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“It’s time to let her go,” he says.
What the hell, man? I sit in thoughtful silence, sipping my beer as I mull over his words. I have let her go.
“I have let her go,” I mumble, annoyed at him for even bringing it up. “I guess part of me thought she might text or something eventually. Guess she won’t. Time to move on,” I say, more to myself than to my friend.
“Yup.” Gavin pats me on the back. “On to bigger and better things. No sense thinking about a girl who isn’t even giving you the time of day.”
He goes on talking about the Sinner’s Lounge, claiming it’s the spot every man needs to check out at least once. Apparently, it boasts the most beautiful women under the sun. According to Gavin, under the new management, they now have a top-notch program that includes nudity but not full nudity. He raves to me about a number in which the dancer ends up in a huge martini glass and (supposedly) has the same wicked, strict charisma as a film star from the 50s. Even when everything else bores me, seeing a woman in an oversized martini glass piques my curiosity. That and the fact that Gavin insists Sinner’s Lounge has the best music, along with great food, and lively crowd of biking enthusiasts.
I down the rest of my drink and get to my feet. “All right then, let’s go.”
“Time to get laiiiiid.” Gavin swings his arm around my shoulders. “You ride your bike today?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Damn straight. Let’s go.”
We leave Amelio’s and climb onto our motorcycles. I haven’t been riding mine as much as I’d like, but that’s been changing recently. So has the time I spend tinkering with my bike. One night, I found myself at Gavin’s garage in Hudson Haven, rolling up my sleeves to make adjustments and adding personal touches: a custom midnight blue paint job and handcrafted leather grips. But it’s not just about aesthetics. A week later, I cranked up the engine, fine-tuning it for an extra kick of speed. There’s something about tearing through the streets that feels incredibly liberating. I enjoy going fast, and motorcycles give you a speed that no car can match. At least in my book.
Exchanging knowing nods, Gavin and I rev our engines and peel out of the parking lot. Traffic doesn’t mean a damn thing to us. We weave between the cars with practiced ease, acknowledging the annoyed honking we leave in our wake.
“Fuck you, motherfuckers,” he yells, and I have to laugh.
By the time we reach the club, I’m already in much higher spirits than I was earlier.
The place is packed. Gavin and I pull our bikes up next to a row of motorcycles. The parking lot seems to have an unusually high number of them. Not surprising, though. Beyond Gavin’s tidbit, word is the owner is part of a notorious biker club, so there’s bound to be bikes around.
The line outside the building is long, even though it isn’t very late in the evening. I follow Gavin past it as we head to the front, where a burly-looking man, towering at about six feet six, stands with his arms crossed.
“End of the line,” he grumbles, gesturing to the crowd.
“We’ve already got friends inside.” Gavin flashes a confident grin.
“Sure you have.” The bouncer doesn’t even spare him a glance, maintaining his stern focus on the growing line.
“We’re friends with Colt. We’re supposed to meet up with them tonight,” Gavin insists, unfazed by the man’s gruffness. “Name’s Gavin, and this here’s Dillan. Pretty sure we’re on the list.”
The bouncer clucks his tongue in annoyance before consulting his phone, deliberately taking his time. I watch him scroll through a list of names before sighing and stepping off to the side. He unhooks the velvet rope and gestures with his head for us to go on in.
“Thanks, pal,” Gavin says.
The bouncer ignores him, hooking the rope after me.
I follow him inside, intrigued by this new side of Gavin I haven’t seen before. “I didn’t know you were so well connected,” I comment once we are out of earshot of the bouncer.
“In some circles.” He playfully moves his eyebrows up and down but doesn’t elaborate.
Despite my indifference toward them, I’ve been to a number of men’s clubs over the years. But Sinner’s Lounge is in a whole different league after the reopening. The smell of fresh paint is still perceptible under a scent of champagne. The lighting is a spectacle in itself. Subdued hues of warm gold bathe the space, highlighting the high creamy-white ceilings and black furniture. All in all, Sinner’s Lounge seems more like a pleasantly old-fashioned variety show than a strip club, which is also due to the waitresses who take orders at the tables in skin-tight tuxedos.
The bartender behind the shiny counter seems to be both supervising the hustle and bustle and mixing cocktails, and even among the security, I see several women. It looks as if Sinner’s Lounge is largely female-owned, which I assume has contributed to its growing popularity and no doubt benefits the working atmosphere for the dancers. I would bet a good chunk of my money that the place is on the fast track. It’s definitely more upscale and has the most security of any place I’ve ever been. I can’t blame them, considering all the shit that went down here a few months ago.
It’s packed with patrons, and we have to stick close to avoid being separated by the crowd. The vibe at Sinner’s Lounge is something else. It’s a mix of regulars and the biker crew, giving the place this raw, genuine energy. Not a huge, intimidating crowd—more like a close community. It’s a chill spot, really.
I follow Gavin to a table in the corner, where four men already sit. As soon as they see us, they cheer in excitement, a couple holding up their glasses.
“Gavin!”
“You made it, man.”
