Chapter One

Sarah

 

This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Times one million.

Christa and I are following a completely bald three-hundred-pound bouncer named Jim through the back door of Billy’s Suds. It’s a service entrance, and from what I’ve gathered, Christa has offered a service in exchange for letting us drink as if we were twenty-one.

When she told me she could get us in, she didn’t mention anything about this part of it. She comes here all the time, she said. She always gets in, she said. Never a problem…well, you get the idea. I didn’t ask how or why they always let her in. It seems to me, if there were this kind of exchange, it ought to have been worth mentioning. Like, “I can get us in because I give the bald guy named Jim a beej every Tuesday night.”

Billy’s Suds is a road house just outside of city limits. It smells like smoke and urine, to be honest. And the floor is sticky as we walk down the dark paneled hallway into a room marked Office. I don’t want to know what the sticky substance is. Billy’s Suds is the kind of place where it’s better not to ask. I will probably throw my shoes away when I get home.

My stomach acid is rolling to a boil, and I’m trying to act cool but doubt that it’s working. I mean, come on. This is not me. Not my life. Not even what I’d willingly watch on TV. I go to bed at ten and get up at six. I eat five servings of fruits and vegetables every day. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I turn my college assignments in early.

I do not follow strange men through back doors of illicit bars. I have never given a beej before, and I’m hoping to keep that record going at least this one more night.

Jim opens the door and ladies-firsts-us into the room, closing the door behind him. It smells like more smoke, but less urine in here. That’s all I can say for it. I hadn’t expected a backstage tour of the road house, and under other circumstances, I might have been more intrigued since the reason I was here tonight was curiosity.

Normally, I’m a good girl. I follow the rules. Rules made by other people and rules I make for myself. Like, I might even say rule-following is my super power. I’m studying actuarial science because I think it’s fun. That’s how risk averse I am.

But I’ve been feeling sort of…restless…lately. I thought maybe if I did something just a little crazy, a little less me, I could shake it off. Feel normal again.

I wanted to go to a bar. See it. Order a beer. Maybe even drink it. I didn’t plan anything too illicit. This is way off my radar of acceptable. But Christa is smiling like she just got asked to prom, and Jim looks oddly goofy about it, too.

As if I’m not in the room, he asks Christa, “Is this a twofer, or is she just a watcher?”

My breath freezes. I’m not wild about either opportunity. But for the love of God, watcher, please say watcher.

Christa flips her long, blonde hair over her shoulder and reaches for his zipper. “I’m all the woman you need tonight, Jim.”

“You sure, baby?” He’s looking at me, so I think he’s asking me. But Christa is sliding to her knees, and I don’t know where else to look so I nod quickly and move to a wall that holds some pictures and framed news stories about tournaments and things. I pretend they are supremely interesting and try to block out the sound of slurping and a long, happy groan from Jim.

I have never felt so awkward in my life. I’m hugging myself and repeating a litany in my head about how this will all be over soon. All be over soon. All be over soon.

“Thought you said she wanted to watch?” he asks Christa. “She get off on that? She’s not even looking.”

Every square inch of my skin is red hot and blazing. There’s a window, and I’m contemplating throwing myself out of it.

“Leave her alone, Jim. She’s sweet,” answers Christa. “I just wanted to get her out for a bit. She’s my tutor.”

“Ah, baby. You could tutor her. Nobody slobs a knob like you do, princess.”

I wince. Shakespeare Jim is not. But at least he’s appreciative.

I wonder if it would be too obvious if I plug my ears and start humming “Mary had a Little Lamb” because, while I’d seen some pretty epic blow jobs on my Tumblr page, this voyeurism thing isn’t working out for me. All I feel is a supreme case of embarrassment.

This is real life. This is totally happening. I should be home with Netflix and takeout. I was not made for road house sex listening.

The door opens, and I hear it slam as it bounces off the wall behind it.

Jim yells, “Occupied!” as I turn to face the commotion.

Commotion indeed.

You would think, in a normal situation, the eyes would be drawn to the blonde on her knees with a cock in her mouth. But no. People having sex is not the biggest thing happening in the room. Sorry, Jim. No offense.

