Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  A familiar twinkle in his warm, dark eyes almost makes me lose my balance again. My mouth can’t form words as Nick glances down at me.

  “Howdy?” is all he’s able to say as he shrugs, a shit-eating grin sliding across those lips, and a new song starts. The strippers wind the ropes around each of us, and I’m dizzy from it all.

  Nick—

  He spins me.

  —is here.

  Spin.

  Two spins this time. Alternating ways.

  “You know, you’re just asking for girls to throw up on you,” I shout. And I hear his deep rumble of a laugh between beats.

  “Is that a warning?” he asks and spins me again. “Don’t worry—it’s almost over.”

  “So you’re—”

  But then he crushes me to his chest, warmth flooding me like I just chugged a fifth of, well, something, and he sets me down on a stool. I steal glimpses across the stage, at Quinn and Valerie now, who are getting the same treatment—and whap! Off comes his shirt, the wind from the impact blowing my side bangs off my forehead in its wake.

  Five strippers—the three of them with us and two more filling the space in between us all on this huge stage—engage in intricate choreography, the likes of which Usher and Justin Timberlake could only aspire to. They’re boy-band precise but half-naked so it’s way better. Or worse? Break-dance twirls—holding themselves up with one arm—weaving in and out of the three of us “little darlins” in a rush of testosterone and AXE Body Spray.

  Somehow—osmosis?—they rip their jeans out from beneath their fringed chaps.

  “Did you just pull your nads off?” I shout at Nick, unable to contain myself, hands glued over my mouth in laughter.

  He just gives me one of his looks and shakes his head as he throws the discarded article of clothing at me and dances to the edge of the stage.

  Panic prickles in my chest as we get to the finale of the dance (I’ve seen Magic Mike—what the hell are they going to make us do?), and the fear must be evident on my face because, as the strippers unwrap the lassos and outfit us in leather vests and cowgirl hats, and one has Quinn strapping on a saddle, Nick gives me a reassuring little squeeze.

  “How strong are your thighs?”

  “What?” I shriek.

  He laughs and lifts me up before I can register what’s happening.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  “Come again?”

  “Just do it.” He’s got rough hands on me, positioning my legs, I guess how he just told me they should be, but all I can focus on is gripping them around his middle for dear life. He’s walking me forward to the beat—I’m going backward—toward the edge of the stage, his strong hands at my back, gentle at my neck, as he dips me out over the crowd. A sea of horny bitches, who are losing their minds with jealousy, and me just trying not to slip down his now-slick-with-sweat middle.

  He yanks me back up with one arm, and I’m flush to his chest. I feel his heart pound.

  “You’re stronger than I thought,” he purrs, and he dips me again before I can respond.

  When he yanks me back up, I can see the other cowboys, clad only in shiny, teeny speedos, with my friends.

  Is that all Nick has on now too? I’m mortified to even look.

  I don’t.

  One is doing The Worm over Valerie, who is lying on her back on the stage. Each time his body comes down, it’s poetic. It’s like stripper ballet. He lands so calculated, so gentle, just an inch from ever touching her. Valerie’s body quakes every time he comes down, but she doesn’t look afraid or horrified; the glow on her face looks like exhilaration. Quinn is riding her stripper as he bucks like a bronco, her legs fastened tight on either side of him, the saddle the only thing separating her from his back. It’s all so over the top and hilarious, and each time Nick dips me over the crowd, I lose myself in laughter.

  When we hit our final poses, silver confetti rains down on us, applause roaring through the club. I feel like Madonna, Janet Jackson, and Lady fricking Gaga rolled into one, given the wildness of the crowd and all the half-naked dudery.

  And then the lights cut out, and I’m blind. I’m being ushered backstage, and I don’t realize until we’ve made it to the green room (is that what they call it in strip clubs?) that Nick’s got me by the hand and he’s leading me to safety.

