by Xavier Neal
“Meaning...”
“Meaning I have another job.”
“Doing...?”
“I'm...” His pause is accompanied with a glimmer of uncertainty. “I'm um...I'm a server.”
“Oh.” Adjusting the sheet, I nod. “That makes sense. So many musicians do that when they're starting out because of the flexible hours and stuff.”
Once his shirt is in place, he gives me another smile. “Call me.”
Slightly smitten at the way he didn't request, I playfully whisper, “Maybe.”
“You will,” he declares before dropping his mouth onto mine.
After a brief roll of our tongues, he pulls away, leaving me with a craving for him all over again.
Am I gonna start getting the itches without him? Or headaches? Don't make the joke about pussy aches right now!
I watch him slide on his shoes and walk out of my apartment. The way he casually leaves reminds me of what I imagine it would be like to have a boyfriend come and go.
It was just too natural. Too comfortable. Everything about this morning was too easy. The way he made breakfast out of magical eggs. The way he made my best friend laugh like they've known each other for a while. Shit, even the way he kissed me goodbye like it's something he's done for years. All of that was just...too real. Too white picket fence for me. I can't call him. I can't get caught up in a relationship. I won't. From my understanding, which first hand is beyond limited by choice, they take too much time. So many goddamn emotions. Relationships are too complicated and can wreck your entire life if you let them. Sex sprinting was good. It was perfect. Now it's over. The one night stand is all that will ever be between us. Why do you look unconvinced?
Arik
I'm fucked. Fucked may be putting it lightly. What? No. Not because I walked away from the best sex of my life, well, not just because I walked away from the best sex of life, but because French isn't a pleasant person when you do everything right let alone when you do something wrong. For instance if you're like an hour and half late to your scheduled rehearsal time. Like me. What? No. I don't want to discuss the first half of that sentence right now. Didn't I already tell you I'm late?
Strolling through the lobby, I greet Sebastian the front desk clerk. “Morning.”
“Almost afternoon, sir,” he says with an all knowing look.
Cheeky red headed bastard. Of course he knows how late I am. French runs a tight ship.
“It's not that late,” I assure as I push the elevator button.
“Very close to lunch time, sir,” Sebastian says hiding his urge to smile by busying himself with things on his desk.
This time I push the button harder since it didn't light up the first time. “Really? I'm not hungry like I usually am.”
Morning full of pussy and then eggs could be the reason why. You know which I want seconds of right now, don't you?
“It is your breadless sandwich day, sir,” he states professionally. “Shall I cancel your usual?”
We all have very specific routines and regimes. It's part of the staffs’ job to know them each. To help fulfill them. Chance wasn't exaggerating about the royalty part. We could have someone wipe our ass if we wanted. Why anyone willingly leaves this place is a goddamn mystery to me.
Glaring at the elevator that doesn't seem to be responding I sigh, “Nah. Go ahead and order it. I'll eat it later. Plus I'm sure Becca's probably hungry.”
“Very well, sir,” Sebastian says picking up the phone.
After several more tries with no result, I face him again. “She had you turn off the elevators.”
He covers the receiver. “Yes sir. You'll have to use the stairs.”
“Fuck,” I mutter and head that direction.
The Castle is not set up like you would imagine. Hell, most people have no idea there is even a strip club in this nice ass part of the city. French owns the entire building, which has two dominant décor colors of black and gold. The basement area is where the magic happens. It's the location of the illusive night life that caters to those with reputations much too delicate to ever be caught in such a place. On the ground level, the one with the glass door, which is only accessible with a key card, is the lobby aka home to Sebastian. On the same floor is her office, maintenance, and medical. You're probably wondering what the fuck does she need with a doctor on call right? Well twists, sprains, and breaks are a very real thing. Hence why we have a private message therapist come in every week too. French also has our blood tested for diseases once a month unannounced. She likes to have a pharmacy on hand for colds or allergies or what the fuck ever makes it hard for you to do your job whether that's insomnia or upset stomach. Boss has every angle covered inside this palace. The way everything is laid out, I'm not even sure if she ever leaves this fucking building.
Rushing up past the first floor, which is where the gym is located and the housing of the employees, I try to muster up my apology face.
She's going to want blood. Vials of the shit. Pints probably. I'm hoping I can use puppy dog eyes to soften the blow. Maybe work her down to just a cup? Spoonful?
The second floor is where the private V.I.P. Rooms are located.
