by Hazel Jacobs
“Wanna dance?” he shouts at her. The music is so loud that shouting is really the only way to hold a conversation. Yet another reason Harper doesn’t like clubs.
The woman nods eagerly, grabs Dash by the lapels, and drags him onto the floor.
Harper watches them go, enjoying the feeling of Slate’s hand on hers. Tommy makes a drinking motion with his hand and Slate shouts their drink order—light beer and soda water. He’s still on the light beer. Is he feeling sick? Harper would have thought that he might need a Red Bull after the night they just had. But maybe she’s just projecting.
Slate leans over to shout in her ear, “Betcha I find a date first,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at her.
So much for that little gauntlet just being a joke. He’s already scoping out a replacement for her. Harper does her best to look amused instead of mortified.
“Not a chance,” she shouts back. “You’re Slate No Last Name from Black Fucking Lilith. I’m not making conquest bets with you.”
“Fine, we’ll get you one first,” he says, putting his hand on the small of her back and steering her toward the bar.
Harper has a disturbing feeling as Slate parades her around, looking for a man who might like her. He passes a couple of skinny guys who look like they’d fit in at a board meeting for Google, three men in sparkling button-downs who clearly just came from a drag show, and a guy in hipster glasses pretending to sniff his wine. Each one of these men is appraised and dismissed, and then Slate is craning his neck to see across the room, with his hand still on her back. It takes her a while to understand what the feeling is. It’s the feeling she had when she was first walking through the agency, with Angelica’s hand tucked into the crook of her elbow.
The thought makes her shudder so violently that she actually slides out of Slate’s grip and takes a step away.
“You know what?” she questions, putting on the brightest smile that she can. She can do this. She can be the fun girl who lets her lover sleep with other people, and even have a good time herself, if that’s what he needs her to be. “I think you’re the problem.”
“Me?” he asks, cocking his head in an adorably confused way.
“You’re the most gorgeous creature in the room, which automatically makes you the worst wingman ever.”
He frowns, then grins in realization. “Oh yeah, you’re right,” he says. He turns back to the bar and stands on his toes, before pointing out Sersha and Tommy who are huddled together in a nearby table with four drinks. “Let’s get Sersha to help you out.”
“I don’t need help,” Harper says. Slate raises an eyebrow at her and she gives him a look. “Why, you think I do?”
“Not even a little bit,” Slate says cheerfully. He leans forward to kiss her on the temple. It’s an affectionate, ‘go-get-um’ kiss. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
And then he’s turning back to Sersha and Tommy, leaving Harper all by herself in the middle of the crowd.
So that’s it, Harper thinks. Slate’s back with his friends and Harper is out on a limb, wondering what to do with herself. She has zero interest in hooking up again tonight. At the agency, she might have been expected to entertain three or four clients a night, but now that she’s a personal trainer she’s going to stick to one person per day.
Slate is apparently into this ‘non-exclusive’ thing enough to help her pick out a date for the night. Harper realizes that, tonight, she’s going to have to go back into escort mode. She’s going to have to be Tiffany again, become the woman that some man needs her to be, to become what Slate is expecting her to be, so she can get through this. If she wants to keep something with Slate, then she needs to be Tiffany. Maybe not completely Tiffany. Just a little bit. But she can’t just stand in the middle of the club with the bass line beating at her rib cage and bubble juice getting in her hair.
“Just pick someone,” she mutters to herself as she turns to give the bar another hard look. It doesn’t have to be someone you’re attracted to. Just pick a guy and ask him for a dance.”
The Google guys look promising. She’s never liked the lean look, but they’re smiling a lot and holding beer bottles with an ease that tells her they haven’t been drinking much tonight. They’re also looking around the room with awe, unlike some of the other men at the bar, who either look bored or annoyed by all the bubbles and noise. The Google guys are clearly new to this environment. Like her. Which means that they’ll be less likely to turn her down if she asks one for a dance.
She walks up to the nearest one—a brunette with a nice smile—and taps his shoulder.
