Who knew Brad could be so … so enticing? It made me smile, amazed at how a sexy song and an equally sexy routine could make me see him in a different light. I don’t know … he just seemed so much more confident, so natural, and so fucking delicious.
The beat kicked in and Brad quickly jumped from his push-up to his feet, poised on the board, arms out in a surfing position. It was smooth, slick and very cool, especially how he bounced during the chorus. I liked that bit. The bouncing. It flexed his quads and pronounced his arse. Yes … very nice!
The fast tap of a snare drum kicked in and Brad stepped off the surfboard, bouncing to the beat toward the front of the stage in a cocky I’m-the-shit kind of way. The lyrics about grinding in a club played, and Brad ground his hips into the air in small sharp bursts. One thing he did well was hit dance moves perfectly to the beat of the song. You could tell he felt the music. It wasn’t forced. He knew the song, knew each of the elements it contained, and knew how to work with them.
The chorus kicked in and Brad wrenched his tank top off and tossed it as he bounced about. He then rolled his abs and chest in waves of sexual filth, my eyes following the ripple of his body and wanting to get dirty from those motions. I swear to God, if I was a cartoon character my tongue would’ve rolled out of my mouth and hit the floor. Holy fuck did Brad know how to work this song.
Jay Z’s rap sequence sounded, which was when Brad jumped off the stage to enter the crowd, lip-syncing the words as he stopped by random women to give them a lap dance. He sauntered around the room, touching woman after woman in a gentlemanly manner, some a delicate glide down their hair and others a chin-tip and quick peck on the forehead.
Watching him approach the table I was seated at, I sat still, hoping to blend into the crowd. The problem was, I didn’t. Where the women around me had styled hair, bright lipstick, heavily coated lashes and provocative clothing, I had a ponytail, singlet top, jeans, and Chucks. I stood out like a sore thumb.
A girl across the table from me, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, squealed like a stuck pig when Brad stopped by her chair and dragged his finger down her cheek, neck and across her cleavage.
It made me laugh … a little too loud, which grabbed his attention.
He looked up.
I looked down.
He walked around the table.
I tried to crawl under it.
Okay, so I didn’t actually try to crawl under it. But I wanted to. Badly. I wanted to hide but, instead, I sat like a deer in headlights and mentally told my cheeks to remain anything but red. I told them that if they blushed I would slap them stupid next time I was alone.
They didn’t listen.
They flamed like a goddamn tomato.
Brad stopped, his legs touching my knees, a sinister grin creeping in at the corners of his mouth as he bent down and rested his hands on my thighs. His face was now level with mine. I stiffened and held my breath, my eyes wide and taking in the desire that was building in his.
His fingers flexed then spread my legs apart, and I’d like to say that what happened next was a blur … but it wasn’t. It was crystal clear. Brad kneeled on the floor in front of me and ran his hands up and down my legs. I whacked them, giving him a stern look, but I could tell he wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.
Shithead! Frustrating, annoying, turd! That was what he was. He knew he’d placed me in a predicament that tipped the scales in his favour. He knew this because, when at a revue performance, if you were to turn your nose up at one of the performers when they chose you to ‘play with them’, you’d be booed, frowned upon and shamed. You’d be burned at the stake. Well, maybe not in practical terms but, theoretically you’d be marked for an untimely death due to the unspoken consensus being that if you weren’t up for some fun, then you shouldn’t be there.
It wasn’t that I was opposed to having some fun. I just wasn’t happy about having it when working … and with Brad … and in front of all our colleagues.
Frantically, but subtly, I shook my head at him and let my eyes speak of the hell I would rain down upon him if he went any further with his tease. The son-of-a-bitch ignored me. Apparently, he was unsympathetic to my warning, opting to continue with the fondling of my legs. Goddamn it, Brad!
Realising I had to just sit there, endure it and play along, I buried my head in my hands and pretended I was embarrassed. It wasn’t a complete charade—I was … a little.
Brad pulled my hands away, swivelled my camera around to my back and draped my hands on his shoulders, forcing me to lean forward.
