The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)

The radio is turned down and the GPS is guiding me through the dark city streets as I grow closer and closer to my destination. The address on that property title is now stored safely in my phone, and I’m too damn curious to let it go. There’s something oddly familiar about it, but what’s really drawing me to see it for myself is the fact that my father doesn’t own any properties outside of the church and his house.

So why, all of a sudden, is he in possession of a deed for some downtown warehouse? And why wouldn’t he tell me about it? He usually tells me about all of his business dealings—more so to boast, I’m sure. On occasion, he’ll assign me tasks, like organizing a book signing or a public appearance at a soup kitchen.

But keeping me entirely in the dark on whatever this is only feeds into the bitterness I’m already feeling toward him.

My hand squeezes the steering wheel as I replay the events in his office tonight. That smug look on his face when he reassigned the sermon writing to Mark. The way he brushed off my loyalty to him and the church. Because, deep down, I know my father doesn’t care about any of it. Not the congregation. Not God. Not his family.

The only thing he cares about is himself.

My brothers know that. They picked that up a lot faster than I did, which is why they jumped ship years ago.

Not me. I spent my entire adulthood living up to his standards. While my brothers went to parties and wasted their years away having promiscuous sex and discovering themselves, I was at home writing his sermons and patting myself on the back for being the good son.

Did he ever really care? My career and my future mean nothing to him. The only time he ever truly valued having me around was when I made him look good. During the press release of my book, Footsteps, he stood by my side, not as support to me, but as publicity for himself. He congratulated me when his following increased, not when my book, a memoir about growing up as the son of a preacher, hit the best seller’s list.

This downtown district is quiet, but as I get closer to my destination, the buzz of people on the streets intensifies. A brightly lit taco truck parked on the side garners a line, and I peer out my window to check out the people standing there. Most of them are dressed in the sort of fashion you’d expect for a night at the club—leather and skin.

There’s a chain-link parking lot on the right, and I pull in, backing into a spot as the GPS informs me that I’ve arrived at my destination. I’m facing a black-brick warehouse on the corner that appears to be some sort of nightclub, judging by the young people milling about on the sidewalk outside.

Another car pulls into the spot across from me, and a couple emerges from the four-door sedan. To my surprise, it’s not a pair of twentysomethings but a man and woman who look to be in their thirties. They’re not scantily clad either. If anything, they almost look dressed more appropriately for church than a club.

My features tighten in confusion as they walk hand in hand toward the building. The man pulls open the black metal door, ushering his lady through, and they disappear together into the dark abyss of the warehouse.

Why on earth does my father hold the title for a place in the city?

As people come and go from the building, a neon sign above the door catches my eye. I hadn’t seen it until now, but the word Pink glows against the black brick.

The hairs rise on the back of my neck. In a rush, I fumble for the card still sitting in my wallet. As I pull it out, I suddenly realize why the address sounded familiar. I read it on this very card two weeks ago.

My mind scrambles to make sense of this.

Sage works at this club.

And…my father holds the deed?

Is this some ridiculous coincidence?

I pull my phone out of my pocket, and with shaking fingers, I google the name of the club. My head swirls with confusion and disbelief as I stare at the search results.

Pink is a premier sex club located in Austin, Texas.

My heart is hammering in my chest.

What…the fuck?

Why on earth does my father, the most prominent pastor in Austin, hold the deed to a sex club? What could he possibly gain from this?

This must be part of his plan to have it shut down. For as long as I can remember, my father’s main objective was to clean up the city of any clubs like this. He’s had two shut down since he started his church. But I’ve never known him to take this route…to own it first.

Normally, he’d preach about them in his sermons. Uncover scandals and abuse taking place inside. He has connections in the city who would help him.

So, this just doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he’d tie himself to a place like this.

My fingers tighten around my phone. Why didn’t that asshole tell me about this? He didn’t include me in whatever the hell his plan is here, and that pisses me off more than anything.

Just knowing he has anything to do with Sage only throws fuel on the fire. She and I had a connection. Sure, she’s just a stranger, but we had a moment, and it’s all gone to shit now that I know her club is this.

Before I know what I’m doing, I tear open the car door and march toward the club. I feel the eyes of some of those lingering in groups, seemingly either waiting for rides or socializing. No one stops me as I reach for the door—not that I really expected them to. Doing my best to keep my cool, I pull open the door and enter the dimly lit lobby.

The first thing I notice about the inside of this club is that it’s not nearly as loud as I expected and not nearly as dark. There’s a hostess stand and two young women chitchatting. When one of them looks up and notices me walking in, she simply holds out her hand, looking mildly annoyed by my presence.

