The Old Man in the Club by Curtis Bunn Page B

Tamara said. “I shouldn’t have tried toget you to break up your plans. Thank you for meeting me halfway on this. I will get there around midnight and pick up the key. But I will text you when I’m on my way.”
    She smiled as she said those last words because she had already planned to give Elliott a memorable greeting when he returned home that night.
    And that’s how they left it, which was good for both sides. Elliott knew he had a fun evening ahead of him even if the party was a dud. Tamara was excited about a chance to feel Elliott’s loving again.

CHAPTER FIVE
To Compound Matters. . .
    R &B star Melanie Fiona and hip-hop star Chris Brown were performing at Compound, which was the reason Elliott was so determined to go to the club. He liked Melanie Fiona, but was totally unaware of any Chris Brown song. But he believed that the entertainment would bring out a bevy of young beauties for him to peruse.
    It would be a much different crowd from Vanquish, though. At Vanquish, while it was mostly a younger group of people, there were much older patrons, too, up into the fifties. At Compound, it would be women mostly in their twenties with some up to their mid-thirties. And because the crowd would be so young, he had to switch up his look.
    At Vanquish, he let the gray on the edges of his sides and other parts of his head show. At Compound, he figured a younger look would prevent him from standing out more than normal. So, he pulled out his Just For Men after he spoke to Tamara and carefully, meticulously colored the edges of his hair, eliminating most of the gray. Doing so took off about ten years in his appearance.
    Then he put on a pair of fashionable Sean John jeans and a pullover shirt that was fitted and showed off his strong arms over a man’s version of Spanks to minimize the small protrusion of his stomach. He also put in a diamond stud earring.
    It took him but ten minutes to get to the club. He handed the valet guy a twenty-dollar bill to keep his car up front. Last thing he wanted to do was have to wait for his car when he was ready to leave.
    Compound was, indeed, a compound, a unique and fabulous venue that spanned several acres. It was like a park or a military base, with lounge areas around lagoons outside and separate buildings that, in essence, housed different parties. It was west of downtown and you could see the Atlanta skyline in the distance. The place could hold more than a thousand people and it looked like it was well on its way to capacity when Elliott arrived right before ten.
    A vodka company sponsored one party in the first building, where a deejay spun old-school hip-hop music. The room was dark with a strobe light making it feel like the building was moving. At least that’s how it felt to Elliott. By how the younger partygoers moved about, the strobe light did not faze them.
    He made his way through the thick crowd to the bar, where, after five minutes in line, he was able to secure the complimentary promotional cocktail. But the music was too loud and the lighting too busy for Elliott to stay there. As much as he desired to be the old man in the club, he was, indeed, old—the noise bothered him as well as the lighting.
    So, with drink in hand, he immediately headed to the exit to escape the thumping music and visit another area of the expansive space. He at times said aloud but to know one in particular, “Damn,” as he marveled over the young ladies’ skimpy outfits that magnified the shape of their bodies.
    Elliott would not want his woman to dress so revealingly, but he sure enjoyed watching women who did.
    â€œHow do you like this drink?” he asked a young lady who was sipping on the same cocktail as Elliott while sitting outside.
    â€œIt’s too sweet, actually,” she said. “I don’t like sweet drinks. They taste like calories. At least give me the illusion of not being fattening.”
    Elliott flashed a broad