He then whispered into my ear, “Don’t pretend you aren’t enjoying this.”
I dug my nails into his skin and whispered back, “I’m going to enjoy kicking your arse after the show.”
Placing his hands firmly on my lower back, he slid me along the seat until I slammed into his stomach. He then hopped in one swift movement, from his knees to his feet in a squatted position. “I suggest you hang on,” he murmured.
What? Brad stood up, and I had no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist in the fear I would fall. I also squealed like a schoolgirl. “Brad! No! Put me down!”
He laughed.
It wasn’t funny.
It was far from fucking funny … in a funny kind of way.
“Don’t you dare take me on stage,” I growled in his ear, watching over his shoulder as the back of the room grew farther away. He’s so taking me on that stage. That son-of-a-bitch is taking me on that stage. Brad ‘Surfer’ Rowlands was about to sign his death warrant.
Rising with each step he took, I soon found myself blinded by a stage light and burying my head into his shoulder. I also clung to him for dear life. If I clung, I could not be put down … on that stage.
Genius.
Not so much.
“Let go of me, Cori,” he instructed, his tone a little grumpy.
I dug my nails in again and murmured “no”.
“If you don’t I will lay you on the stage and dry-fuck you in front of everyone in this room.”
I released my grip.
Instantly.
Fury bubbled in my stomach as Brad led me to a lone chair in the middle of the stage. I sat like a good little girl and glared tiny daggers at him, which was when he bent down, cupped my face and kissed me—his tongue ever so slightly dipping in to my mouth.
Pulling away, the shit-eating grin he wore was one of victory, as if he’d just conquered Mt Everest. Instead, what he’d conquered was a meeting with my slap, named ‘bitch’. The bastard was gonna cop it as soon as we were backstage.
Placing my head in my hands again, I pretended to hide safely behind my fingers while Brad danced around my chair. Taking comfort behind my fingers reminded me of when I was a child, and how I would hide in the middle of the room in the best spot possible—crouched into a ball with my hands on my face. No one could find me there. I was invisible. Now? Not so much. Now, I was extremely visible.
Brad peeled my hands from my cheeks and brought one to his lips, applying a kiss to my wrist while winking. He then spun to face the audience and reverse-straddled my lap, taking control of my hands once again and guiding them up and down his chest. Sweet mother of oily six-packs! Wow!
My fingers waved delightfully over slippery, warm skin, his damp shoulder sticking to my cheek as I was worked like a puppet. My face was turned toward the side of the stage, pressed against his back, when Matt and Josh, dressed in board shorts, came into view. Oh fuck! The show is ending with them all on stage.
Josh’s eyes flared to the extreme when he noticed it was me seated under Brad with my hands all over of him. Matt, too, caught on to the fact I was the selected puppet and turned to Josh, a look of dire warning on his face as they ascended the steps to the stage.
Oh my God it was all too much—the music, Brad on my lap and his hold of my hands, Josh’s fists clenching and releasing, and the screaming women banshees piercing my ears. I wanted off this stage and out
of this hotel. I wanted my apartment, my room and my bed. I wanted Tom to burn his motorbike and never again have me take on one of his jobs. I wanted my hand not to slide down Brad’s abs and into his shorts and onto his … Oh. My. Fucking. God!
Cock.
Warm.
Semi-hard.
Cockasaurus Rex.
It was under my fingers, so soft and smooth.
I yanked my hand out and rested it on his lap, balled into the tightest fist imaginable. What he’d just done had crossed the line regardless of whether I’d enjoyed it or not. Yeah, so it was a move they had women perform during their acts all the time, but he didn’t have to do that with me. He shouldn’t have. Yet he still chose to do it. And in front of Josh. Oh God!
The song faded and Brad stood, stepping forward and taking a bow with the rest of the guys. You could’ve cut the tension on that stage with a spoon. Brad turned around and held his hand out to me. I stared at it. Wanted to stab it. But I had no choice, I had to take it and stand up to accept my applause. For what, I did not understand. All I’d done was let myself be manipulated.