He turns. “Hi,” he says, smiling delightedly. His eyes flicker down to her clothes before looking back up to her eyes. Good start. “Am I in your way?” he asks, gesturing toward the bar behind him.
An even better start. “No,” Harper shouts back. “I was wondering if you want to dance?”
He looks taken aback, but the guys he’s with give him encouraging nods and take his beer. He straightens his shirt and nods quickly, as though worried that she might change her mind, before following Harper out onto the dancefloor.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Slate watching.
The music is pounding. Harper knows she’s going to get a nasty headache from this, she always does. Clubs just have a way of getting under her skin, leaving her feeling like she’s jet lagged for days afterward.
She can feel Slate’s eyes on her as she drags her conquest onto the dancefloor. The man looks well and truly out of place, even though he’s dressed like most of the other men in a simple button-down and jeans. It’s the way he holds himself. Tense, like he’s expecting to get kicked out of the place any minute now.
She leans up to shout into his ear, “Relax!”
“I’m trying,” he shouts back. He shrugs an apology at her and Harper takes his hands, leading him around so they’re swaying in time with the music.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
Now Harper’s really glad that she wore flats instead of some open-toed monstrosity. The guy’s shoes are probably a bit too big for him.
When Harper looks up again, she sees Slate on the floor. He’s not alone. He’s got a frickin’ model grinding on him, her ass right up on his crotch. At least, Harper assumes she’s a model. No woman can have flawless skin like that without it being a part of her job. Her blonde hair is curled to a tousled, Grecian goddess perfection, her skin is alabaster white, and her clothes are so well-suited to her figure that Harper guesses they were probably designed for her. She’s got this smirk on her face as she twists her hips into Slate. Harper watches in half-horrified fascination for a moment before she lifts her eyes to look at Slate properly.
He is staring directly at her.
He’s got his hands on the woman’s hips, he’s grinding back, but his eyes are locked on Harper. He twirls the woman around so they’re flushed chest-to-chest, manhandling her into position so they can grind together with his chin on her shoulder, but his gaze never leaves Harper’s.
It’s a challenge. Is he trying to see how far she’s willing to take this? Does he want to make sure that she’d actually meant what she said about them not being exclusive? It’s a test!
She thinks that it must be. Why else would he be so blatantly throwing that woman in her face? He must have decided that Harper needs to understand exactly what it means to be in a casual relationship with him.
Harper grabs the guy she’s dancing with by the hips and pulls him close, so there isn’t an inch of space between them.
“Woah!” she hears him say—delighted, just like before. That seems to be his default setting.
“There’s no need to be gentle,” Harper says to him.
She feels his hands cautiously wrap around her shoulders. Not big or strong enough to satisfy her, but it’s nice to feel the warmth of another human while her body grows colder and colder at the sight of Slate in the arms of another woman.
She se
es Slate’s eyes narrow at the new position she’s dancing in. He spins his own date around a little, before pulling her back in and practically thrusting into her hips. Harper swallows her anger at the sight.
That should be me, she thinks. But it’s not.
This is what it’s like to be in an open relationship with Slate. It’s watching him with other women, enjoying every minute. It’s feeling his eyes on you like he’s daring you to call him on it, daring you to be angry just so he can remind you that this is what you agreed to. It’s watching him touch someone else and knowing what it feels like to be in that position.
She meets his hardness with softness. While Slate is practically dry-humping that woman, Harper traces her hands slowly down her dance partner’s back, her eyes never leaving Slate’s. She watches the way he watches her, eyes ever narrowing as they follow her hands. When she reaches the edge of her dance partner’s pants, she gives his skinny—but not entirely unappealing—ass a squeeze. He yelps. She can feel him getting hard in his pants.
“You… ah, you never told me your name?” the guy says hesitantly into her ear.
“Tiffany,” Harper replies without hesitation.
“Nice to meet you, Tiffany,” the guy says. “I’m George.”