  * * *

  Quinn and I sink deep into a cliché crushed-velvet couch adorning the dressing area and sip Vodka Red Bulls while we await Valerie to finish redeeming her prize.

  “Are we sure she’s all right?” I ask Leo, Quinn’s handler on the stage.

  He and one of the other guys share a knowing grin.

  “I’m sure Sylvester is taking real good care of her. Don’t you worry.” He salutes me.

  “’Cause, you know, it’s my job to get these girls home in one piece,” I say, rearranging my legs underneath me.

  Leo leans way in to Quinn. “Do you have any complaints, darlin’?”

  Giggles bubble out of her still-flawlessly lipsticked mouth. “Not a one,” she says. “Good for her for winning a private dance. That mechanical bull was no joke!” She sips her drink. “I’m sure she’s fine. I feel like we’re all friends here.” She winks at Nick.

  “Yeah, so do I. Funny…” I throw a glance at him too.

  He’s now in basketball shorts and a tee. They keep him a lot more covered up than the after-show wear of his cohorts, but I can’t unsee what I saw on the stage.

  And I keep seeing it, feeling his hands on me, as I sit here.

  I try not to meet his eyes because I feel like he can tell. I feel naked in his stare. I feel—

  “So now you know my little secret,” he says. “You gonna make trouble for me at school?”

  I guess his, well, nakedness makes him feel exposed now.

  “Of course not,” Quinn answers and swigs the last of her VRB through the stirrer.

  “I can explain—”

  “No explanation necessary,” I say. “We know—you’re putting yourself through medical school.” I snort, and everyone laughs.

  But, for a second, I get a wave where my stomach drops out from under me. Was that bitchy to say?

  Nick chuckles in response and I decide it’s probably safer to retreat into my text correspondence with James, who, it turns out, wants to meet up when we get back to town—yee! So I make like Taylor Swift and shake it off.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  We’re just about packed and loading up on room service waffles when Quinn and I realize something’s wrong with Valerie. She was quiet last night and she’s been quiet all morning, which is like her sometimes, but I notice she won’t meet my gaze as I offer her more orange juice, more butter, more banter.

  Quinn just shrugs in my direction and offers up a toast with her juice. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

  I’m feeling better than I thought I would the night after All That—thank God for late-night Taco Bell and Advil before bed—until Valerie jumps up from the table and races for the bathroom.

  “Are you feeling sick, hon?” I call to her, flashing my teeth in a cringe to Quinn.

  We hear her retch. We both grimace.

  And then, a moment later: “I’ll be fine,” she croaks.

  “If you want, I can call for a late checkout, to give you more time. Otherwise, we need to be heading out pretty soon.”

  “I said I’ll be fine,” she snaps.

  I toss up my hands and reach for more bacon. “Okay.”

  As we descend the sprawling staircase in the main lobby and make our way to the bellhop stand, wrought-iron bannisters cool to the touch, Valerie’s perked up a tad: She’s upright, she’s only a faint shade of green—sea-foam green, if you will—and she’s got a to-go coffee in hand.

  “It was fun, but I’m excited to get home,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself and inhaling the rich steam coming from her cup of joe.

  But when we get outside, a slew of cop cars parked wherev
er they damn well please around the perimeter stops us cold.

  “What’s going on?” Quinn asks Armando, who’s wringing his hands over by his post, sweat dripping from his prominent brow.

  “We were trying to keep this quiet, but with the police—everywhere—I guess all our guests are going to know.” He lowers his voice and beckons us closer with a wave. “A number of cars were stolen from our lot last night.”

  Quinn drops her bag. Blinks. “How many?”

  She reaches for her suitcase in what looks like an attempt to gain some purchase in preparation for Armando’s reply.

  “We are still trying to get a fix on the actual number and pin down guests who’ve been affected—”

  “What about my car? The white Porsche Cayenne?”

  But before she even gets the words out, we all know the answer.

  He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, miss, but it appears as though yours is one of the vehicles missing.”

