Chapter Text
Caspar's 90% sure his company is a part-time dealer in illegal substances.
Not that he has bountiful experience in drugs or company sales, but he's not ignorant enough to believe that a company with a near-constant downward trend of income and such an eccentric subset of merchandise has lasted this long purely on luck.
He's just tucking away the graphs for last month's business in the backroom filing cabinet when he feels the heavy hand grip his shoulder, and has to stifle a shudder.
"Boy, you look like you need some fun," says the greasy familiar voice, and Caspar slowly rolls the cabinet drawer shut.
"Excuse me?" he responds, when the hand doesn't disappear, and twists his head to look up at the man. Caspar recognises him, how can he not? Still, in over a year of working in this godforsaken building, Caspar still hasn't quite managed to pick up his name – he prefers the term Sweaty anyway. Slightly overweight, unshaven, disgusting is all he's got to work with; not to mention that damned leery smile that makes Caspar consider quitting then and there every single time.
He can't, of course, because he's not sure how he even managed to get a job in sales and marketing when he dropped out of college before the first year was even done – and he's not prepared to take his chances again, and possibly end up with yet another job in a shady downtown bar.
"You know we got tha' contract with the Asians, those fucking bastards," Sweaty drawls, clamping his hand down harder as he spits out the word. Caspar doesn't really want to ask what happened to make the man so entirely against anyone who's not white – he's mosetly afraid there'll be no reason at all.
"Yeah, and?" Caspar provokes, dropping his shoulder until Sweaty is forced to let go. Even from this far away, Caspar can smell the stale scent of cigarette smoke and the faintest whiff of the company's line in men's cologne. He tries not to gag.
"Well, a few of us men are goin' out to drink and I figured you might wanna join us."
Caspar blinks once, twice, because there's absolutely nothing in this man's tone that says he can reject the offer. It's not like there is any difference in hierarchy between them; Sweaty isn't anything special like manager, but Caspar also knows that he needs to not anger the (literal) big guys unless he wants to be at the wrong end of all their petty hatred.
The deal itself that they seem to be celebrating is nothing special either. A mere change in location of production, from Thailand (where workers are paid terribly and work in horrible conditions) to China (where workers are paid even worse, and work in conditions that could kill – on a wage that still doesn't feed their families); all in the name of saving a few cents.
"Whadd'ya say?" Sweaty prods, words tumbling out of his mouth like it's costing him big-time to actually use his tongue for enunciation.
"I'd love to," Caspar begins, smiling with his best look of innocent gratitude, "but-"
"Great!" he buts in, grabbing Caspar's bare arm with a clammy grip. "Bus is outside, we're going now. Dave said company's gonna pay for our shit."
And that's how Caspar finds himself on an old bus that smells even worse than the near stranger from the floor below crammed next to him, bumping through the city into the darker parts of downtown Los Angeles.
He's staring out the window, trying to ignore the conversation his co-workers are having behind him, and failing miserably.
("-and then she yells at me, because I don't do enough around the house! She said she even been faking orgasms just so she can stop, that bitch."
"Did'ja tell her that's ain't your bloody problem? Women, god, they're only good for a fuck til'ya marry 'em.")
Caspar kind of wishes he'd thought to bring his earphones, kind of wishes he was dead.
He also wishes he hadn't been looking outside when they finally, finally, pull up at their destination with a ruckus that makes Caspar believe the bus won't be running again any time soon.
A strip club, a fucking god damn strip club, and they expected him to believe work was actually okay paying for this?
There's several raunchily dressed women outside, smoking and calling comments about the men stepping off the bus. Caspar only ducks his head, letting his hair fall down until it covered his eyes – and the utter horror coursing through his entire body.
Not to say he hadn't been to such an establishment before, no. His friends were all college students still, and there was no chance they were leaving Caspar's drop-out ass behind when they ventured out on drunken adventures.
It was just usually a little classier than this.
Inside was much the same as outside, and Caspar didn't really know what he expected. It wasn't packed like some of the clubs Caspar had seen in his time, but it did smell of nothing but sex and liquor.
Disgustingly so.
The club itself was seemingly split into sections, each walled off part containing a single stage of some description, and each sporting its own style of music – which all came together in a single howling cacophony from where Caspar was standing.
This place was not, apparently, unknown to Caspar's colleagues, who were already busying themselves with the tiny bar tucked in the corner, or disappearing to stages with a speed that belied their raw excitement.
Caspar really, really wants to be dead right now.
The men filling the club are mostly old, the kind of age you'd expect to have a steady job and two kids. Caspar doesn't doubt that at least half of the customers here are married at least, or participating in some kind of sickening mid-life crisis.
Caspar steps to the side once he realises he's alone, moving into the first of the sectioned off areas, and finds the music dying down to a single song almost immediately. It feels slightly better, and helps to stall the headache he can already feel developing in his temples.
