Alex
Chase thought it would be funny to blindfold Devon and bring him to the raunchiest strip club the city had to offer. Then when we’re all pissed on watered down, overpriced alcohol, the black SUV-for-hire will cart us off to our actual destination downtown. So here we are, front and center at LipStik, watching as a woman my grandmother’s age, fumbles with the straps on her American flag bikini as she prepares to climb on top of the bar and give us what we came here for. Aside from the tubby old man on the other side of the counter, we are the only four people in the place. Intuition tells me the woman is his wife. Who the fuck puts their wife on a stripper stage? Not anyone in their right mind, surely. But these days, you never know, and I’m a lawyer, not a judge. So, to each his own.
The club is dark except for the dim red and orange track lighting that illuminates the makeshift stage in front of us. Tubby watches us carefully as he takes our drink order. I doubt we fit the description of his regular clientele and I’m sure he’s wondering what we’re doing here. The dancer makes her way across the narrow wooden bar top to the first of two poles, located one at each end. She’s thin, probably too thin, with shoulder length brown hair and layers of heavy blue eyeshadow painted across her eyelids. Her 4-inch heels glide across the bar as she rolls her hips to the sound of Warrant’s Cherry Pie. Chase brings his thumb and index finger to the corners of his mouth and lets out a loud whistle. Malone, another attorney from our firm, reaches behind Devon’s head and unties his blindfold. The moment Devon’s eyes reach tonight’s entertainment, he visibly swallows his laughter. I’m sure he’s thinking exactly what I am right about now, “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”
The guys continue with their cat calls, slipping Abraham Lincolns in the tiny string of her bikini as she bends over and shakes her money maker in our faces. I order another drink just as the top comes off, revealing a perfectly sculpted set of fake tits. I wonder if he wrote those off on his taxes? Chase throws his head back and knocks down another scotch, shouting an obnoxious, “Hell yeah, baby” in the direction of the dancer. I’m actually embarrassed for the poor woman. Does she have any idea these men are mocking her? Or is she so desperate for their money, she’ll take their degradation at whatever cost?
Malone scoots his barstool aside and stands, waving the dancer in his direction and Devon is still rendered speechless at the scene before him. He’s probably thinking this is a hell of a way to spend his last night as a single man. I know I would be. I’m about to lean over to Chase and tell him, “Job well done,” when a group of six women comes stumbling through the door. They’re all wearing sparkly tiaras and beauty queen sashes over superhero tee shirts. Apparently, this place has been marked as the “last stop before the knot” on some fucked up version of the alcoholic’s Yelp. At least it would seem that way to me. Captain America, otherwise known as “Bride’s main bitch” according to her sash, slides onto the stool next to me.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” she slurs, as the woman slips off her bikini bottoms to reveal a flesh colored thong that covers just enough to keep the vomit from coming all the way up my throat.
I knock back another sip of Dewar’s to aid in the task. It goes down easy but not nearly as smooth as Macallan. “Lucky you.” Fuck. I tilt the glass to peer in, causing the ice cubes to fall forward. I’m empty.
“Am I?”
The sound of her voice brings my attention from the tumbler to her fingers tracing the collar of my v-neck tee. For a moment, I forgot she was next to me. She stops at the bottom of the “V” and bites her bottom lip. Subtle. “Are you what?” I do my best to mask the disinterest in my tone.
The woman walks two fingers from my collar down my chest, stopping just above my abs. “Getting lucky,” she coos.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I take her hand in mine and place it gently on her own lap. “Depends on what you call lucky.” Her immediate pout tells me she isn’t happy with my reaction. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for, sweetheart.” I’m not capable of a one-night-stand. Since Heidi, my brain, heart, and cock all seem to be hard-wired together and one simply won’t function without the other two. Which is why I am completely fucked up over why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about nonfat latte since the minute I left the café. I haven’t responded that way to a woman in almost two years. And I don’t even know her name.
Behind me, the sounds of Chase yelling “Chug, chug, chug” to God only knows who drown out the music on the sound system. I move to turn to see who his latest victim is but the persistent redhead grabs my head, locking her newly manicured, hot pink nails in my curls. “I think you’re exactly what I’m looking for.” Before I get a chance to respond, her mouth is on mine, forcing my lips apart with her tongue. She gives my hair a tug and nips at my bottom lip as she pulls away and smiles like she’s just won an Oscar. She swipes a thumb across my mouth then yells over my shoulder to her friends. “Pay up, bitches. I win.”
What the fuck? A collective groan follows as she stands and slaps her palm against the bar. “Ten bucks each. That’s fifty, hookers.” She spots my obvious confusion and laughs. “Party game, babe. Challenge number three: kiss the hottest guy in the room.” She scans my friends, arches a brow at the other girls, then throws me a wink. “And I win.”
A game. Well, fuck me for always overthinking things. I can’t help but laugh at the simultaneous ego boost and wake-up call. So, maybe she didn’t want to fuck, but she did call me the hottest guy in the room. I’ll take that as a win. The song ends and American Bikini climbs off the bar. I wave her over with a nod of my head and slip her a twenty. Probably the biggest tip she’s seen all week.
“Hold on a goddamn minute,” Chase yells, slamming his Corona on the hard wood and splashing liquid everywhere. “How the fuck is he the hottest guy in the room?” Devon and Malone just shake their heads and finish off their drinks.