  “Why are we just now being notified?” I blurt.

  “I can answer that.” An officer, clad in navy blue, steps forward. “Because the car isn’t registered to you. Are you a Miss…”—he glances at his notes—“Quinn Morales?”

  “Oh my God,” Quinn answers and she dissolves onto the pavement.

  I sink with her, but then I realize she hasn’t passed out; she’s just horrified.

  “Your fiancé, a Mister Phillip Hayes? He’s on his way here since the vehicle is registered to him. Have you not spoken with him today? He should be here shortly.”

  “Well, no, I—I—” Quinn begins rummaging through her bag and produces her phone.

  “I guess I can see why.” The officer smirks at the smashed screen.

  “How did this—” Quinn devolves into almost-hyperventilation, a mess of tears and erratic breaths. Val and I hold her from either side, there on the pavement, until Phil pulls up in his Lincoln, his nostrils flared.

  “You mind finding your own way home, ladies? I think Quinn and I will probably be here awhile sorting this all out.” Phil fixes his scowl on the officer and he doesn’t look either one of us in the face as he lets Quinn almost knock the wind out of him with her embrace.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Valerie and I snag our luggage from the cart and make ourselves scarce over by the café.

  “Can you believe that jerk?” I dig out my own phone, which seems to be in perfect working order. “No ‘Are you guys all right,’ ‘How did this happen,’ nothing. Just huffs and puffs and swears us off so he can find his precious car. Jeez.”

  “What are we going to do?” Val says, ghostlike, as though she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  “How’s your phone—can you call Mike?”

  Her pallor flashes green again. “No. I’m not calling him.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down. What’s with you today?”

  She grips me by the wrist and pulls me to a more secluded area. We stand there in silence for what feels like forever, her eyes bloodshot and serious.

  Finally, she’s out with it in a spew of a whisper: “I had sex with that stripper last night. During the private dance. I don’t know if that’s what they usually do or if that’s what he expected, but—”

  She’s chattering on, when “WHAT?” erupts from me. I can’t help it—I full-on shout it, and several patrons look our way.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Tears spill down her delicate face, splotches blooming pink across her chest. “I haven’t felt that wanted since—”

  “Since Frankie was born, I know.”

  “Since college,” she corrects. “And I know it wasn’t real, but he was just so—so—” Her gaze glazes over, and I can tell she’s seeing it, feeling it, all over again. Her cheeks flush deeper, and her top teeth catch one corner of her bottom lip—

  All at once she’s clutching on to me and sobbing and I don’t know what to do.

  I brush back her hair from her face and offer what I hope are calming shushes. Pat her back reassuringly. Let her breathe.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “We won’t call Mike. And I won’t tell anybody. Ever. Okay?” I pull back and stare her square in the eyes, which swim with emotion. Hold her chin. “Not even Quinn.”

  I glance over at our friend and Phil, and a sickness curls its way around my insides.

  My Quinn is gone. This weekend may have been the last time I’ll ever have with her.

  I hold Val even tighter, and my own vision blurs with moisture. But then I rally, because that’s what you do. I give Val a final squeeze and break our embrace.

  “I know just what to do. Don’t you worry. I’ll get us home.”

  She nods absently, and before I can think better of it, my fingers start fumbling through my apps.

  * * *

  Valerie doesn’t ask questions when I tell her we’re getting picked up in a more incognito, less cop-filled location. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, so we slog our luggage a few blocks away to the diner on the corner and we sit outside on the curb like a couple of vagrants. I saw her pop a Xanax when we left the hotel, so I interpret that as a sign she’s going to her happy place—and I take to my phone to see if James has messaged.

  He has.

  James: So about that drink…? Provided you ladies are not dead from the weekend, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight. Thoughts?

  Oh, I have several.

  I can’t suppress the smile that spreads over my face, but when I look up, goofy grin still stuck there, I meet Nick’s gaze as he arrives in some type of boxy Nissan. He must think my smile is for him because it catches on his face too, and I get a sinking feeling in my heart region.

