15: GAMING
I can’t go back to an empty condo after dropping Hannah off, so I do something I haven’t done in months. Not all disasters are accidents. Some I just invite.
The Leafs have a three-day break, so I take a chance that rightwing Dany Carle will answer his phone.
“Dude! Where ya been?”
I cringe and separate the phone from my ear at the voice exploding through the receiver. “Touring, then dealing with some shit. You in town?”
“Until Sunday, why?”
“Want to hit a club or something?”
“For sure. Me and some of the guys are on our way to Harem, then maybe Sultana. You in?”
“Absolutely. I’ll meet you there.”
“Hell yeah! Hey, Meyers. Alton’s joining us tonight.”
“Nice! Tell him he’s paying.”
Yep, exactly what I don’t need and exactly what I want.
∞∞∞
Strip clubs aren’t my typical scene, and I haven’t been to Harem in over a year. Seems irrational to pay women to remove their clothes when you have a line of volunteers. But tonight isn’t about my brain, so I shut off all avenues to its whining the moment the bouncer waves me in.
“Carle here yet?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Brought the whole team tonight.”
“Great, thanks.”
The vibe is different than I remember. Or maybe I’m just more forgiving tonight. This place is definitely more 1800’s burlesque club than seedy strip joint. I suppose that makes sense since no guest leaves with less than three zeros on their bill.
It’s not hard to find half of a professional hockey team. My grin is unavoidable when an entire section of the venue erupts at my arrival.
I’m greeted with a slew of punches, backslaps, and what the fuck mans. Dany clears a spot beside him.
I throw back the shot he shoves at me. “Fuck, yeah,” I say, slamming the glass down.
He laughs and signals for another round. “Glad you came out, man.”
“Thanks. Nice win last night.”
“Damn straight. Heard you played our house on your last tour.”
“We did. I made sure to jack off in your locker before the show.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Oh shit, Damiana is up. Check this out.”
I do. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised my mind chooses that moment to flood me with images of an ex-lawyer on my couch in baggy sweats. Hair twisted up and falling over itself, wry smirk blasting the idiots on my TV screen. She’s the type of woman who’d march into a strip club with me and conquer this table of testosterone. It kills me that she’s the only person who doesn’t see that.
I gladly accept another shot.
Damiana spots our table and tosses plenty of extra attention our way throughout the performance. Her tips tonight will buy her a decent used car. Dany seems to think he’ll be the one driving it. To be fair, history has taught him he’s often the one guy a stripper actually does want to take home.
“That ass, though,” he hums, smacking my arm.
“It’s her paycheck, dude.”
“Yeah, but… Shit, she’s coming over.”
Our table shrank as the guys were peeled off for more expensive investments. It leaves little competition for Dany, and based on the layout of our corner, that competition is basically me.
“Dany Carle,” she purrs, running a pink nail over his jaw. “I’ve missed you.”
Her gaze travels to me, perfect eyebrows arching to remind me she owns these tables and everyone in them.
“This is my friend, Wes,” Dany says. “Wes—”
“Damiana,” she interrupts, attention locking on me. “You a hockey player too, Wes?”
“No.”
“He’s a musician,” Dany adds.
“Really? A famous one?”
I grin in spite of myself. “Nah, not really. Just a few gigs here and there.”
“Fucking liar,” Dany smirks. “Is that your new game, Alton? False modesty?”
I make some lame crack about him being the “player” and feel the intensity change in Damiana’s stare.
“Hold on. Wes. Alton. Tracing Holland?”
I lock my gaze with hers in confirmation. Dark red lips curve into an enticing smile.
“Dany, how dare you not bring Wes by before now.”
Dany rolls his eyes. “He’s been on tour. Wait, why are we talking about this?”
She giggles and scoots past me to reach Dany. Yes, that move was for me as much as him when that perfect ass lands inches from my face.
“You ready for more?” she directs to my friend. Her hands slide up his arms and latch around his neck. He lets her tug him up from the booth and sends me a bold grin. Dany Carle is known for his appreciation of women and their admiration of him.
And suddenly, I’m alone. The few players left acknowledge me from the other side of the table, but I don’t know them well enough to have an interest in conversation. My gaze flickers back to the stage again.
