Everywhere That Tommy Goes (2 page)

“Holy shit! So what happened? Did you ever go back there?”

Troyer shoots me a wide smile, raises his glass, and takes a long swallow. “Now it’s your turn.”

*   *   *

It’s only been a month or so since our first encounter, but I can honestly say that meeting Troyer Savage has been a turning point in my life. He is a very different kind of dude. Not only is he a badass: He’s also a chick magnet. I swear he is the ultimate player. He’s real goodlooking, like some movie star or something, and all the chicks want him. I’m not joking—
all
of them. From the hottest party girls to the darkest Goth chicks, he gets them all. Thick, wavy blond hair, high cheekbones, and a tight build can take you far, but Troyer takes it to the next level. And no, if you think I’m gay, you’re dead wrong. Furthest thing from it. I’m just saying.

Anyway, I’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately, and he’s been schooling me on the finer points about picking up women and how to handle myself in a bar. It’s been quite a learning experience. I mean, I’m no slouch, but I don’t carry it the way he does. I’m just a regular guy. I work at a pizza place and volunteer at an animal shelter. Troyer, though—he’s cut from a totally different mold. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I want to be more like him, so I’ve been watching him and taking notes. I know he doesn’t mind. You see, he’s taken me under his wing, and tonight’s my next lesson.

Troyer is planning on hooking up with these two hot babes at Club Radical, down on Fourth Street. He told me that if I get there by 10:30, he’ll hook me up with this righteous brunette who has a tongue piercing. I think he just wants me to occupy her while he locks it in with her girlfriend. No prob though. I’m game for that, that’s for damn sure.

Now this guy moves like nobody else. He’s got this swagger when he walks, this drawl when he talks, and a killer smile that chicks just can’t resist. And like I said before, I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve got to figure out how he does it and make it my own.

I pull up to the club knowing for sure he’s inside with a posse of girls surrounding him, all dripping wet. The place is rocking.

I pass all the dorks lined up trying to get in and walk to the door. This six-and-a-half foot bouncer with a neck the size of my thigh is checking IDs. I slide on up to him. “Tommy Sullivan,” I say, because Troyer told me he’d get my name on the list.

“Sullivan, huh?” he says, eyeballing me like I’m from Long Island or something.

“That’s right,” I say, as tough as I can.

So the jock-head looks at this list he’s holding, as if it’s the freaking Bible, looks back at me again, and—get this—he steps aside, lifts up the rope, and ushers me past like I’m some bigtime celebrity. Just like that, I’m inside one of the hottest clubs in the city.

Some new Lady Gaga shit is pounding in the background while these pasty, eye-shadowed chicks, sporting six-inch stilettos, are standing around and texting.
Texting
. And the dudes, all swervy and ripping outta their shirts—probably juicing on the latest steroids and hanging little pinky-dicks—they’re posing and flexing, probably thinking that’ll impress the babes.

I look down toward the end of the mirrored bar, where the waitresses drop their orders and pick up their drinks, and Troyer is standing right in the middle of the action, working it. These chicks are the hottest I’ve ever seen. And if you ask Troyer, that’s what brings in all the muscle. Fuckin’ guys, all thinking they can get the waitresses and barmaids, so they tip ’em like crazy, all horned up and wearing dumb looks on their faces. Trouble is they’ve got nothing new to say. Those chicks have already heard every line ten times over. At least that’s what Troyer says.

The bar is three-deep, so I squeeze my way between two jerks drinking Buds, who look like they’re in the middle of a swillin’ contest to see who can swallow a bottle in one damn swig. A crowd of tight-skirted girls is busy yapping it up, trying to look hot and get the attention of the group of guys hovering around.

I slide up next to Troyer. “Hey, Tommy,” he says, stepping away from the bar and smiling. He hands me a shot and a brew. “Drink up, then I’ve got a present for you.”

“Thanks dude, but what are you talking about?”

“Just do the shot first.”

I toss it back and chase it with a swig of the brew. “Nice.”

Troyer reaches into his pocket, pulls out a silver necklace, and hands it to me.

“Very cool. What is it?”

“This, my friend, is the phoenix. It signifies strength and the ability to conquer against all odds. It’s for you. If you ever start to question yourself, just hold it between your fingers and repeat over and over again that you are indestructible. Remember, you are only limited by the thoughts in your head. If you think you can do something, you can.”

