the waves.

It was calm. There were no bonfire parties. No late-night bikini volleyball games erupting out of nowhere, punctuated by saxophone riffs. No impossibly handsome lifeguards posing shirtless against the backdrop of a gorgeous sunset as they kissed the shy out of town girl for the first time.

It was just the waves, endless and unbothered. Peaceful waves. Calm waves. Tranquil waves lapping against the shore like they didn’t give a damn about the chaos behind him. For the first time in what felt like decades, Pearson didn’t feel like he was being watched, applauded, or propositioned.

“Just a few minutes,” he muttered to himself. “Just a few goddamn minutes.”

It wasn’t perfect though. The downpour was warm—too warm, like the rain in this town always was, less a cleansing force and more like a jilted lover’s insistent touch, overfamiliar and inescapable. It glistened on his skin, making him look more like a music video antagonist than a man in turmoil. He paused under the awning of the club, taking in a long, shuddering breath.

Pearson had four glorious long and slow breaths where he did nothing but stare out at the rain-soaked waves when a flicker of movement caught his eye. It was subtle at first, a shadow darting through the sheets of rain illuminated by the occasional flicker of neon from the distant boardwalk. Then she emerged—a figure both ghostly and painfully vivid, her dark hair plastered to her skin, her bare form glistening under the silver sheen of the downpour.

Emily—no, Bunny—was running, her golden-brown skin kissed by the rain, shining with each step as if she were made of liquid bronze. Her curves, impossibly lush yet sculpted with precision, moved with a hypnotic rhythm, her full breasts swaying with each hurried stride. The rain slicked every inch of her, turning her into a moving work of art, the water tracing paths over the swell of her hips, down the dip of her waist, pooling briefly in the hollows of her collarbone before cascading down in rivulets.

Her long legs, lean yet soft, splashed through puddles, the muscles flexing subtly with her strides, the drops of rain flying up like tiny diamonds in the air. Her nipples, taut from the chill, stood proud and shameless against the storm, a visual contrast to the vulnerable flush that warmed her cheeks. And her hair—normally sleek and controlled—was a wild, drenched cascade that framed her face, accentuating the wide-eyed panic and defiance in her almond-shaped eyes.

As she darted closer, he noticed the faint shiver that trembled through her frame, a combination of the rain’s chill and whatever desperate emotion was driving her forward. She didn’t look like a girl running from something—she looked like she was running from everything. The universe itself. And yet, she was unearthly in her beauty, her vulnerability turned into a weapon as sharp and mesmerizing as the lightning cracking across the sky behind her.

Pearson’s hand tightened against the doorframe, his gold medallion digging into his chest as he leaned forward, unable to look away. She was a vision. A fantasy. A punishment. A reminder. All at once.

He cursed under his breath, torn between rushing forward and staying exactly where he was and just staring at the uncaring tide for a few breaths more. But he could feel a lecherous tug urging him toward her, whispering promises of romantic tension and opportunistic innuendo.

“Bunny—Emily,” Pearson began, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he took a cautious step closer. “I swear, I just trying to—”

“Oh great,” she interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m naked, and you’re the first person I run into. Because the universe just loves throwing me into the sleaziest, creepiest setups possible.”

Pearson stared at her for a moment, his cigar poised midair. He felt his cheek muscles pushing a smirk on his lips, coiling cheesy one-liners in the back of his throat. He resisted, jaw tightening as he forced his expression neutral.

Emily stared at him, waiting for a response. When none came she looked genuinely surprised and said “You could at least be a gentleman and give me your jacket,” to his blank face.

“Sure sweetheart, take it before you end up on a billboard for the next all nude water park,” he said in between cigar chomps.

As Pearson slipped the jacket off his shoulders and draped it over Emily, the weight of it seemed disproportionate, heavier than a normal coat ought to be. The leather was slick from the rain but warm from his body heat, carrying an almost intimate trace of his presence. The moment it settled on her bare shoulders, Emily flinched, not from the chill of the air but from an unexpected sensation.

Beneath the soft, rain-slicked leather, the jacket began to hum faintly. Emily froze, her dripping hair plastered against her neck as she stared at Pearson in wide-eyed confusion. The warmth that spread through her wasn’t just from the heat trapped inside the garment—it was localized, pulsing, and undeniably deliberate.

“Oh, for the love of...” Pearson groaned, realization dawning too late. “I forgot—this is the executive massage jacket.”

“The what?” Emily demanded, her voice shrill, though she didn’t immediately shrug it off.

The jacket’s inner lining wasn’t just leather and padding; it was threaded with what felt like dozens of tiny, precise nodes, each one springing to life with rhythmic pulses. They moved in coordinated waves, traveling up and down her back, over her shoulders, and—