I wonder about Hannah, how she’s settling into her parents’ care. It has to be hard for someone as independent as she is. I can’t imagine doing the same thing. Then again, my parents would never let me through the door with anything resembling a suitcase.
A gorgeous blonde hates that I’m alone and offers her companionship. I thank her and send her on her way. A few other offers don’t tempt me either, and finally I’m starting to regret this after all. I glance at my phone and actually consider checking up on Hannah. From a strip club, you idiot. I put my phone away and turn to shots instead. Most of the latest round has been neglected, and I horde several to my section of the table. Three? Four? I lose track because I’ve had at least that many already. The burn starts to feel really fucking good, and the best part? My brain finally does what it promised hours ago—absolutely nothing.
I have to piss and push myself up in an aggressive burst that leaves the room a wavy blur. Shit. Gotta love how you’re always more drunk standing than sitting. I use the table to settle the floor and finally start maneuvering toward the washrooms. I can’t tell if I’m handling my stagger well. I’m a practiced drinker, so I’m hoping my skill is hiding the fact that I’m wasted.
I’m confident I’m headed in the right direction until a tug on my jeans alters my course. Soon I’m moving down a dim hallway toward a private room.
“Wes Alton.” My name slips past too-full lips resting dangerously close to my neck. “I’ve been waiting for your turn.”
I blink to clear the image of Damiana’s dark hair and eager eyes.
“Where’s Dany?” I ask, scanning the room.
“Not here.”
I shake my head but soon find myself anchored to a couch by bare thighs. “Okay, I think—” She shushes me—actually shushes me!—with fingers on my lips. The other hand presses down my torso and discovers my natural reaction to any beautiful woman when I’m hammered. Her hand starts an intoxicating rhythm, and the spinning room adds streaks of bright sparks. I grab her wrist but can’t get my brain to decide between shoving it away or guiding it.
Walking cliché, Wes Alton, soothing his pain with alcohol and strippers. That was my sober brain.
She must sense her new advantage because suddenly rules are breaking right along with my will. Her teeth sink into my lip just hard enough to earn a groan when her grip slides past my open zipper. Expert hands tighten and release. Expert lips suck and invite.
“You want to let me call the shots? I’ll take care of you, baby.”
My abs contract at her tongue traveling over the dense muscle. It feels so damn good with the matching rhythm of pressure on my dick—and expensive.
You’re paying for sex now?
Dammit, it’s a practical decision.
I straighten, resting unsteady hands on her shoulders. “Thanks. You’re a beautiful girl,” I mutter. With a gentle push I separate her from my body. It takes more effort to remove my drunk ass from the couch.
Unaccustomed to rejection, she launches into a tirade instead of making another attempt. I’m grateful for her pride. I just need… to find a door. The walls swirl and climb at impossible angles. The smell of expensive perfumes grind my stomach into a pool of nausea. My pocket starts to buzz, and I almost lose my balance. I steady myself against the wall before pulling out my phone and squinting at the text. The sober half of my brain can’t interpret the words, but the drunk half starts inching to the door again at their command. Dany. Sultana. Where the hell am I? people want to know according to letters on my screen.
Damiana is rationalizing my bizarre rejection in a distant world behind me. According to her testimony, I’m the first drunk patron to haunt this establishment which is why I’m turning her down. I ignore her because she seems like an okay girl, and I don’t give a damn. I just want to go home. Plus, I still have to piss. I fumble with the lock, the handle, and finally lurch into the dark hallway. My legs start moving again, carrying me… away. Somewhere. Washroom. Three wrong turns later, I finally find sinks and stalls. And Dany.
“There you are! Dude, bus is leaving. Let’s go.”
I grunt. “Give me a sec.”
“Yeah, like, exactly a second.” His warning look slides to the door. “Guys are already loaded. Loaded.” He belts a laugh at his own pun.
“You’re an artist. I’ll be right out.”
I’m rinsing soap off my hands when the door swings open to expose a tree trunk of a man in a black t-shirt. He zeros in on me and crowds way too close for comfort.
“Need something?”
“Yeah. The money you owe Damiana for your private dance.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Go take care of your tab.”
“Okay, I don’t know what she told you but—”
“She didn’t have to tell me anything. I saw you go in with her. I saw you come out. Pay. Your. Tab.”