I walk over and place a firm hand on his shoulder. “Try not to trip on that ego on your way out the door,” I say, with a shrug. Then, we tip the bartender and head outside to our ride.
Emma
I press “start” on the dishwasher and grab my Nikes while I wait for Kylee to pick me up for yoga. Aside from my bubble baths, Thursday morning yoga is one of the few things I find myself looking forward to. Bastain is at work so it doesn’t take away from our time together, and Thursday is the day he meets with different lenders, so I’m not needed at the dealership for errands. The quiet hum echoing from the kitchen is the only sound as I tighten the laces on my light blue tennis shoes then lean back in the overstuffed chair. I rest my head against the feather-filled cushion and close my eyes. I can still see his gorgeous smile, as if he’s standing right in front of me. And I can just imagine my fingers wrapped up in those adorable curls. I jump at the memory, checking my surroundings as if I’d just been caught doing something I shouldn’t. It’s been three days since I met the coffee shop stranger and I can still smell him, clean, crisp, and entirely masculine. At night, I wake myself from dreams of him, praying I haven’t given anything away in my sleep. But every time I close my eyes he’s there, haunting me, making me think things I have no business thinking.
Gatsby prances across the room, the sound of his paws against the Spanish tile announcing his presence. “Hey, big guy,” I greet the miniature Yorkie as he hops up on the chair beside me, “Have a good nap?” He stretches his little body, rolling over, lifting his legs and inviting me to rub his belly. I smile and obey his request. Our moment is interrupted when the doorbell rings, sending him into an immediate yapping fit. I shake my head and let Kylee in. Gatsby sees her familiar face and quietly resumes his position on the chair. All bark and no bite, that one. He talks a big game, but he’s totally harmless. I named him after one of my favorite reads of all time. I’m a sucker for the twisted love stories. But, I also love big, romantic gestures, and that book is loaded with them. The pup was a gift from Bastain for my thirtieth birthday. I spent the day struggling with the fact that I had hit the dreaded milestone childless. I knew going into this Bastain didn’t want children, so I did my best not to let my disappointment show. But he caught on and surprised me. Gatsby crept his way into my heart the moment I saw him and we’ve been best buds since. He fills a void I fear will always be a part of me. He also reminds me of the kind, caring man I know Bastain can be, the man he once was. Before I destroyed him.
“Hey Gats,” Kylee says, giving his head a rub. She reminds me of one of those inspiration pictures you find on Pinterest then hang on your fridge to keep you from eating too much ice cream. Her body is perfectly toned for her petite frame and her ass is enough to stop traffic. Her long brown hair is piled on top of her head in a perfect bun, and she looks like she just stepped off a lululemon ad in her leggings and sports bra. I have a love/hate relationship with going to yoga class with this woman. “Ready, Em?”
I glance down at my loose-fitting tank and tight-fitting yoga pants, straighten my pony tail, and decide this is as good as it’s gonna get. I click the dial on the Scentsy and scan the living area one final time to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. “Always ready,” I reply with a grin and a wink. “Later, Gats. No parties.” The door clicks behind me, but I turn the knob to double-check. For the next hour and a half, it’s just me, the mat, and positive thoughts.
Kylee’s roommate, Santana, meets us at the studio. She lays her mat on the opposite side of me, leaving me sandwiched between her and Kylee. I have no business hanging out with women like this. I’m definitely the “ugly friend” in this relationship. Santana is supermodel tall with long legs. Her olive skin and jet-black hair accent her bright red, full lips and perfect white smile. Her look is every bit as exotic as her name and her “balls to the wall” personality keeps men lining up at her door.
“Alright, let’s go through that chaturanga again. Pull your weight forward, bend at the elbows. Lift your chest. Exhale. Downward facing dog.” I feel the burn in the back of my thighs and up my spine as the instructor reminds us of our next move. It only took one weekend of achy shoulders to teach me to pull my weight out of them and to my feet.
“Fucking hell, Emma, how are you so flexible?” Santana blurts out, sending an instant blush to my cheeks. Kylee tells me all the time I need to learn to take a compliment. The thing is, I don’t get them often, and when I do, I don’t feel I deserve them. “Bastain is one lucky guy.”
“Oh, come on,” I reply, feeling my skin heat at her insinuation. I roll my eyes and step forward, placing my feet between my hands, bringing my nose to my knees so I don’t have to face her. “We all know I’m the lucky one.” The taste of my words burns my tongue on their way out. Over the years, I’ve trained myself to speak nothing but kindness of the man I share a home with. I’d never disrespect him or call negative attention to our relationship. It’s always been instinctual, easy. But this time feels different. This time it bothers me that I don’t believe what I say. This time it’s as if I’m waiting for a velvety voice carrying the most delicious accent I’ve ever heard to appear from the shadows and correct me. So much for positive thoughts. I swallow the lump in my throat and shake the feeling, forcing myself back into character. “Besides… look who’s talking, Stretch Mclean.” I turn to face her as I inhale and stretch my right leg over my head.
Santana narrows her eyes at me before erupting in laughter. She stops long enough to speak. “Um, McClain is literally your last name, Ems.” Well, yeah. I suppose she’s got a point.