Justin laughed. “Right. Because your man boobs are bigger than mine.” And they were. Nick was as tall as Justin at six-two, but he was a solid twenty pounds heavier and it was muscle stacked on muscle.
Nick stuck his head around the end of the lockers and made his pecs dance. “Don’t hate on me because I’m built better.”
Shrugging, Justin grabbed his shower caddy and slammed his locker. “Anyone can build a body, brother, but there’s not a damn thing you can do about that face.”
The room erupted in laughter, Nick included, and Justin headed for the open showers.
It surprised him to realize he would miss this, the camaraderie and feeling of brotherhood, when he cut back to working only a couple of nights a month. Graduating with his PhD meant he’d finally scored a more traditional, definitely more socially acceptable job. Beginning Monday, he would no longer be a full-time Beaux Hommes man but rather Dr. Justin Maxwell, staff psychologist for Second Chances, a nonprofit leadership initiative for disadvantaged inner-city youth. Receiving counseling from a licensed psychologist was a big part of the program.
He would know.
Hot water sluiced over his body as he soaped up, but the heat did little to ease his tension. All he wanted at the moment was to skip tonight’s show, go home, get his stuff ready for Monday and then crash. But the efficiency apartment was brand-new to him. “New” really meant “empty.” He’d bought a bed, but that was it. Save for that and a few pots and pans from a local thrift shop, the apartment was empty. He still funneled most of his earnings to his mom’s house, covering the majority of the bills, making sure his sisters were fed and clothed. He owed them that much at least.
Resting his forearm against the tile wall, he let his chin fall forward so the shower stream pummeled his neck and shoulders.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the military had sent the chaplain to their door, and it still pissed him off. But thinking about it wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He needed to get his game face on, dress and hit the weights before his first set.
Shutting the faucet off didn’t stop the emotional trip down memory lane. He found himself considering who he was now versus who he’d been the first time he’d walked through the doors of Beaux Hommes on an open-call night ten years ago. He’d been working as a janitor for several weeks, watching the dancers’ nightly cash take. When the next open call came for tryouts, he was there. He’d figured he’d get up on stage and show everyone how it was done and had brought a couple of his homeboys with him to yuck it up when he was finished. Mistake number one. The lead dancer hadn’t even looked at Justin twice. He’d not even set foot on the stage before the guy called out, “Pass.”
Furious, Justin had got up in the guy’s grill. Mistake number two.
The lead dancer hadn’t backed down, didn’t even bat a damn eye. He’d come at Justin, drilling his finger into his chest. “Grow a pair, and I don’t mean Leftie and Rightie over there, and you can audition again. If, and I do mean if, you cut clean now.”
Justin’s anger, always simmering so close to the surface then, had boiled over. “You’re calling my boys—”
“Your testicles. Yes, I’m calling them your testicles. If you’ve got to wear ’em on your sleeve, this isn’t the job for you. Get out.”
Ego bruised, he’d gone home, stewed over it for a few days and then talked to his counselor about the opportunity. With support from Second Chances, he’d come back. Alone. They’d hired him with one major caveat: the stuff they suspected he was dabbling in—gangs, guns and girls—could never, ever come to work with him. He’d had a choice in that moment. Clean up and make a decent living at twenty, or turn to the streets full-time. Most of the Deuce-8 crew didn’t live to see thirty. It wasn’t much of a choice.