We confront each other in the alien washroom lighting. This isn’t the first time I’ve stared down a precipice of violence in a public restroom. Images of my clash with Luke Craven come barreling back. I was the asshole wearing black in that one. Then again, he was too when he had his hands all over Holland in a public place where rumors could have wrecked her.
“You want a broken nose?” he asks.
Kind of, but then, suddenly I don’t care. This whole night is about not giving a shit. Besides, it would piss Dany off if I make them wait any longer. My fist releases at my side. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
His stance shifts with an unsteady nod. I’m sure he didn’t expect this to go down without blood. I certainly didn’t and take some solace in the fact that at least I still look like a dude who wants to kick someone’s ass.
I have no interest in another encounter with Damiana, so I leave a stack of bills and an explanation with the hostess. The bouncer glowers at me from his perch beside the stage, and I toss over a taunting thumbs-up. Even new Wes can’t totally walk away from an encounter without a fuck-you. His thick chest puffs through a too-tight shirt but he doesn’t move toward me. I’m kind of disappointed, regretting the lack of bloodshed.
But the night is still young, and so far, a complete bust as I shove through the exit and climb into Dany’s chauffeured vehicle.
∞∞∞
Dany’s “bus” is actually a modified, totally obscene SUV that fights its way through the maze of lights in downtown Toronto. Bottles circle and slosh expensive liquid on expensive leather. Dany doesn’t care. I’m not even sure he notices. They’re singing the national anthem now, but my buzz has degraded from pleasure to pain. Nausea rises with each sway and bump of the vehicle. I just have to make it to Sultana where I can retreat to my new favorite hangout: toilet stalls. It would be nice to not give a shit without puking my guts out one of these days.
We ignore the line snaking from the club’s entrance and march toward the bouncer who waves us in. The group disperses on individual campaigns the second we’re assaulted by flashing lights and powerful thumping, which leaves me free for my own mission.
I feel much better after clearing my stomach of its contents, and rinse in the sink. After popping a mint, I’m a different man when I leave the washroom—upgraded, confident, and ready to finish what Damiana started. My body still hasn’t recovered from her seduction and is now on the hunt for relief.
I settle at the bar and order a drink beneath the watchful eyes of two barely legal fangirls. They can’t be more than twenty, but I’m hungry for inane drama. They oblige with chatter about sparkly shit on cellphone cases, university gossip I don’t understand about people I don’t know, and the shortest skirts in existence. The girls are so sorry about my band break-up. They can relate because their sorority… I throw back a couple more shots, and let them gush while they slurp a few rounds of the fruity crap cramming up my tab.
“There are private rooms in the back,” the curvy brunette informs me.
Her friend’s eyes widen in agreement. “So private,” she adds.
I know. I’ve spent many hours in those rooms and appreciate that these girls know the game. How many celebrity conquests have they lured into their web, how many free drinks have they collected? It’s going to save me a lot of time and post-party angst.
“You are so much hotter in person,” the brunette says once we’re settled in our new hangout. I wish I remembered her name. It had a poetic quality that would work nicely in a song. Daphne? Danica?
“What was your name again?” I murmur against the strawberry-scented flesh of her neck. She’s climbed on top of me, her fingers already working their way up my chest.
“God, you must work out all the time,” she says, ignoring the question. Her friend whines from above my head and reaches down to fight with my shirt. I push up to help free it and give the blonde access as well. Heat spreads through my blood at their combined efforts, pooling in my crotch. A groan leaks out as the brunette’s mouth moves along my hips to the button on my jeans. I don’t usually like threesomes, often more awkward in reality than they’re worth in fantasy, but right now, the only place I want to be is here. I want to forget that smartass, complex woman who can stop a guy’s heart with baggy sweatpants.
Omigods draw me back to the present. A chorus of oohing and ahhing over my body and every reaction it makes to their attention. So many dirty words meant to cement their legacy on my list of lays. And shit. I’m bored. Horny as hell, and fucking fed-up. I’ve come pretty far to back out now, but my efforts are definitely aimed more at completion than enrichment. Soon both are writhing over me, a maze of limbs and hair, grunts and moans. So many sounds they think a guy wants to hear, but there’s nothing these two sirens can do to stop me from glancing at my phone when it buzzes.
I stiffen at the name and leave a swell of bare female flesh protesting on the lounge.