The song itself, though, is entirely unknown – and not just because Caspar doesn't listen to pop radio all that much anymore. No, this music is in an entirely different language.
There's three women on stage, wearing identical dresses, and performing an equally identical dance that involves one too many drops to the floor to be considered anything near just playful.
The dancers themselves are of Asian descent, and sporting cat ears as they run hands up thighs in unison, curling their hands into paws when the music meowed. They're smiling, swaying their hips and bending over like they're here to sell their bodies to these men who are at least double their age.
Caspar doesn't want to think about what that means for these young girls, bearing the brunt of the dirty remarks with innocent smiles and wide eyes, and he retreats out of there as fast as he can.
The space next door is quieter, and it only takes Caspar a second to realise that the people are flooding out, not in. There's no music playing, and the lights re dimmed – this stage clearly isn't being used right now.
Caspar takes the brief respite to stare at the stage in confusion; it looks nothing like the previous, now being adorned with heavy red curtains, and a curling set of stairs on one side that lead down from an ancient looking door.
Nothing like the bouncy mess next door, but Caspar doesn't bother hanging around to find out why.
The thin crowd is pushing him roughly towards the room tucked opposite the main entry, and Caspar is far too emotionally tired to fight it. He'll just sit still until the men stop yelling and pushing so much, and then he's so ready to get out of here.
He isn't even sure if girls are his thing, why the hell would he consider staying in a heterosexual club where the dancers are as mistreated as the homeless citizens down the road?
He squeezes into the room of main interest, ducking through the archway, and rolls his eyes at the cliché set-up before him. Not that he's overly intuitive about strippers and their routines, but surely there's something more interesting to all these customers than a simple pole dance.
The lights dim, a heavy beat spring up, and Caspar sighs in recognition. He isn't entirely familiar with the song's lyrics, but the tune is popular enough to recall easily.
Caspar isn't sure why he feels oddly comforted by something that isn't tied to his lifestyle at all, but maybe it's just the escape from a crowd of drunken men screaming about a young girl's assets.
As the guitar-played melody rings out for Do I Wanna Know, a song that Josh must've played around the apartment at least once or twice, a dark-dressed individual struts out onto the stage from within fluttering black curtains.
And Caspar is star struck.
In his defence, he hadn't realised this was a co-ed strip club, and there were male dancers who were fucking attractive as all hell.
By this time, the lyrics had already started, and Caspar's new (only) favourite had begun his dance that has a chorus of oh no on repeat in Caspar's head.
One leg hooked around the pole, his body arching back as he spins on the spot, and all Caspar can think is that he has absolutely no cash on him, and this man deserves every single dollar.
Black jeans, black tank top, black hat, black soul as he quite literally traps Caspar into watching his rhythmic dips and twirls, lights glistening off skin that looks just a little sparkly. The chorus breaks, the man's in the air, and Caspar is actually dead.
Of course, this is also when he's fiercely reminded that he's not the only one watching, and he certainly doesn't deserve to be anywhere nearby when all the other audience members are actually paying.
The reality of the moment sinks in just a little, and Caspar's mouth tastes like bile as one man shouts something extremely inappropriate, and another throws an opened condom on the stage. The performer just takes it all in stride, even going as far as to wink at the man front and centre (who Caspar swears, by the bald head and wrinkled arms, is at least 60).
The song shifts into a different tempo as the man pauses, reaching down to take a swig of the water by his feet – and god, Caspar's in too deep, because how can an action like that still be undeniably sexy?
Caspar doesn't recognise the next song, but he stays anyway, because damn it he's enjoying himself. Nothing like the pigs around him, and he makes a desperate note to take a shower when he gets home because that man next to him is definitely rubbing his crotch in a less-than-appropriate way.
There's a hand tapping his back, mid-song, and Caspar almost wants to hit the man he whirls around to find behind him for interrupting such a moment.
It's Sweaty and he's smiling that smile, like he's got some great surprise that Caspar's simply going to adore.
He hopes to god this man knows what he's taking Caspar away from, as he's pulled by the arm out of the stage area and towards the corner of the building, where there's an open door and a staircase tucked away neatly, illuminated barely by a flickering red light.
Caspar tries to resist, just a little, but finds despite the man's sweaty grip, there's no levering him away from Caspar's arm. And so, he's led up the stairs, tripping on several in the dim light, and welcomed into a room of roughly ten other men, all lounging about on sofas with drinks in hand.
Caspar's never felt more out of depth in his life, and that's saying something.
Caspar decides then and there that he's going to punch Sweaty square in the face, because now he's stuck in an awkward room full of men who are all aroused to some state, and it makes Caspar feel so nauseous that he seriously considers running from the room then and there.
He's decided he's going to quit tomorrow morning.
(A Thursday, because it was someone's grand idea to go out to a strip club on a fucking Wednesday night.)