She thinks it’s sweet that he’s trying to have a normal conversation while her hands are on his ass. Eyes never leaving Slate’s, Harper takes her hands away from George’s ass and puts them in his hands, moving them slowly down her back so he can return the favor.
“Nice to meet you too, George.”
George gives a tentative squeeze and when she doesn’t slap him, settles into the position happily.
The music keeps building, the bass pounding in all of their ears and hearts and bodies. Harper moves slowly, knowing that any sudden movement will startle George, but also wanting to push Slate just a little bit harder. Because his eyes haven’t left hers either. And the more sensually she dances, the more aggressive he becomes with his dance partner.
He lifts the woman up, letting her wrap her legs around his hips in a mockery of the way that Harper had her legs only hours before. The woman is tossing her hair around, and for a moment she obscures Slate’s face entirely. Then her head is thrown over her shoulder again, and Harper gets the full view of her face practically glued to Slate’s.
He’s kissing her. With a fervor that should probably be kept off a public dance floor. It’s all tongue and mess and, when he’s sure that Harper is looking, Slate bites her lip almost viciously. Harper feels like the world has fallen out from under her.
She’s still dancing though. She hasn’t missed a beat. When Slate finally pulls away from his date and she latches herself onto his neck, he gives Harper a challenging look. He’s daring her again.
Harper finally tears her eyes away. So she’s expected to get with the kissing now. She’s expected to… do her job.
She’s Tiffany tonight and Tiffany is expected to kiss, and touch, and maybe even get her new dance partner off in the middle of the dancefloor. It would be so easy. He’s already hard. A few well-turned hips—maybe a discrete touch or two with her hand—and she’ll be one-up on Slate.
But when she pulls her eyes away from Slate and looks into George’s eyes, she realizes what she’s doing.
Jesus Christ, I didn’t leave Black Orchid just to fuck some poor guy on a dancefloor to make my not-boyfriend jealous?
Harper wants to slap herself. That’s too far. That’s way too far. Slate’s still watching her expectantly. But Harper leans over and presses a chaste kiss to George’s cheek.
She’s a personal trainer, now. Not a whore.
“Thanks for the dance,” she says to George.
George looks confused. “Oh! You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she says. “But you’re a good dancer. I had fun.”
“Can I… maybe get your number? Call you sometime?”
She smiles at him and shakes her head. “Have a great night.”
“Thanks, you too.”
He doesn’t look disappointed. He actually still has that delighted smile on his face, as though he’d known that their dance wouldn’t last and he was just happy to get what he got. Which is a wonderful position to take, as far as Harper is concerned.
She kisses his cheek one last time and leaves him there, walking past Slate on the dancefloor and determinedly keeping her eyes averted from his so she doesn’t have to see the look of triumph on his face. She walks back toward the bar, where Sersha and Tommy are waiting. They take one look at her, and Sersha grabs her coat.
“Bye, Love,” she says, giving Tommy a quick peck on the lips.
She grabs Harper’s jacket as well and holds out a hand to her. Gratefully, Harper takes it, allowing the other woman to lead her out of the club.
Harper explains everything to Sersha in the cab on the way back to the hotel. Sersha doesn’t say anything. She just holds Harper’s hand, her wild blonde hair falling into her face, an occasional noise of bemusement escaping her lips. When they arrive at the hotel and ride up the elevator to their suites, Harper’s voice is almost raw with talking so much.
“…but I couldn’t do it, Sersh. I stopped before becoming a whore, I don’t want to go back to feeling that way.”
“You shouldn’t have to, Love,” Sersha replies, rubbing Harper’s back with one hand as they exit the elevator.
They come out to find Mikayla and Logan making out like teenagers against the door to their room.
Pulling apart at the sound of the elevator dinging, the pair of them turn their kiss-swollen lips to Sersha and Harper. Logan looks a bit abashed, running his hand through his hair and ducking down so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with the two women, though his hand never leaves Mikayla’s waist. Mikayla discreetly wipes her mouth while she eyes Harper up and down.
