No words are spoken as I’m guided to center stage. The man in the tailored suit has stepped back while I’m standing under the huge spotlight. The women in the audience don’t change their enthusiasm even though I’m the last person they’re hoping to see on this stage. I peer out to the audience but can barely see anything from the light shining down on me like an epiphany. Or alien abduction. I’m kind of wishing for the alien abduction part. I know the general vicinity of my friends and hope they can read the look of horror on my face from where they’re sitting.
“Ladies, it is my understanding we have a little bit of a situation being . . . well dealt with tonight. You see, this lovely lady recently found out some bad news and her friends brought her here tonight to cheer her up.”
My head turns quickly toward the DJ at his statement. Holy shit they did this. I will kill them. We will never celebrate their fortieth birthdays because none of them will make it to twenty-five. Bitches.
“I think the only way to turn that scowl into a smile is to dedicate this next dance to her. What do you say ladies? Let me hear you.” The crowd erupts in ear-piercing hoots and hollers. I’m mortified but have no time to think of an escape from the stage, because the next thing I know, a chair is placed behind me and two large hands brace my shoulders, guiding me to sit. Shit.
Covering my face with my hands I shake my head in disbelief. This cannot be happening. Oh, but it is. I said I wanted dicks in my face and fucking Karma just handed me one on a silver platter. Or better yet in a pair of dress pants. Peering through my parted fingers, I watch as the men on the stage dance around me. I’m startled when fingers gently glide across my biceps. Before I can turn to the person touching me, a deep gravelly voice whispers in my ear, “Just relax. We won’t do anything crass.”
Unable to completely relax, I drop my hands to my lap and grip my jeans for something to do with my hands. The man behind me continues to lightly brush his fingers across my skin. Unlike my initial reaction, I find myself settling a little more and relaxing a fraction. While the man behind me remains close, the other two dancers work the stage and the audience. Their moves are perfectly choreographed and sitting here, this close to them, I can really appreciate how hard they work. It’s fucking hot as hell under this light, and they must be melting with how much they’re moving. A few of the women rush the stage to toss not only money but their panties. Gross.
As the song begins to transition to another, I turn my gaze from the audience to the dancers. The man who was calming me has joined the other two. He remains clothed while the others are down to almost nothing. I’ve settled back onto the chair a little more and watch the dancers when the third dancer stops in front of me. His ass is eye level with me and for the first time since I was placed on this stage, I’m fine with where I sit. Hot damn. Now, he spends a lot of time on squats.
I no sooner have that thought than he turns and faces me. His white dress shirt is pulled from the waistband of his pants as he begins unbuttoning it. Sweet peppers, he’s ripped. Six packs be damned, this dude is sporting no less than a ten pack. Hell, let’s go for a solid dozen. If I thought it was hot before, I now feel like I’m walking on the surface of the sun, it’s so hot. Hottie with the dozen pack is swaying his hips as he begins lowering his shirt off his back. As he comes eye level, I catch his eyes.
Eyes I know.
Eyes I stared into for two semesters my sophomore year of high school.
The eyes I dreamed of every night, wishing they’d look at me the same way.
“Lucas,” I whisper.
A wink and a wicked smile that wasn’t there when we were fifteen are the only response before he says, “Hey Whit.”
Lucas DeCosta.
Holy shit. The stripper currently removing his pants is my teenage fantasy come to life. Only, when I was crushing on Lucas DeCosta he wasn’t a ripped dancer with moves that may have my heart racing and my libido standing, screaming for attention. No, he was a sweet boy who understood biology more than I did. He was patient and kind to me every day. He handled the lab when we had to cut open a baby pig, and he let me ask him question after question before every quiz.
Lucas was the best lab partner I ever had. He made me smile, and he was my friend. I wished he was more. I wanted him to ask me to formal. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and be my first real kiss. I wished for him to hold my hand and call me his girl.
He never did. Instead, he befriended a group of guys who teased me relentlessly and he didn’t stop them. I never heard him say anything negative, but the spell of my one-sided crush was broken. We remained lab partners and acquaintances throughout high school but never anything more. On the day we accepted our diplomas, he approached me. His attempt at an apology was sincere. Well, except the part where he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.
If someone were to ask me about “the one who got away,” I’d say that was Lucas DeCosta. The man who stands before me: tall, tan, muscular, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his dark brown eyes focused only on me. When his hands settle on my thighs, I squeeze them together. Not because I’m turned on . . . okay, because I’m a little turned on, but also because the moment he sets his hands on me, I feel it. I feel it to my core.
Zing.
Zang.
Electricity.
It.
“I am never speaking to you bitches again.”
All three of my friends laugh as I throw myself into my seat at our table. I cannot believe they did that to me. That’s not true. I absolutely can believe they did. Why am I friends with them again?
“Suck it up, buttercup. Here, have a drink,” Jessi says, sliding a cocktail my way. “I just got you a freshy since your last was split between the three of us while you were getting your sexy on with Mr. Hot Ass up there.”
Rolling my eyes, I accept the drink because—well, it’s the least they can do. I look to the stage while I sip on the cold libation. The stage where a very sexy solo is taking place. Holy shit, are all of these guys masters in simulating sex? Of course, they are.
“Jessica Louise,” I say after setting the now empty glass on the table. Jessi turns to face me with a huge smile on her face. “Do not smile at me. Did you know he worked here?”