And we're not talking about those shitty champagne rooms or whatever. You rent ours for no less than ten grand a night and any money made or agreement that's concluded on the inside is never mentioned to anyone besides it's occupants. Not my style, but we're all different. And we're all available to say no to that decision. French may be a controlling bitch about most things but she only wants willing participants. As evil as she seems, she's actually very protective of us. I'm trying to remind myself of that before she swallows me whole for being late.
Arriving on the third floor where rehearsal space is located, I cautiously open the door expecting to see her waiting for me. To the left is the employee lounge for all the dancers, which includes the chicks we use during practice, and to the right is wardrobe and the creative director's office.
Samantha Potts or as we all call her Little Sami, is like the little sister we all adore. Her main objective is to make the shows more than just a quick set, to deliver what we know no one else is delivering, and to do whatever it takes to make the visions we have for our performances come to life. It's not an easy job. Ever. She handles it well. And before you ask, no one is banging Sami. She's same sex oriented if you catch my drift.
I stroll inside the dance studio to see my partner Becca leaned against the wall with a bored expression. Quickly moving over to her, I apologize the second I'm close enough. “Bec, I'm sorry I-”
“Am apologizing to the wrong person,” French's voice snips over my shoulder.
God this woman needs to wear bells. She's like a damn cat. Where the fuck did she even come from?!
With a charming smile, I try, “French-”
“Hallway. Now.”
Figuring that was coming, I turn around, follow her out and back into the empty hallway.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Let me make something very fucking apparent since it seems that I'm in the middle of some sort of fucking mutiny in the making. I'm head bitch of this castle. You work for me. You do what I say, when I say, how I say and the only thing you should ever ask is 'ma'am may I have another'.”
Keep all sarcastic comments to yourself.
“I set expectations. You meet them. No exceptions.” French takes a step towards me and I feel a knot in my throat grow. “I made you. I will take great pleasure in breaking you if you fuck with me the wrong way again. Do we have an understanding?”
Without hesitating I nod. “Yes, French.”
“After practice see Sami about your next closing set.”
“Yes French.”
Her chestnut eyes twitch. “Go.”
I don't bother replying.
Nothing good would come from it.
Inside the rehearsal space, a break seems to be in motion, which will make it easier to pick up from where they left off.
Now obviously we don'
t all have the same routines. We don't even all have the same style, but rehearsal is broken up into two pieces. Skill sharpening and practice for your actual performance. Dancing itself is even on a rotation. We're on a rotating schedule that allows us each one giant bang every couple months or so. Other than that, keep your smaller sets as fresh as possible. Insipidity is not accepted.
Becca pulls her blonde hair up into a high pony tail. “You okay? You've never been late before.”
“I've been late before.”
“Um...I've been dancing with you for a year and you've never been late before.”
What is she like a time capsule?
Suddenly images of Ari spread out on the kitchen table plow through my memory, assuring me my first offense was worth it. “Just had trouble getting out of bed this morning.”
“That's so unlike you,” she giggles nervously. “You've never even had the sniffles. Are you sure everything is alright?”
Honestly? I don't even fucking know. One, albeit mind fucking fantastic, round of sex and I'm doing shit I don't do. I made her breakfast. I don't make fucking breakfast. I get made breakfast. Go ahead and add the fact I snuck out of her apartment to the closest grocery store to grab ingredients since her fridge seemed to only consist of nearly empty take out containers. I don't know why I fucking did it. It was like this little voice inside of me was screaming at me to do it, so I did. Oh. And I don't tell chicks to call me. They just do that naturally. For fucks sake look at me. You'd call no questions asked. But before I left I told her to do it. Told her. Like I fucking had to assure myself she was going to. Like I want her to call me whenever she can. Like this wasn't a fucking one off or two if there's time this week. I said that shit like Greg does to the hopeless cause of the season. Which brings us to the final nail in my 'what the fuck is wrong with me' coffin. I'm beyond late for practice today. I'm never late. Becca's right. I haven't had a cold symptom in years. Despite French's death threats, I enjoy dancing almost the same way I enjoy singing. It's freeing to get that lost in performing. Tell me. How is it possible to be this fucked up from one taste of a woman I know nothing about other than the simple fact I can't get enough of her moaning my name? Maybe I should see medical. After those thoughts running through my head last night and my off the shore behaviors today there's probably something wrong with me. Maybe I'm getting sick. Don't say that. Love sick isn't a real fucking thing and love is not a word in my vocab.
Ari
“This cake is...” Helen makes a gag noise rather than finishing the sentence. “You can't serve that at the event. It wouldn't even make good drunk food.”
