Alana
“JUST ONE MORE round, sweet cheeks,” Tate pleads as he leaves trails of kisses from my neck to the corner of my mouth. My sex stings as it rubs against my cotton boy shorts. I glance at the blue neon light on my alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s four in the afternoon. Geez, I just want to stay tangled in the cotton sheets with Tate.
“I have to go to work in an hour,” I say, forcing myself up from the queen-size bed, grabbing my black robe from the computer chair and wiggling it on my shoulders, covering my tits. Tate slides on his boxers, pulls me into his arms. My cheek presses against his bare chest and his heart beats steady.
He cups my ass cheeks. I run my tiny fingers through his copper thick hair that brushes his shoulders.
His hazel eyes with specks of green around the rim of his irises narrow. His erection presses against my stomach. Blushing, I pull away, go to the bathroom attached to my bedroom, turn the shower to hot. I drop the robe and panties to the white tiles. Tate is on my heels, and he shuts the door behind him. The steam fogs the small bathroom, making my body sweat.
Tate is a sweet guy, and I met him two months after Charles left me at the bistro. We met at a local bar. Ever since then, I have been using Tate to get over Charles. It’s wrong, but it’s better than being alone, and sometimes when he is here, I don’t miss Charles. My heart doesn’t ache as much. I can’t deal with thinking about what happened between us and how he got Rebecca pregnant. It’s really dumb to miss someone who took your heart and smashed it to pieces. Emotions are stupid, and I wish there was an off button for them.
Tate whips out his dick and takes a leak in the toilet. I take a red toothbrush from the holder, squirt toothpaste on it, and begin to brush my teeth.
“Tuesday, go to the lounge with me.” After tucking himself back in his boxers, he washes his hands and dries them on the pink hand towel hanging on the rail. He wraps his arms around my waist, resting his head on my shoulder, and watches me in the mirror.
“I thought we agreed to keep it casual,” I say between each scrub. I spit in the sink and hold the toothbrush under the brass faucet and dump it in the holder. Turning around, I place both hands on the edge of the fishbowl sink. By his frown, I can tell that he doesn’t like my answer.
“We are, but there is nothing wrong with getting to know each other.” He traces his index finger on my lips and continues, “I’m pretty sure there is more to you than working at a strip joint.”
“All right,” I huff, folding my arms.
His eyes grow to the size of saucers. Guess he never imagined me actually saying yes. I like our arrangement. Like that we can have sex, get what we need and go on our merry ways. We don’t ask each other anything about our personal lives. The only thing that I know about Tate is he studies law at New York University, and we share a common interest in anime and video games. If I weren’t nursing a broken heart, I would date him. The sex is pretty good, and he is smoking hot like a Calvin Klein model. That sounds so cliché. He has a body to die for. Lean muscle, like he never misses a day in the gym.
I’m not ready to open that door just yet, not ready to date. But if Tate wants to get to know me without trying to pressure me to be with him, then I can go out with him. It won’t be a date, just two friends hanging out.
“I’ll text you the details,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine before leaving the bathroom.
After I shower, I throw on my white cotton blouse that hugs my torso, black-and-red-checked skirt that stops above my knees, and white knee-high socks with a pair of black heels. I brush my damp red hair into a high ponytail, pad to the open spacious living room, grab my leather jacket from the coat rack and wait by the door for my roommate.
Crystal sits on the worn brown couch and fishes through her knock-off Michael Kors purse, pulling out a small compact mirror and studying her face. She finger-combs her short lavender hair to the side. Our outdated furniture stands out like a sore thumb in this two-bedroom, two-lavish-bathroom condo. Even the entertainment center is ancient, the black paint peeling off the cheap wood. The previous owners left this stuff, and we were too lazy to get rid of it.
“Why did Tate leave here with a big stupid grin on his face?” she asks, her black eyes gleaming.
“I agreed to go out in public with him,” I answer nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders.
“That’s good, he likes you a lot.” She tucks her mirror back into her purse.