“Wow, man, I’m touched. I can’t believe you’re actually giving this to me.”

“No sweat, it’s for good luck, so wear it all the time. It will remind you that even when I’m not by your side, I’ll still be with you in spirit.”

“Thanks.” I fasten it around my neck.

Troyer reaches out and holds it in his palm. “Yessir, Tommy Boy. That is one fine piece.” Then he slaps my face playfully. “Okay, now pay attention. You see that babe over there?” He points up the bar to this gorgeous blond bartender, checks his look in the mirror, and gives me a perfect, toothy smile. “She’s all mine. Watch me work it, and learn how it’s done.” He stares right into my eyes and says, “Just keep your distance, you got it?”

He eases his way through the crowd, and they all step aside like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea. I follow right behind before the floodwaters fill up and drown me. He stops in front of the babe as she’s serving a fat, hairy dude who’s wearing a yellow Ed Hardy T-shirt, all that colorful crap on its front. A shirt that probably hasn’t seen the laundry in—shit, forever.

Troyer doesn’t say a thing. He just turns sideways, puts his left elbow on the bar, and leans in real close. With two fingers, he motions to the knockout. The chick comes right over and leans into him from the other side of the bar. They’re almost nose-to-nose. “Patron Silver, luv,” rolls off his tongue in—get this—a fuckin’ Australian accent.

“You want that chilled?” she asks.

Troyer shakes his head and looks deeply into her eyes. “Where I come from, luv, we take it pure or not at all.” He grins again. “To dilute perfection is senseless, don’t you agree?”

“Are we talking about drinks?” she asks him, like she really cares.

“I’m talking about everything . . . life, in general, and all it has to offer.”

“Interesting analogy,” she says, “but way too deep for a place like this.” She smiles, turns, and walks down the bar to serve some loudmouth, big-haired Goth chick.

Troyer turns and whispers in my ear, “She’ll be back quick. Just watch.”

Two minutes later, she’s back with his drink. Sliding it across the bar, she says, “Where you from, handsome?”

“Down Under, luv,” he answers, in that same bullshit accent. Man, it’s smooth, though. I didn’t even know he could talk like that.

Grinning, the chick says, “I figured as much.” Then she goes, “That’ll be twelve bucks, tourist, but the next one is on me.”

Troyer turns to me for a second, smiles quick-like, and nods me off, like I should just disappear. Then he turns back to the babe and slides her a hundred-dollar bill. “What makes you think I’m a tourist?”

“Well, aside from the accent—mate,” she giggles, “you don’t have that phony, toughguy, New York attitude I see here night after night.”

“Truth is, luv, I’m just passing through—visiting my cousin for a spell and don’t know my way around here at all. He’s working tonight, so I’m on my own.”

Now, I’m barely hearing all this, because I move down the bar and act like I don’t know him. But I have to say, the dude is smooth. He’s got the attention of the hottest bartender in the place in less than two minutes. I definitely have to get me an accent.

I watch him for a while as the chick bounces around serving people, making drinks, and doing the whole bartender thing. But every few minutes, she comes back to him and smiles all sweet and shit. Meanwhile, I keep trying to get his attention. He either flat-out ignores me or gives me these looks like I should take a hike or something. I guess he wants to make her believe he’s really a tourist and doesn’t know anyone, so I can’t blame him. But shit, now I’m gonna miss out on the brunette with the tongue piercing.

Finally, when the chick leaves the bar for a minute, he walks over to me and leans in, mouth to ear. “Sorry, Tommy Boy. I got this thing going on here, and I don’t want to mess it up. She thinks I’m from Australia and I don’t know anyone. I’m getting her to show me around later on, when she gets off. She’s going to cut out at one, just for me.” Apparently, I didn’t hear their entire conversation. Troyer is always smoother than I even expect him to be. “I’ll make it up to you another time, I promise. And hey, look—you can still hang out here. Just don’t make like you know me.”

“No problem,” I say to him, but I don’t mean it. This totally sucks. I’m not real good all alone in places like this. I hate feeling like a fly on the wall, just peering at everything and looking desperate. But you know what? I’ll tough it out—watch him and learn.