Yeah, I know. She's not what you expect in a congress woman, but believe it or not she handles herself completely different when you put a camera in her face or in front of political figures who matter. Personality wise, she's got this whole Harvey Dent, Two Face style to her, which is exhausting. Looks on the other hand? She does have a mother of Augustus Gloop vibe to her. And yes. She typically likes to wear black and purple like some kind of fashion forward blue berry.
“Okay.” I send off one waiter and wave another over. “How about these for walking around appetizers?”
She lets out a giddy giggle. “Oooo bacon!” After devouring the entire thing in a single gulp, she nods profusely. “More of those. Lots more.”
Typing down another note on my tablet, I send away the waiter and call for the next one.
“What about the music?” she inquires impatiently. “Did you book the music yet?”
Reference to Arik has my body throbbing in soreness yet more than willing to try to go another round.
Greedy hooker.
“I did.” Thankful another server has arrived I ask, “What about this dessert?”
She sneers her nose without even trying a bite. “I want cake.”
“I understand but-”
“Cake, Ari. This doesn't look like cake.”
Calmly I state, “This is a tart.”
“I know what a tart is,” Helen grumps.
“It's often custom to offer more than one style of dessert at these types of events.”
“I only wanna offer cake.”
“Not everyone eats cake, Helen.”
“Then they don't eat.”
The urge to roll my eyes has me shutting them closed.
My entire job is like this. The worst part of it is at the end of the day she ends up undoing all her impulsive brat choices and going with mine because I'm the professional. Apparently when I decided to not be a wedding planner I didn't get away from the tantrums like I thought I would.
“Go away,” Helen snaps at the waiter who's holding the tart.
“Sorry,” I apologize in a whisper.
“The music,” she brings it up again. “Who did you pick?”
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Arik. As you suggested.”
“Fantastic.” She claps her hands together. “Isn't he just delicious?”
More than she'll ever know.
In an even tone, I reply, “He's very talented.”
“Love to see that talent with his ton-”
“Oh look!” I cut her off. “Steak, chicken or fish?”
The waiter politely leans the choices down for her to try each bite. “Chicken and fish.” She continues to chew and then sighs, “Or Steak and fish? Steak and chicken? I don't...I don't know! This is your job. You figure it out.”
Oh now it's my job? When I said I was going to make the menu choices, she insisted she drag me through the process. Now it's all up to me. If I didn't love the end result of all this bullshit, I'd pick a different profession.
“Will do,” I insist, clicking another box on my check list.
“Did you hear the Green's got engaged?”
Continuing to work, I hum, “No.”
In an unhappy tone she snips, “Some trite ring in the champagne glass thing. Anyway, rumor has it Tiffany wants you to host their engagement party and their wedding. Have they contacted you?”
I glance up. “No. They haven't.”
“Well if they do-”
“I'll turn them down. I'm not interested in weddings anymore.”
“Which is for the best.” Her lips curl into a smile. “Last thing you need is to ruin the reputation I helped put back together.”
I hate this woman. I really do.
Helen wipes her hands and checks her phone. “Damn. Time for that interview with that nosy reporter Lisa Loserman.”
“Litterman.”
“Whatever,” Helen mutters. “You can handle it from here?”
Putting on a professional smile, I nod. “Of course.”
“Good.” She stands and adjusts her dark purple jacket. “You missed your meeting with the invitation person. Wait. I thought we sent out invitations already?”
“We sent out save the dates. Official invites, which will get them entrance to the event are what still need to be chosen.”
Another displeased look appears. “Make sure you reschedule that as soon as possible.”
“It's on my list, ma'am.”
Lifting up her purse, she bluntly questions, “Is there a good reason you were late?”
The accusation has me cradling my tablet to my chest. “Just...hard to get out of bed this morning. My apologies.”
“Well tell 'hard to get out of bed' to try to wrap it up earlier next time. I'm all for getting the headboard rocked, but work has to come first. Be a little more professional.”
Instead of responding verbally, I nod.
Skip past the irony of her accusing me of being unprofessional with her word choice in that sentence and focus on the valid point she has. Work always comes first. Always should. That's the second reason I can't call Arik for another round. I can't be late again. It took a lot of work to get out of that fucking black balled status I had and I'll be damned if I let it slip over really good sex. Okay. Fine. Over the best sex I've probably ever had. Probably ever will have. Oh you wanna know the first reason
? You know, I don't really wanna get into that. Let's just say I'm one of those complicated children of divorce. That's all you really need to know right now.
Ari
It's been a very long week. Not just because Helen has been breathing her overly minted breath down the back of my neck, but because it's taken all the will power I have not to call or text Arik. That's right. I haven't talked to him. Not a word since he walked out my front door...Don't look at me like that. You know the phone works both ways.