“But I’m not ready to move on.”
“You should. Charles isn’t thinking about you. He went off and had another family. So move on.”
Her words sting, but she’s right. Don’t need to sit, mope, and have a pity party. And maybe, with Tate, I can grow to like him.
“You know what else we should have done?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
Oh, no, here we go with this crap again. “Don’t even say it.”
“Keyed his fucking car.”
“We would have been in jail.”
“Who gives a crap?”
My best friend is the master of paying people back and having no boundaries. When she caught her sister’s boyfriend cheating, she put sugar in his tank and landed herself in jail for a few days. I had to bail her out.
She grabs her brown coat from the rack and slides it over her shoulders. “You should have let me go to Rebecca and pretend to be his mistress.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes, Alana, you’re too nice.”
When we arrive to work, I go straight to my green locker, stuff my purse and jacket in it and close it. Crystal and I work at the Gentlemen’s Club in downtown Newark, New Jersey. Rich men and women come here to get good lap dances by some of the best strippers. I’m not a stripper though, I’m a waitress. Not brave enough to shake my butt in front of strangers, and plus this is not a career path for me. I plan to go to college so I can get a degree in animation. One day, I plan to own a comic book company.
Even though I’m a waitress, I don’t get as many tips as the strippers, but I do have a few customers who come out and tip me regularly.
Women wearing next to nothing bounce around the room, and some sit at vanities, smearing makeup on their faces. One stripper with black hair and black eyes pulls the G-string from her butt crack and says, “This is annoying.” I don’t know her name because she just started a few days ago. She closes her eyes and takes in calm breaths.
The owner, Tony, stands next to her and says, “If you are not comfortable, you can always come back when you are ready.” He rubs his ginger stubble. His button-down shirt fits his torso, and black slacks hang loosely on his hips. Tony treats all his workers like family. “If a man is making you feel uneasy, let me know and we will throw him out in a heartbeat. We don’t want y’all working in a hostile environment.”
As I grab my pouch and tie it around my waist, I place my pen and pad in it, along with change and crisp dollar bills.
“Don’t wait up for me tonight. I’m going out with Clarence,” Crystal says, giggling like a schoolgirl. Taking out her pink lip gloss from her purse, she smears it on her thin lips, making pop sounds. She has been dating him for a year now. For the record, I don’t like Clarence. He is too arrogant and thinks the world revolves around him.
“Fine, but I’m going to watch Shameless without you.”
“You better not Netflix-cheat on me,” she says.
As I hurry to the bar, customers take their seats, and I collect orders and refill drinks. The scents of greasy food and alcohol fill my nostrils as I make a beeline to different high-top tables and booths. Tables fill quickly, and within minutes the club is flooded with horny people. Expensive, polished wood and real velvet seats decorate the building. Techno music blasts from each speaker and strippers are on customers like a pack of wolves starving for meat.
One of the waitresses, Jocelyn, asks me to get the customers at the front entrance while she goes on smoke break. I grab a bunch of menus from the bar, tuck them under my arm and sashay to the front. It’s Gunner, my brother, and a guy I never met, who stands next to him with his hands shoved in the pockets of his denim jeans. It’s very rare that Gunner introduces me to any of his friends. I’ve only met Logan, and that was by accident when I showed up to Gunner’s house unexpectedly.
“Gunner, what are you doing here?” I squeal, not taking my eyes off his friend. His friend is hot like he’s stepped out of Vogue magazine, with thick black hair that balding men wish they had and stormy gray eyes that are the shape of almonds.
He rubs his sharp jaw. Standing next to Gunner, he has to be six five. Maybe. His beautiful skin is tan and smooth like a baby’s. He puts Channing Tatum to shame. Even the strippers are staring at him with hearts in their eyes. He looks vaguely familiar. I can’t place my finger on it, but I think I met him somewhere.
“Want to see women shake their asses,” Gunner says.
Pretending to gag, I say, “You’re nasty.”
“By the way, why the hell do you still work here?” my brother complains.