Staring out into the darkened room—because I couldn’t see shit past the blinding stage lights—I smiled meekly and faux curtsied before attempting to flee. Problem with that was that Brad would not let go of my hand. In order to flee, you have to be free. I wasn’t. I was once again being held hostage by a self-centred, egotistical man-whore.
Thankfully, the tug of my wrist, moments later, indicated we were heading backstage. Backstage was the last place I wanted to go. In mere seconds the fallout was not going to be pretty, and the churning of my stomach was a good indication of that.
Josh exited through the black curtains first, followed by Matt, Lucas and Noah. Before Brad and I followed, he paused with his hand on the velvet fabric and turned to face me, eyes friendly and … appreciative. I couldn’t speak. I was too angry. I felt used and abused.
“Cori, don’t hate me,” he said, letting go of the curtain and touching my cheek. “I shouldn’t have done that last part, but fuck, you were awesome. That was the best act I’ve ever done! I’m not going to apologise for that. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You were perfect.”
What? Standing there, dumbfounded, I couldn’t stop the small smile that spread across my face. He was just so happy and proud of himself. His vivid blue eyes were sparkling and it was just infectious. And truth be told, his act was incredible.
Gently moving his hand from my face, I sighed. “It was brilliant … until you crossed the line. If you ever make me touch you like that again, I’ll do more than touch, Brad—I’ll rip you to fucking shreds.” I gave his cheek a light peck and moved the curtain aside, stepping through only to be grabbed by strong arms, yanking me out of the doorway and holding me safely to the side.
It all happened so fast and scared the absolute hell out of me. My heart was pounding, eyes wide, hands grabbing at the arms securing me. And that’s when I realised what was happening. “Josh! No!” I screamed, as Brad stepped into the backstage area.
Josh was quick, slamming Brad into the wall, Brad not getting the chance to defend himself.
I fought with the arms wrapped tightly around my waist, turning back to find Lucas. “Let me go!”
“Not a chance in hell, Elmer. You’ll get hurt.”
I didn’t care. What was happening was all my fault. “Lucas. Please!”
“Don’t you dare let her go, Dimps,” Josh yelled.
I met his fierce stare. “Josh! Stop!”
“Shut the fuck up, sweetheart! You and I will have words after Brad talks to my fists.” He was rage incarnate and too strong to be held back by Matt alone. The problem was, there was no one else to help Matt. Noah was in the middle, trying to keep Brad from Josh, and Johnno was nowhere to be seen.
“This is stupid,” I cried. “Please, Josh, Brad … stop!”
Again, my pleas were ignored, so all I could do was stand there and watch as Josh and Brad went to blows while Matt and Noah got caught in the crossfire. Stupid men. Stupid, stupid men. Screw them. If they wanted to act like Neanderthals so be it. I never asked for this. This was all on them.
A punch here, a shove there, choice words a plenty. It was a heated flurry of muscled bodies until Johnno rounded the corner and broke it up. “What are you two stupid fuckers doing?” he asked, angrily. “I’m not risking my neck to stop the two of you breaking each other’s. So enough. Noah, take your dickhead brother to the change room. And you?” He pointed to Josh. “You’re coming with me.”
“Like fuck I am. I need to speak to Corinne.” Josh shrugged himself free from Matt and Johnno’s hold, staring the enormous, tattoo covered, bald security guard down.
“Corinne, you want to talk to this dipshit?” Johnno asked, not taking his eyes from Josh.
“Lucas, you can let me go now.” I huffed and wriggled from his grip before walking over to where the rest of them were standing, placing myself in between Brad and Josh. Brad had a busted lip and an eye that was fast turning purple. He needed ice. “Brad, you need to get ice on that, now. Go with Noah. I’ll find you in a minute.”
Noah reluctantly dragged Brad away, as I watched, helpless, and feeling as if a part of me had broken—I was the reason this was happening. I was the reason they were fighting.
Closing my eyes for the smallest of seconds, I opened them and breathed deeply, finding Matt. “I’m sorry,” I said, barely above a whisper. He touched my shoulder, indicating he didn’t blame me, but it didn’t matter. I was to blame. “You can leave him, guys,” I said to Matt and Johnno. “We need to sort this shit out once and for all.”