Thought you should know, this “loving support” thing is torture. Mom still believes grilled cheese is an accepted form of therapy. Dad won’t stop apologizing for storing his fishing crap in my closet because obviously that’s why I’m depressed. This is your fault. SAVE ME!
I grin and tap out an “on my way.”
∞∞∞
Hannah is in my arms the second the cab drops me off, and we retreat to the Drake’s finished basement.
“I already miss you,” she mumbles into my chest.
“I miss you too,” I reply against my better judgement. She pulls back, eyes broadcasting everything I was afraid I’d see. Then she grimaces.
“You smell like a drunk women’s locker room.”
“I was at Sultana.”
“Alone?”
“I wasn’t there long.”
“Groupies?”
“A couple.”
“At the same time? You’re such a stud.”
Her head settles against me again, and I kiss her hair. “They were boring.”
“And naked, I bet.”
“Yeah, but not nearly as hot as you eating cereal on my couch.”
My next song is going to be an attempt at capturing the poetry of her laugh.
“Sure, whatever.”
“It’s true. They’ve got nothing on you, babe.”
“I should be pissed,” she mumbles.
“Are you?”
“A little.”
I brush her hair back for a better view of her eyes. Damn. No wonder they haunt me.
“If you were in the middle of something, why’d you come?” she whispers, those blue orbs sucking me into her universe.
“You asked.”
She breathes a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t get you out of my head. I tried.”
I grin. “You didn’t try very hard. It’s only been a few hours.”
“It was enough to know I was better with you.”
“I’m still here. I’ll be here whenever you want me.”
Her nails press into my back.
“Thank you. Sorry, I ruined your wild night.”
“My night’s just starting.”
∞∞∞
“Are you seriously planning on sitting here and watching TV with me for the rest of the evening?”
“Sex would be weird with your parents upstairs. They already hate me.”
Hannah swats my arm.
“I just thought you’d have better things to do.”
“Like?”
“Gym. Some groupies.”
“Ha.”
“Were they good?” By her tone, I’m not off the hook.
“Enthusiastic.”
She folds her arms and shifts her attention back to the screen.
“Han…”
“No, I get it. God forbid a rock star keeps his dick in his pants for two seconds.”
Shit.
“I hope you were safe,” she says, entirely unconcerned about my health. The quiet pain on her face—damn. There’s a look I’d do anything to avoid.
“We didn’t get that far.”
My phone buzzes. Who invented these annoying things anyway?
“Jacob again,” she says, reading the display.
“Yeah. They want to set up a meeting this week. Ultimatum Time.”
I feel her stare, her search for signs. I’m careful not to give any away. This is not her problem and won’t ever be as far as I’m concerned.
As if that’s ever worked on Hannah. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So what, either you sign the contract or the band is done?”
“Nah, not the band. Just my career.”
Those ocean irises are still digging into me as I wash away that sentence with a swig of beer.
“So that’s it then? End of story.”
There’s no critique in her tone so I can’t be annoyed.
“What about your own implosion?” I ask my adorable black kettle.
She takes the hint and grunts. “My situation is different.”
“How so?”
“I…” Her argument transfers into a slow smile. “Okay, yeah. Same thing. Are we strong, weak, or insane to throw everything away?”
“Probably all three.”
She turns my hand and traces the lines in my palm. I study her graceful fingers as they explore mine in a pattern that tries to make sense of a world her head can’t.
“I couldn’t do it anymore, Wes.” The words come out too quietly for the way they fill the room. “I couldn’t live someone else’s life. I had to blow it up.”
“And start over?”
“I have to figure out who I am and embrace it no matter what that looks like. I’ll let the pieces fall where they will, but it has to be real. That’s the prison. That’s the hopelessness: being the person you think you should be instead of the person you are. I’m a fraud.”
“You’re a viper.”
Her eyes glisten as they gaze up at me. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
I brush a light kiss on her forehead. “I do. We’ll figure the rest out.”
We’re interrupted by a shriek. The basement door swings open, footsteps pound on the stairs.
“Hannah? Are you down there? O.M.G., Holland just asked Shandor to play their January shows! He’s…”
Sylvie freezes on the landing.
“Wes.”
“Hey, Sylvie.”
“I…”
“I should go,” I say to Hannah. Her heart is broken for me. It’s the worst part of Sylvie’s news. “Have a great night.”