“I need to pay for college.”
“I pay you enough to afford college.” He does, but I don’t like depending on people to give me anything. I work hard for everything I want. When I was married to Charles, I didn’t have to work, but I chose to because I was afraid it would be taken away from me. Growing up poor does that to you. I started working here when I was twenty years old and when I turned seventeen, I started working for Gunner as well.
He clears his throat and says, “Darien, meet my annoying-ass sister.”
Darien smiles and waves. I wave back. His brown cashmere sweater makes him look like one of those rich preppy boys who grew up with a silver spoon in their mouth. The fabric of it looks soft, like something that you want to touch. His eyes sweep over my body. Blushing, I bite my lower lip as I usher them to a table in the back. The DJ announces Cindy on the stage. She slides down on the pole, exposing her goodies for everyone to see. She lets down her honey-blonde fine hair, and everyone’s eyes are on her, including my brother’s. It’s awkward to watch my older brother eye-fuck a naked woman.
Everyone who knows me knows that Gunner and I are related, and not because we tell people we are. We look exactly alike. Same auburn hair, except I dye mine flame-red, and his eyes are azure instead of mismatched colors. My brother is lean built and some of the strippers in here look at him like he’s a god. I feel naked wearing this outfit around him.
Taking out my pen and paper, I tuck a loose strand behind my ear. I pluck the menus from under my arm and pass them over. They both scan the menus.
What would you like to drink?” I ask.
“Adams beer,” Gunner says.
“Bourbon on the rocks,” Darien says. His voice. His fucking voice is deep, smooth, and velvet. It can melt my panties off.
“Anything else? We’re having a special today, half off on a ribeye steak.”
“I’ll take that,” Darien murmurs, looking into my eyes. My skin breaks out in goose bumps, and I tell myself it’s because I’m cold, but that’s a lie. I’m fucking Tate, and now I’ve got my eyes set on another man.
Tate and I may not be serious, but we will get there. I need to give him a chance. And besides, there is no way a man like this would be interested in a twenty-three-year-old divorced woman who has a shitload of baggage. His life seems together, and I’m trying to pick up the pieces of mine. He is probably looking to settle down and have children, and right now I’m not into that.
They both hand the menus back to me. I disappear into the kitchen, drop off the orders. As I pour alcohol into the tall glasses, I peer in Darien’s direction. Monica, a stripper, starts speaking to him, but his eyes are on me. Quickly, I look away from him, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Something about Darien draws me in. Maybe because you think he’s sexy as hell, duh, Alana.
One of the cooks shouts Darien’s order, so I set his food on the tray and take it to him. Placing the steaming plate on the table, I wait until Darien takes a bite of his steak. “Is it good?”
He nods and gives me a thumb-up, and continues to eat.
Gunner disappears to the front of the stage and throws Candy all his hard-earned money. Men. They act like animals when they see ass and tits. I grab Darien’s empty glass, make a beeline for the bar, and refill his glass. Crystal comes to the bar, stands on a stool, clutches a bottle of gin from the top shelf, unscrews the cap and pours it into two tall glasses.
“Who is that guy with Gunner? He keeps eye-fucking you.”
So I’m not the only one to notice he keeps staring at me. “His friend, Darien.”
She sets the alcohol back on the shelf. “You should fuck him.” That’s Crystal for ya—she doesn’t have any filter.
I shrug my shoulder and say, “I’m not interested.”
That’s a lie. I am interested. I want to know if Darien can give me a good orgasm. Want to know if he can use his tongue properly.
“Whatever. That man is fine as hell.” She places two cherries in the glass and places them on a tray, balancing it on her hand.
“He is all right.” Another lie.
“If I weren’t with Clarence, I would suck his cock,” she says.
“Crystal!” I scold, glancing around the bar, making sure no one heard us.
“What? Just being honest.”
“What about Tate? You were encouraging me to be with him earlier.”
“I’ll encourage you to hump a tree if it helps you get over that two-timing loser Charles,” she says, before delivering her drinks.