Shrugging, she sits back in her chair. The smug look on her face tells me she did. “I had heard rumors but didn’t believe them. That is, until I saw him during the first act. When you went to the bathroom, I asked the lady at the entrance if the dancer’s name was Lucas. She confirmed it was and the rest . . . well you know how the rest turned out. You’re welcome.”
“I would love to say I can’t believe you did this, but that would be a lie.”
Jen and Courtney start shooting off questions to me, and before I can answer even one, they stop talking, and a mischievous grin appears on Jessi’s face as she looks behind me. I would like to pretend standing behind me is one of the Ryans—Gosling or Reynolds—but I’m not exactly winning at the luck game these days. No, by the look on Jessi’s face, it can only be one person standing behind me. My heart begins to race and the only sound I hear in this loud room is that of the heartbeat in my ears.
“I’m going to the restroom. Girls, how about you?” Jessi asks as she rises from her seat. I look at her, begging with my eyes for her to stay. I don’t want to sit here alone. I don’t want to talk to Lucas. I’m mortified.
Wait. Why am I mortified?
While I’m questioning my mortification, the man in question takes the seat next to me. He’s much bigger here in front of me. Everything seems bigger. His hands, his arms, his thighs. Shit, his thighs look like they could crack a melon. Heat flushes my skin, and I look away quickly, but curiosity has the best of me. Turning to face him, I take in his current attire. Once again in a pair of dress slacks, this time he’s wearing a gray button-down shirt instead of the crisp white shirt he had on while on stage. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He’s leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and a smile greets me when I reach his face.
His perfect face.
Lucas has always been good-looking, but this grown-up version of him is everything and more. I allow myself seconds to assess how handsome he is. Bright brown eyes, long lashes, and kissable lips. The light scruff on his jaw begs to be touched, and I have to slide my hand under my thigh to keep from doing that. A small smile, more of a smirk as he watches my gaze flit around his face, appears. Sweet peppers, he’s gorgeous.
“Whitney Wheeler.” His voice startles me, it’s so deep. Long gone is the sweet boy who used to chew on the end of a pencil in deep thought. A man sits before me, and I’d be lying if I said his voice didn’t flip a switch in me. With that voice, he could narrate romance novels. I’d buy them.
“Lucas DeCosta.”
Laughing, he sits back crossing his arms over his chest before saying, “You look fucking amazing.” Blushing I swat his leg in response. “I’m serious. Wow, how long has it been? Five, six years? No, seven. Seven since graduation.”
“You’re a stripper.” Duh, Whit. Way to speak the obvious.
“Yeah well, med school ain’t cheap.”
“Med school? You’re going to be a doctor?”
Maybe he’s going to be a gynecologist. No Whitney. You’re engaged. Get your mind out of the gutter.
“That’s the plan. Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re here. You’re not wearing your glasses.”
“Contacts,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. Why am I waggling my eyebrows? Because contacts are sexy? No, I’m not trying to be sexy. Someone needs to get me out of here. Before I can look for one of my friends to save me, he continues.
“I can’t believe I rubbed my dick in front of your face. That’s not exactly what I used to fantasi . . . anyway, so how are you?”
Did he say he had fantasies? About me?
“Oh, ya know. Living the dream.” My sarcasm is on point. “I guess by the intro, you know I’ve had kind of a shitty week.”
He laughs, breaking the awkward vibe going, and we spend the next few minutes catching up. The girls return to the table, and Jen flops down in the chair to my left. “Hey sexy. Nice moves up there. Sorry to interrupt but, Whit, are you ready to get out of here? I need to get out of these Spanx. I’m sweating like a whore in church and am three minutes from stripping myself.”
“Oh yeah, totally. Lucas, it was great to see you,” I say, standing from my seat.
Lucas rises and smiles before saying, “It was great seeing you. I’d love to catch up some more. Are you still local?”
“Why don’t you come back to the hotel with us? And if you wanted to bring some friends, we wouldn’t complain.”
Lucas and I both turn to look at Jessi, who offers us a sly smile before Lucas says, “Jessi, you didn’t tell me Whitney’s private dance was a surprise.” I will kill her.
Shrugging, Jessi grabs her clutch from the table and smiles before responding, “If she knew she would have bolted. This was much more effective. But really, come back to our room. It’s cool.”
Lucas looks my direction as if to ask permission, but my glare is focused on one person, my best friend who is teetering on losing her title. “I’ll see what I can do,” he responds with a chuckle. Jessi winks at Lucas and says she’s already called for a car to pick us up. The girls start toward the doors when I turn my attention back to Lucas.
“I’m sure you have better plans than to come back to our hotel and watch us drink more while dressed in our PJs.”
“Oh pajamas. Now you’re talking. Will there also be a pillow fight?” Rolling my eyes, he simply laughs and asks, “Should I ask a few of the guys?”
“Oh yes, please. Those three would die if you actually brought some of the dancers with you. Serves them right after what they did to me.”
“Consider it done. What hotel?”
I give Lucas our hotel information and smile as I turn to join the girls outside. What the hell just happened?
“What happened was your biggest teenage fantasy came to life, and if you’re lucky there will be actual coming happening later tonight,” Jessi says, looping her hand through my arm while we wait for the car.
“I can’t believe little Lucas DeCosta is the headliner of a male strip club.”
“Yeah well, I can confirm there’s nothing little about him,” I reply with a long audible sigh that makes Jessi giggle as she rests her head on my shoulder. I reciprocate by resting mine on top of her head.
Nothing little at all.