What’s riveting is the giant standing in the doorway with hellfire in one eye and a patch over the second with a long angry scar slashing his left cheek. His hands are pulled into fists. Really big, meaty fists. He spares a glance at Romeo and Juliet and then focuses his dark gaze on me.

I feel like I’m on a stage under a hot spotlight. It’s maybe just a moment, but I swear the only thing I can here is his breathing. Like time is standing still except for the two of us.

“Oh my God,” Christa squeals and breaks the stillness. She crabwalks away from Jim as he tries to stuff himself back into his pants. I help her up while the big guy in the doorway moves in to the room.

I’m sure I’ve never been in the presence of so much testosterone. The two men in this small office with us are huge. Jim outweighs Patch Guy, but only because Patch Guy is all muscle while Jim is…well, Jim is not in as good of shape.

The differences don’t end there. Jim is bald; Patch Guy has a full head of hair. They are both covered in tattoos. Patch Guy has sleeves made of them. They are both men I wouldn’t want to run into in an alley or be trapped in a tiny office with. There’s this crazy energy in the room. The kind of tension that comes right before a lightning strike. The hairs on my arms and back of my neck are quilled up like a porcupine.

“What are you doing here tonight?” Jim asks the tree trunk who looks like he’s about to beat the shit out of him. “You’re off.”

“I told you enough with the minors, man,” Patch Guy replies. “You’re going to get fired. You want a blow job, ask her out on a date someplace you don’t work. Now she’s bringing friends?” He stalks over to me and yanks my purse out of my hands, ignoring my indignant utterings. He pulls my wallet out, finds my I.D. and throws the rest onto the floor. He looks at it, looks at me, looks at it again. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He spins back to Jim. “This is the last time I cover for you. Get back on the door and do your job.” To Christa, “I don’t see you here again until your birthday or I call the cops myself. We clear?”

She nods. She’s unusually pale, so her overdone eye makeup makes her eyes look like she’s some kind of blonde anime character.

“Go the fuck home,” he tells her.

Christa puts her head down and scurries with purpose to the door. Jim is already out of the room, presumably back to work. I need to go with Christa; she’s my ride. But my stuff is on the floor and if I go down there and get it, I’ll be…well, down there with the Patch Guy’s junk. He seems to figure out my hold-up and takes two steps back. I gather my wallet and stuff it back in my purse, then get up and hold out my hand for my license.

He shakes his head.

Really? He’s keeping it? Can he do that?

I swallow. “Please.” My eyes go to the door. Christa is in the hall waiting. Thank goodness. “I need to go with her. She’s my ride.”

He’s staring at me like we’re in some kind of interrogation battle that I would so lose. If I had secrets, I’d be spilling them right now. Luckily for me, I don’t ever do anything worth hiding. He can save that fierce glare for someone else.

Without looking over his shoulder at her, he says, “I said go the fuck home, Christa. Don’t make me say it again.”

I plead to her with my eyes not to leave me, but she looks real sorry before she shrugs and darts out of my line of sight.

Fine, he can keep my license. I’m so outta here. I take two steps, but he blocks my exit. “Don’t think so.”

“Look, I haven’t done anything wrong.” He snorts. “Yet,” I add. “The office is not off-limits to minors, and I haven’t set foot in the bar or had a drop of alcohol.”

“That’s some fine argument for the court. You going to law school?”

I shake my head. “I’m a finance major. But I know my rights. You can’t keep me here.”

“Not legally, no.”

I exhale deeply. Good. That’s settled.  I try another step, but this time, instead of just blocking me, he steps into me and puts the distance between our bodies at zero inches. His hands rest heavily on my shoulders. I don’t think he’s pushing them down, they are just heavy because they are so big.

I tilt my head up. Way up. His expression hasn’t softened at all. He’s looking at me with some seriously fierce intensity. The scar, the tattoos, the eye patch, the strength all combine into this man who seems more primordial than not.

I concentrate on keeping my voice even. “I thought we just agreed you have no legal reason to keep me here.” Don’t panic.

“Yep.”

“Then please let me pass.”

“Baby, you’re not going anywhere.”