I stare at her open hand in confusion. Does she want to see my ID? Is this for real?

“I need your phone,” she snaps in annoyance.

“My phone?”

She huffs out a sigh and reluctantly turns her body toward me. “Phones aren’t allowed inside the club. Are you a member?”

“No, I’m not a member,” I reply through clenched teeth.

Her eyes rake slowly over my body, and it’s at this moment that I tense out of fear that she’ll recognize me. The last thing I need is to be seen in a sex club but at the same time…I’m fuming and don’t give a shit about my reputation. In fact, at this moment, I’d like to burn it all to hell.

“It’s a fifty-dollar entrance fee, then. And I need your phone.”

My brow furrows. I pull out my phone and wallet, setting the device on the counter and fishing out a fifty. As I hand it to her, she starts reciting something that sounds like rules, but she talks so fast and mumbles, so I barely make out what she’s saying.

I definitely catch a few alarming words—consensual, security, and…condoms?

What the fuck am I walking into?

“Thanks,” I mutter when she finishes, sliding my wallet back into my pocket. I watch as she puts my phone in a drawer with a pile of others. Unbelievable.

As I turn the corner into the main room of the club, my sense of discomfort grows. Music from the giant speakers thumps louder, like a heartbeat, pounding in time with my own.

I survey the darkened atmosphere, taking in the numerous tables and booths that are situated around the bar. There is a random doorway in the rear and a hallway off to the right. The second floor is draped with mirrors, which I assume are transparent from the other side.

And as I catch movement in the booth on the far end of the room—movement that looks too much like a blow job to not be a blow job, my stomach turns with anxiety.

I’m in a sex club.

By all reasoning, I should turn around and walk out right now. If I am spotted here, there’ll be hell to pay—literally. But I’m too fired up. Still so angry from the conversation with my father earlier and now this. Something inside me aches to rebel, and it’s something I’ve never felt before.

So with that, I head toward the bar.

Finding an empty barstool with a view of the large room, I take a seat and wait patiently for the busy bartender to notice me. As soon as we make eye contact, she gives me an expectant expression, and I quickly blurt out my order for a Tullamore Dew on the rocks. After she passes me my drink, I pass her my credit card and inform her to keep my tab open.

My eyes focus on the room, and I think again about Pink Hair. A feeling of disappointment settles in my chest. The chasm that divides my world from hers just grew to the size of the moon. We might as well be on two different planets at this point.

The first glass of whiskey goes down easily. It’s only fifteen minutes before I order a second. The entire time my mind is in a vicious, angry cycle, going round and round from surprise to anger to wanting to do something about it and round again.

To my surprise, the bartender lets me get piss drunk, and the entire time I’m at the bar, watching people around me in the dark space nearly fuck each other in all corners of the room, I don’t spot Pink Hair.

What would I even say to her if I did see her? I just want to understand.

My head is heavy, and the voices and music in the room blur in my inebriated brain.

I’m sulking over my whiskey when a flash of pink catches my eye. I lift my head in a rush to see Sage rushing across the room, clearly on a mission. When she reaches someone sitting in a booth on the side, her body language changes. Her arms cross over her tiny frame and her chin tilts downward as she speaks.

It’s not the girl full of sunshine and sparks that I met two weeks ago. She’s angry, struggling, frustrated.

I know the feeling.

I can’t hear what she’s saying over the thump of the bass, but it’s clear they’re having somewhat of an argument. Her arm gestures toward the bar, and she gives an exasperated expression as his head falls back. Then he puts a hand out toward her, palm out like a stop sign, and her posture shrinks again.

The man stands, and I take in his appearance. Slim, black pants, tight black button-down, dark-blond hair to his ears, and tattoos creeping up his neck. When he puts his hands affectionately on Sage’s arms, seemingly to settle her down, I look away.

That must be the boyfriend.

My jaw clenches as I glare at him from across the club. I’ve never met the guy and I already don’t like him. He’s talking down to her—literally and figuratively.

After Sage storms off, heading toward a narrow hallway on the side of the room, I make my move.

I’m drunk and in no position to be talking to anyone, especially with all the spite and anger mixed with whiskey in my bloodstream. I keep up my pace behind her, coming in hot as she reaches for a doorknob to a room I assume is an office.

Before she can close herself in, I’m there. My hand grips the door with a loud thud, and she lets out a gasp as her eyes turn up to stare at my face.

“What the—”

Before she can finish that sentence, I’m inside the office, slamming the door to close us in together.