As I make my way to the table, I set his drink down on the high table, collect his empty plate and set it on the tray.
“You need anything else?” I ask him. He shakes his head and Gunner makes his way back to the table.
Three hours later, my feet ache like I’ve run a marathon. I hit the off button to the purple neon light glowing in the wide window and wipe down the high-top black tables. The other waitresses sweep the dirty floors. I rush to the locker room, grab my Harley Quinn purse and slide my jacket on, zip it up to my neck. Outside, the crisp air smacks me in the face. I hate October—not the month, but the weather. Well, I hate the cold. Period. Cars drive past the building, and the street lamps dim the concrete sidewalk. Across the street is an abandoned, run-down warehouse that used to be a Blockbuster. Green bushes and yellow grass sprout around the building. It looks odd compared to the Gentlemen’s Club brown brick building.
Usually, I catch a ride with Crystal because she is the one who’s got the car. I’m too cheap to buy one. A taxi runs on every other street, or you can take Uber—they are cheaper.
Darien leans against the driver’s door of my brother’s white Audi and Gunner lies in the back seat. My heels click on the wet asphalt as I make my way to the car.
Raindrops hit my forehead and my hair begins to frizz. Thanks, Mother Nature, for making me look like a mophead in front of a hot dude.
“Your brother says you need a lift home.” The lines around Darien’s eyes deepen. I glance around the lot, and a few cars are still parked. Crystal honks her horn. Placing my index finger in the air, I tell Darien to wait one second. I walk to the passenger side of her car. She hits a button on the door and the window rolls down.
“Going to catch a ride with my brother.”
“Cool. I’ll see you later.”
She puts the car in gear and drives onto the main road. Darien opens the passenger door and I hop in, strapping my seatbelt on. Air freshener wafts from the vents and the black leather seat squeaks as I lean back.
“Alana lives in the same building as you, fucktard,” my brother says.
I turn my torso, facing Gunner, and his right arm covers his eyes. He is shit-faced and reeks of whiskey. When I turn my eyes back to the road, the rain clouds the windshield, making it impossible to see.
“Darien moved into your building a week ago,” Gunner says.
Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Darien scrunches his nose and continues to keep his eyes on the road.
“What floor do you live on?” I ask. No way this hot dude lives in the same building as I do. My brother owns the building I stay in, so my rent is free. A condo can go for thirty-five grand, if not more.
He stops at a traffic light, and a red and white ambulance drives past us. “Twenty.” Of course he does—that penthouse goes for fifty grand. Rich bastard.
I glance at his hand—no wedding band on his ring finger. I picture his fingers touching my clit. My nipples harden against the fabric. Bet he could get me off with just one finger while he turns the steering wheel. Need to stop fantasizing about him. It won’t happen.
Darien pulls up to the car garage, cuts the engine off, and Gunner sits up, pulling his white suit jacket on.
“I’m crashing at your spot, Darien,” Gunner says.
I press my palm to my right cheek, fake pout, and say, “You don’t want to stay with your little sister?”
“Darien has a spare room.” He slurs his words.
As Gunner stumbles out of the back seat, he wraps his arm around my shoulders. He is heavy as an elephant. We make it to the bright lobby and wait in front of the metal elevator doors, and Darien hits the up button.
“Besides, isn’t Tate spending the night?” He hates Tate with a passion, but I think he will hate any guy I date or sleep with. I could date God himself and Gunner still would hate his guts.
Shaking my head, I say, “He has to study for his midterms.”
“Who’s Tate?” Darien asks. We step into the elevator, and I hit the tenth and twentieth buttons.
“Her boyfriend,” Gunner slurs.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I blurt out.
“What is he?” Darien asks. My cheeks heat up. I’m not about to tell him that Tate is my steady dick.
“Why do you want to know?” I shoot back.
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he holds up Gunner, keeping him from falling flat on his ass.
The door dings and opens. An older couple step in, and I step out.
“This is my stop,” I say, before exiting the elevator. I watch the door close and exhale.