“You sure you’re going be okay?” he asks me.

“Yeah, I’m sure. But what about those other chicks you were supposed to meet?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Troyer says, as he takes out his cell and punches in a number. “I’m going to call them right now and tell them I can’t make it out tonight. They’ll be cool about it. Women always are.”

Maybe they are to him, but not to me.

So he calls the chicks and blows them off. They don’t seem to care—at least it sounds like they’re cool about it. I mean, Troyer smiles at me and nods the okay, just before the hot bartender chick comes back and he snubs me.

So I back off, disappear into the crowd, and watch him play her for a bit. Then I wander around, find my way to the other bar, and hit the sauce real hard. Later on, I come back for another look. By this time, Troyer’s got the babe leaning in on him and smiling so much that she’s ignoring the rest of the dudes at the bar. Me, I’m piss-drunk from tequila shots and feeling no pain.

After a time, Troyer nods at her, pulls away from the bar, and heads for the back of the club. Sure enough, within a few seconds, the hottie whispers something in the other bartender’s ear and slides out of the bar. I figure now’s the time to head out and follow Troyer, so I ease away from my spot and leave through the back door. Troyer doesn’t see me as I slip out and hide behind this smelly green dumpster.
I’ll just wait and watch what he does
.

A couple minutes later, Troyer walks out with the girl on his arm. I knew it: the dude picked her up just like he said he would. So I follow them, staying far enough behind to see but not close enough to hear what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter, though: I can figure it all right. He’s probably telling her how strange it is coming here from another country and not knowing anything about the place, and she’s probably telling him not to worry, that she’ll show him around just fine.

So they walk around for a bit, and he leads her down a dark alley. I guess maybe he’s planning on banging her just for a laugh. Anyway, I creep up on them and hide myself against a steel doorway that probably leads into some sleazy peep show dive. I half-expect the door to swing open any second, some drunk-ass lowlife stumbling out while holding a little brown bag that hides a bottle of Colt 45. Whatever, I have to see what Troyer’s up to.

They’re both arm-in-arm and walking together until they get behind this heap of garbage piled up next to a dumpster—I knew it! They start making out, and he slides his hand along her leg and up her skirt, real smooth and sexy-like. Then—get this—she pulls his hand away and stops kissing him. Two seconds later, she reaches up with both hands and pushes him off at the chest.

Troyer steps backs, tilts his head to the side, and stares at her. Then, before I can blink, he reaches up and slices her throat with a knife. The chick goes down like her legs have been cut off at the knees. No sound, no reaction—she just collapses and dies right there.

Without thinking, I let out a puke-like hurl sound and scream, “Troyer! What the fuck!” Troyer turns around, sporting this blank stare and a distorted smile that creeps me out so bad that
I feel like I’m laid out in a snake pit, tied to the ground and three dozen snakes are crawling all over me. I can’t move.

“You like that, Tommy Boy?” he asks, still in the Australian accent he pulled out of nowhere.

I just stand there staring at the dead chick with my mouth open wide.

“Say something, mate,” Troyer says, turning and looking up at the sky, bellowing out a throaty, psycho laugh. Then he raises the knife skyward and shakes his fist like a goddamn lunatic.

I still can’t speak and just fall to my knees hurling up all the chips I ate along with all the tequila I drank. Troyer kneels down, too, and coughs a bit, still howling that sicko laugh.

Finally, he stops ranting. My heart is beating against my chest so hard that it feels like it’s going to burst out. It gets real quiet for a time, and then, out of nowhere, Troyer goes, “Okay, Tommy Boy, now we must dispose of the bitch and cover our tracks.”

It’s weird, because the dude is still talking in that hammed-up Australian lingo. It’s like he’s a totally different person.

“This is crazy, Troyer,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I’m outta here. Don’t bring me in on this shit.”

“Don’t be such a wuss, mate, or I may have to slice you, too,” he says, pointing the knife at me. “You’re not going anywhere. You and I are going to make this all go away. We’re going to take lovey here and make her disappear. Go get your car and bring it around, before someone else shows up. Even a fool can see it already looks like you did this. After all, it’s your vomit staining the pavement. And that’s all the authorities will need.”

I look down at the pile of puke and another wave of nausea comes over me. Frozen in place, I just keep staring.