Johnno wandered off, muttering words that sounded like ‘stupid’ and ‘little’ and ‘wankers’, but Matt lingered for a second, staring at his feet before drilling Josh. “You fucking fix this, Bugs, you and Surfer. With or without Cori involved. This shit better be sorted by the time we perform the Gold Coast.”
Josh just huffed and wiped his lip, a drip of blood smearing across the back of his hand. It made me a little squeamish.
“Come on, Dimps.” Matt gestured for Lucas to follow him and they exited the area we were standing in, leaving both Josh and I in silence, staring at one another.
Seconds ticked by. You stubborn prick.
“Matt was right, you know?” I said, breaking the silence.
“’Bout what.”
“’Bout you being a confused motherfucker.”
“That right?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what it is you want. You jump about more than a grasshopper. One second you want a perky little groupie who will suck your cock all night long. No strings, just lips and a pussy. And the next you want me. Why? I don’t know. You never keep me long enough for me to find out why it is you want me and why it is you let me go.”
He slumped against the wall and slid down until his arse met the floor and his head fell into his hands. He looked utterly defeated, and it killed me. I went to take a step in his direction but paused when the two women he’d whispered to during his act tentatively rounded the corner. That’ll be fucking right. Time and time again I let the walls fall down around me, only to just stand there, in the rumble, while he takes aim with his cold heart and deceitful words … and fucking reminders of why I should let him go once and for all.
“And if that isn’t confusing enough, after you’ve broken me … you want them.”
He looked up, confused, so I pointed at the waiting women, women he’d whispered to and promised a night of three-way fucking. “He’s all yours, ladies.”
I then turned and left the room to go and find Brad.
Head-fuckery. It’s a legitimate term. It also explains, quite aptly, what Brad and Josh were doing to me—sending me spiralling into fuckery of the head with their constant bullshit. Granted, I’d played a part where Josh was concerned. But with Brad … no, he’d pulled me into his drama all on his own. And he was about to cop an earful with res
pect to that.
“He in there?” I asked, stopping in front of Johnno who was standing outside the change room.
He nodded.
“Can I go in?”
He nodded again and opened the door for me, his expression passive.
It pissed me off, so I paused in the doorframe and turned to face him, eyes narrowed. “You think this is my fault?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“So why the this-is-your-fault look?”
“I’m not doing that.”
Lies.
I scoffed and went to walk in when he stopped me. “Look, Cori, they’re big boys. They can look after themselves. And they will. This will blow over in a few days. Men don’t let shit like this linger for long, okay? Don’t get too involved. You’ll only end up getting hurt.”
Taking in his kind words, I gave him a thankful smile, sighed then nodded. “Thanks.”
He winked, but then continued with an afterthought. “Oh, and Brad’s a delicate little flower, so be gentle.”
Laughter wracked body and I glanced back at him, his face as stoic as it could be when you’re a six-foot-four, tattooed man of steel, trying not to laugh.
“Will do,” I said, shaking my head and entering the room.
As I rounded the corner, I found Brad packing the last of his things into his bag. Noah was leaning against the wall, flicking through his phone, appearing to be waiting for Brad. They both looked up when I walked in, but Brad very quickly diverted his gaze to his brother. “You go. I’ll catch up later. Don’t think I’ll go back on the bus.”
“Suit yourself. But if I were you, I’d be taking it easy tonight.” Noah picked up his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder, giving me a chin-tip on his way out. I nodded and smiled, letting Noah know that I would keep an eye on him. If I had my way, Brad would be accompanying me back to the motel where we could both sleep off the night and wake up fresh for tomorrow.
***
Brad did not accompany me back to the motel. Brad refused to accompany me back to the motel. Instead, Brad was set to have a big night out on the town, despite my pleas for him not to. Brad also avoided my ear lashing because he was already drowning in contrition, and me laying in to him would not have done any good. So instead, Brad and I became friends with Mr Walker … Mr Johnny Walker.
Revue Page 21