by Xavier Neal
I tuck my card away and grab the box along with my coffee. “While I'm sure she's making something delicious-”
“Lasagna.”
Damn it. Her's is really good. She uses like four types of cheese.
“I can't.”
“Is this Rory's typical 'I can't because you refuse to make actual plans people?”
Plans go awry. I change my mind often. No definite plans means no hurt feelings which means I don't feel guilty for deciding last minute to do something I'll find more fun or because work got a little hectic.
“No, smart ass. I'm going with Mal to check out a new musician for her wedding. Well at least I told her I would most likely go with her when I got off this evening.”
Have to leave the wiggle room...
Dean's eyebrows dart down. “What happened to the last one?”
“He quit. Couldn't handle her.”
In a low grumble he gripes, “That's because she makes the wicked witch of the west look like a fucking saint.”
A small smile slides on my face. “Were you watching The Wizard of Oz with Little Bit?”
“She's got a damn obsession with the dog.”
“And the red shoes,” Megan giggles. “She had me go buy her a pair on Friday.”
Dean gives me an annoyed expression. “Guess how I spent my Saturday night...”
I try to hold my laughter in.
There's nothing he wouldn't do for his family, especially his adorable siblings. You know it's not just his girlfriend he's overprotective about. It's everyone he loves. Friends included. Being an only child it feels strange to have the big brother vibe anywhere around me. Especially knowing he's a few years younger. It's another one of those beautifully suffocating things. Thankfully, Dean knows when to drop the strings and when to pull them a little closer to the chest. At least when it comes to respecting me and my space.
Feeling my phone vibrate in my purse, I maneuver the best I can to pull it out and answer. “This is Rory.”
“Where's my muffin?” Brian Rose, the co-owner and another best friend, whines from the other end of the phone. “How am I supposed to have the conversation with the Robinson's on an empty stomach? You know I hate giving bad news without a sugar boost. No one likes to hear your 'sorry your son was mauled by a fucking bear while camping with dumbass friends', when they could hear 'sorry your son was tragically taken away by one of nature's cruel beasts'.”
I give my friends a wave and exit the bakery with everything securely in hand. “Headed your way now, princess.”
While the dead have all the time in the world to sit around, their living relatives don't. In fact if they're forced to wait they typically become very unpleasant, which is when Brian has to flag me in like some sort of Death Hostess with the Mostess. I don't enjoy swooping in. I much prefer the bodies on my table who don't have judgment rolling through their expressions anymore. The bodies most people view as a memo of their own mortality rather than a gentle reminder to keep living. To make the most out of every day. To do the things you really wanna do. To stop compromising your happiness because you think you're going to live to be 111. That's how I look at all the choices I make each day whether I'm tied up and fucking a stripper or having snow cones with Dean's little sister. Someday....when I end up on someone else's table at least I know before I got there, I had a helluva good time. That before I ended up in their fridge I lived my life to the fullest, doing things my way, and on my terms.
Hunter
“I'm not afraid!” Cass, my rehearsal partner, yells from our section of the studio.
I smirk. “Kinda sounds like you are.”
“It's not fear! It's physics you, moron!”
“What, are you a physics major now?”
“Yes!” She tosses her hands in the air. “Dance and physics! Double major! ”
My head tilts slightly impressed.
Look at her. Between her tiny pale frame and mousy voice the last thing I would've guessed is a major in something like physics. Elementary math maybe. Then there's the fact French only hires dance majors to assist in rehearsal, so again, I had no reason to assume she was anything more. Problem with assuming, there's typically backlash. What? What do you mean why do we have to rehearse? We're not your average strippers. People don't fly in from around the country to see the shit they could see in their hometowns. That'd be a waste of the tax dollars they're probably hoarding. And yes, people really do fly in from all around the country and occasionally the world. Gave an Australian woman a helluva lap dance 'bout a week ago.
“Stop making her yell bro,” Chance chuckles with his arms wrapped around Heather, his rehearsal partner. “It sounds like a mouse squeaking about cheese.”
Cass bites, dropping her hand on her hip. “Fuck you, C.”
Chance is like havin' a horny, childish, younger brother who also happens to be kind of a hippie. Between the dark black features but the charmin' smile he tends to be a magnet for trouble. Lucky for him those damn blue eyes typically get him out of the trouble he so easily loves to slip into. I will say, he's a great wing man 'til he gets too wasted. That's when we have to fuckin' flip a coin to see whose turn it is to babysit the bastard. The consanguinity between a handful of us here is no different than if we were blood related. We fight. We talk shit. We talk some more shit and then we laugh. We have a good ol' time together. I'm glad we have each other. Makes missin' my actual brother easier to deal with.