  But why, I’m not quite sure.

  Luckily, we’re not going to be able to make eye contact while he’s driving, so we won’t have any more of this. For at least sixty minutes, anyway.

  “Nick is our ride?” Valerie makes an appearance in the land of the aware for a second before Nick has gotten out of the car to help us load our bags, and I shrug.

  “I took a shot,” I say. “We’re kind of friends now, and I thought Uber’d be too pricey for this trip.”

  And she retreats back into her quiet land. Hard to read.

  When we get into the car, it smells like coconut, the tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror doing its job. What is it with guys and those air fresheners? I glance around the rest of the vehicle for more clues about Nick. The whole thing looks like it’s been freshly detailed, as in not a half-eaten bacon cheeseburger smashed at the bottom of a fast-food bag, not a pile of mail beneath my feet, not a crumb. Anywhere. I make a mental note never to let Nick see the vortex of horror that is my Camry. A couple of old CDs are in the door pocket, and I thumb my way through them as he drives. Mostly old-school hip-hop.

  “Find anything you like?” he says after a while, sarcasm tickling his tone.

  “I’m really more of a top forty kind of girl.”

  “Predictable.” He offers a tut, tut, tut of his tongue. “What a shame.”

  “Sugarhill Gang? This used to be my jam.” I flash him the jewel case.

  “There’s not a CD player in here anyway—don’t hurt yourself,” he deadpans. “So…”

  “Ha-ha, right? Now what do we talk about for an hour?” I drum my fingertips on the center armrest.

  “We could talk about your amazing survival this weekend…”

  “We made it, yes. Pretty much. Quinn might not, though. I feel terrible.”

  “I bet! But it wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  His voice is tender—almost like he’s got his hand on my knee or like he’s reached out to comfort me.

  But he hasn’t. Thank God. I need to get a handle on this crush of mine.

  I let a beat go by as I watch a line of trees blur past the passenger side window.

  “I know it’s not technically my fault,” I finally say. “But I feel like I’m going
to get blamed for it.”

  “Why?”

  I glance back at Val, who looks to be dead-to-the-world passed out, her head lolling to the side and bouncing with each bump of the drive.

  “Because I just do. They always do this. Well, not always. But since marriage. Since guys.”

  “And this is why you hate guys?”

  I laugh. “I don’t hate guys.”

  He gives me a side eye.

  “Okay, fine. But I don’t hate all guys. Not always. In fact—” I chew on the corner of my lip for a sec. On a scale from one to ten, how weird is it that I’m discussing guys with Nick? But then the angel on my shoulder (haaa, like an angel wouldn’t burn to death on my shoulder) or something akin to it wins out and decides it’s fine to discuss guys with Nick because Nick is someone I work with, and we’re friends, apparently. And maybe it’ll help me put this schoolgirl attraction to him to bed.

  “In fact?”

  “Well, I might have met someone normal on Spark, and I think we’re going out tonight.”

  He chuckles. “I wouldn’t say you necessarily met me on Spark, and I haven’t agreed to a date tonight, but—”

  “Your arrogance is staggering.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and I swat at his arm.

  And when I feel his skin brush under my fingertips for just that second, I get a flash of last night. My legs wrapped around his middle.

  Not helping!

  My face gets hot.

  Focus.

  “Not you. Someone dateable.”

  “Ouch,” he says, rubbing at his forearm.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, so…not a ‘stripper with a heart of gold’ that you also happen to work with? Gotcha.”

  “I’m serious!” I smack at him again.

  I can’t help it. It’s like I can’t stop touching him.

  Stop it!

  And then somehow we’re not talking about James or other guys at all. Somehow we’re talking about school and Ida and how Valerie and Quinn and I met in high school and who both of us were in high school (him, student council president; me, debate team nerd) and how he came to be subbing at Wesson Academy.