“Something happened,” she says decisively. When she says it, Logan frowns at her before turning to give Harper a more thorough looking over.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Harper replies.
“Slate’s made an error in judgment,” Sersha says simply.
Mikayla and Logan share a look.
“Go on,” he says to Mikayla, kissing her on the nose. “We’ve got the rest of our lives.”
That’s an odd thing to say, but it makes Mikayla’s entire face light up like someone’s switched on a lamp behind her eyes. She kisses him on the cheek and squeezes his arm—the one with the colorful tattoo on it—before joining Harper and Sersha, shepherding them both into the suite that Sersha and Tommy share.
“Don’t want Slate coming home and interrupting,” she says, throwing one last look at Logan before closing the door.
Inside, the suite is nearly identical to the one Harper shares with Dash and Slate, except it appears to only have one bedroom. She doesn’t really have the time to look properly because as soon as the door is closed, Mikayla has Harper by the elbow and is drawing her over to the couch, while Sersha fusses with the kettle on the kitchen counter, making tea.
“Tell me,” Mikayla says.
She’s got an almost motherly air about her. Harper suddenly feels like she needs to tell Mikayla what happened because Mikayla is the only person in the world who can take all of the crap that has been going on in the last few hours and force it into a more organized, easy-to-understand structure. So Harper tells her. Once Sersha has a cup of fortifying tea in Harper’s hands, Harper doesn’t stop talking.
When she’s done explaining it all for the second time, Mikayla has a pinched look on her face. She shakes her head thoughtfully.
“I think you did the right thing,” she says. Harper hadn’t realized that she needed to hear that until the words were out. “You shouldn’t let this thing with Slate force you into doing something you’re not comfortable with.”
“Damn right,” Sersha says. She and Mikayla are sitting on either side of Harper, their thighs touching hers, with a mug of tea each.
Harper is sta
rting to realize how much she likes being surrounded. She never used to like it before she met these people. But now, the thought of being enveloped in Slate’s scent, or bracketed by these two women, make her feel almost at home. Safe and sound. It’s a nice feeling, but she’s starting to wonder if she shouldn’t be getting used to it. If this thing with Slate is going to end, then maybe she won’t be able to stay with them for much longer.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sersha says. “You’re thinking that since you’ve slept with Slate, you’re going to get fired or something.”
“How did you—”
“I don’t know… you’ve got the face, I guess. The ‘oh no, what have I done?’ face.”
Mikayla nods thoughtfully and sips her tea. “You’re not going to lose your job over this, Harper. I’ve seen you training the band. I know you’re a good instructor.”
“But…” Harper shakes her head to clear it, “…it’s going to be so awkward.”
“Only if you let it be,” Sersha says. “Besides… you should probably talk to Slate, don’t you think? Sit down and have a conversation with him?”
Mikayla nods vigorously. “A conversation needs to occur. If only so he can understand what went wrong here. Because this should have been easy.”
“Yeah!”
“Honestly, this is a colossal fuck-up even by Black Lilith standards,” Mikayla says, shaking her head.
But Harper isn’t so sure. “It was my idea, really. To not be exclusive. I thought that was what he wanted.”
Sersha and Mikayla frown over that for a second. “See, that’s the thing,” Sersha says. “Because I told you this before, I didn’t get the impression that casual was what he wanted with you. He hasn’t picked anyone up since the two of you met. I know this for a fact.”
Harper sighs. “Well, he’s picking someone up now. Literally. He picked her up off the ground before he kissed her.”
Sersha and Mikayla share a look over Harper’s shoulder. Harper feels a warm flood of emotion through her chest. She wants to tell them both how much it means to her that they’re trying to help. That even though they clearly adore Slate, they’re not taking his side over the former almost whore he’d hired as their personal trainer with no references or experience. They would have been well within their rights to brush her off and send her back to Manhattan to lick her wounds. But instead, they’re here with her, comforting her, offering her tea and sharing looks that tell her that she’s not alone in the blame here.