He rolls his body down and pushes Heather over to grip her own ankles. “I've been waiting for that offer-”
“Not an offer, jackass.”
“-but you know it's against policy.”
Don't date clients. Don't date the dancers. Don't date each other.
“Can we focus?” I sigh, picking my rope back up. “I'd like to get it right before the sun sets on this side of the Mississippi.”
Chance lifts and turns Heather around so they're sitting in the chair together. “What's wrong with the sun on the other side of the Mississippi?”
Cass rolls her eyes.
Instead of humoring his idiocy, I push the chair back her direction. “Sit.”
Like a stubborn calf, she grinds her heels into the ground.
You know what's funny? Normally I don't make so many country style references. I pride myself on how well I've learned to blend into the city life over the past four years. More so the last couple with me workin' here. Trust me. It ain't been easy. To this day, the accent is still the hardest thing to dial back. Slips out when I'm drunk, turned on, or down right exhausted. Harder to hide who you really are during those times. Ever since that little blonde dumplin' got me off, it's been heavier than ever, just like the sayin.
“Cass-”
“If I sit, then I'm gonna end up with a fucking broken tail bone.”
“Perks of the job,” Chance chortles.
“Where's your muzzle today?” I grouse at him.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Same place as my leash.”
“Stop fucking with H who has a fucking job to do,” Brock growls from the opposite end of the large studio.
Man's basically an irritated bull ready to charge at any wavin' cape, at any given time. Chance either doesn't grasp the full extent of that or doesn't care. Or both. He's so peace, love, and sex, I'm not so sure anger registers. The two of them couldn't be more opposite. From size to style.
Realizing this isn't going to end up the direction I want, I cave. “Fine. I'll put the lasso chair trick to bed for now. Can we at least practice the spin one more time?”
Cass nods, pushes the chair out of the way, and turns around.
With the beat playing in my head, I rhythmically make my way over and grind my body behind hers. She turns on the phony heated expression, moving her hips against mine while I drag the rope around her body, keeping her attention distracted while I tie it around her waist. Once it's secure, I seductively glide my frame around so we're face to face. The moment I'm there, I give it a hard yank,
so her tiny figure becomes flush with mine. She squeaks when our bodies crash, and instantly I push her backward, lift her leg up, and continue to rock my pelvis. Almost as quickly as I raised the limb, I drop it. In a gradual movement, I back away from her, using the rope to draw attention to my tank covered chest. My abs. My hips. When the object reaches my crotch I give it a good tug. This time when her body moves for mine, I give her a quick spin, and bend her over languidly. With her ass cemented against me, I slowly return to the grinding using the rope briefly as a gentle whip. Finally, I create space yet again, except this time I use the rope to continuously tug her along, back to my thrusting crotch. After a few more moments in this position, I drop down onto one hand, roll my hips upward, while the small rope tugging proceeds, the imagery of taking her from behind flawless.
What can I say? Favorite position on and off stage. Damn. Could you imagine had the blonde been that way for me? Probably would've came even harder.
The moment I'm back on my feet Cass says, “Be careful with the rope. It didn't feel tight enough this time.”
I nod at the warning.
Rope play is tricky. Always has been. For some it's too tight. For others not enough. And for the women who are fortunate enough to be tied up by me during my shows, it's a thin line between turned on and terrified.
“Wouldn't want a chick to slip.” She wiggles out of the hold. “Pretty sure French would have your nuts hung with your own rope.”
“Ou...” Chance groans as Heather giggles from behind her bottle of water.
With a playful shrug, I say, “I don't know. You ever had your nuts tugged just right during a blow job? It feels pretty fuckin' good.”
Chance looks mortified and instantly turns to Brock who's putting away his chair. “Do you hear this shit?”
“Can't take a good tug on your nuts during a fucking blow job then you're kinda a bitch,” Brock grunts.
Not saying try to rip the boys off ladies. But they don't call it a good rub and tug for nothin'.
Cass sighs, “Before this conversation goes too far south-”
“I have no problem going too far south,” Chance interrupts and waggles his tongue.
Right there with him. Any man who can't appreciate the gift of being able to suck on those juices is the true fucking moron.
She grabs her dance bag. “Were you dropped on your head as a kid or what?”
“It's not nice to talk about,” I whisper in a false sympathetic tone.
Cass grows a short smile. “Heather, mind giving me a ride back to campus?”
“Not a problem,” she replies, swiping up her own bag in the process.
“Neither of you are gonna shower before you go?” Chance whines. “How can I stumble into a porn situation if you don't do your part and create it?”
Please don't smile. It only encourages him.
