Zeke could only stare—blankly, miserably, existentially—at the barely dressed girls twirling around metal poles like well-oiled weather vanes during a neon hurricane. The lights pulsed in erratic shades of pink, purple, and something that resembled radioactive lime. It was the kind of chaotic ambiance that was supposed to make a man feel alive. Supposed to ignite primal urges. Supposed to give him a night to forget whatever tragic sob story was trying to ruin his designer-shirt day.
And yet.
Zeke sat there, hunched on a velvet-cushioned throne like a depressed Roman emperor, utterly unimpressed and emotionally constipated.
One girl did a flawless upside-down split spin while licking whipped cream off her finger. Another blew a kiss and executed a maneuver that would give Isaac Newton an aneurysm. But Zeke?
He just blinked.
Dead-eyed. Unmoving. Almost philosophical in his lack of enthusiasm.
His thoughts, meanwhile, were shrieking.
WHY. AM. I. NOT. HAVING. FUN.