Cass makes a disgusted sound while Heather teases, “Maybe next time, Chance...”
The two chicks link arms and exit the room leaving the two of us alone.
Without hesitation he turns to me and says, “Fucking her is going to be my graduation gift when she quits.”
“Better than the apple pie you baked for Beth when she split.”
“Fuck you bro'. I make a mean apple pie.”
“Does your secret ingredient have anything to do with the movie America Pie?”
Chance chuckles to himself.
Nope. Don't wanna know if he's done that to a pastry.
“Speaking of taking the plunge, how was the bachelorette party?”
I slide both hands into my gym shorts pockets. “Can't complain.”
Only complaint is the blonde I can't get out of my head, pullin' out ol' habits I've been keepin' hidden. Not gonna lie. It was hard to shower off when I left the hotel. I loved the way she smelled like strawberries and rain. It reminded me of home.
“Pass or nail?”
The term we use always brings a smirk to my lips. “Nail. Her and a bridesmaid.”
Could've done without the bride to be. No, no, she was hot. She just wasn't my type. Cheatin' on her husband to be included. Don't judge me for that either. She made her choice. I made mine....I'm not the one with someone waitin' at home expectin' me to keep my shit to myself. Jus' so you know, if I ever get married and that's a Texas sized if right now, she won't be allowed to have strippers. It'll be an immediate rule I don't budge on, given what I know happens at bachelorette parties. The party can have all the dick shaped candy and straws this God’s given green earth has to serve, but no fuckin' male strippers. Not even the gay ones who magically wanna see what it's like to be with a woman since they haven't since college. No. That's an old ass lie. Prince Q used to use it all the time. No. My make believe fiance and her friends will have to knit in a nursing home or paint at a studio run by catholic nuns. Somethin' where naked men can't just pop out, which believe me is a shorter list than you've probably got in mind. Don't worry. I won't see strippers for my bachelor party either. I'm not that hypocritical. What? Yeah. To say I've got trust issues is puttin' it mildly. But I dare you right now after knowin' what you witnessed earlier this weekend to blame me.
Chance nods as he stands. “Sounds like a good weekend.”
Definitely the best one nighter I've ever had. Is it wrong I've been debating on finding a way to make it more than a one time one-time thing?
“What about you?” I clear my throat in an attempt to put the ludicrous idea out of my head. “How'd you clean up here?”
He gives me a shrug. “Eh. The norm. Strings fall and money flows. Arik did come meet us at Cindy's on Saturday.”
“Oh yeah? How's he holding up?”
“Pretty fucking miserable.”
Arik wasn't the first prince to leave The Castle, the exclusive strip club we work for. He was just one we actually gave a fuck about. There are five of us who hang out outside this place. We typically meet up once a week outside of work. Some weeks it's basketball and hot wings while the others we meet to play Texas Hold 'Em at Chance's place. It would be a lie to call us the original princes because that's only true for Brock, but we are currently the longest standing members. Well. We were. Now we're down to four. Arik chose his singing career over his stripping one. That and of course some chick he swore it was worth giving it all up for. I wouldn't fuckin' know. Never met anyone who made me think twice about lovin' what I do here. I'll admit, the blonde from this weekend did make me hate the fact we're not allowed to exchange personal information during business hours, even if you're doing non-business activities. Not sure if she's even a member here. Hell, I hope she's not a member. Somethin' about her seein' anyone else in this place like she saw me ties my stomach in unwanted knots. Or maybe that's the grilled shrimp I ate for lunch.
“Monogamy is a crucial mistress, bro'.”
The two of us head towards the elevators, the giggles from more rehearsal dancers pouring out of the employee lounge echoing through the hall. “You just say that because it sucks to play poker without him.”
“It throws off the energy in the room.”
Under my breath I mumble, “You and your fuckin' energy....”
When the doors open, the two of us slip inside, and he pushes the button. “You hittin' the gym next?”
I shake my head. “Brock went to lift.”
“He's not that fucking scary.”
“He is when he's pissed off at French.”
“What'd she do now?”
“Fuck if I know.”
Only prince in the entire company willing to go head to head with the queen. Not sure if he's ballsy or jus' crazy.
The doors ding open, releasing him to the first floor. Before he's had a chance to stroll off the direction of the gym, I stop him and hit the button to hold the doors open. “Hey, if I needed some information looked up-”
“Google. Secret window tab.”
I let out a deep sigh. “About someone I don't know how to find....who in the building can do that?”
Chance folds his arms across his chest while his face morphs into deep thought.
Looks like he has an ass itch he can't scratch.
“Sebastian would be my guess. Pretty sure he used to be a spy.”
My eyebrows scrunch in disbelief.