by Jade West
“VIP pass and complimentary champagne.” The asshole bouncer reached for my arm, but I shook him off. “Like I said, miss, it was my mistake. We’re very sorry.”
“PLEEEASE!” Chelsea squealed. She was pitiful, truly pitiful. “Please don’t ruin this for me!”
Shit.
I stomped back towards the club, jabbing a finger in her direction as the bouncer trailed behind. “Never again. This is it, favour of the century. No matter what happens from now until the end of time, Chelsea Rawlings, you owe me.”
How fucking humiliating.
The shocked expressions of all those bitches who’d laughed at me made it slightly satisfying to waltz through the VIP entrance, but not nearly enough to justify the embarrassment.
A hostess woman waltzed us past the cash desk, without even a mention of payment. Good. I’d milk the complimentary champagne too, for their bloody cheek.
“I’ll take you up to the VIP area,” she smiled. She was so fucking smiley. Smiley and fake like the rest of this place.
She led us through the club, and it really was something. All mirrored glass and fancy lights. Shame about the plastic people inside it.
“Why are we in VIP?” Chelsea quizzed, eyes wide as a kid’s at Christmas.
“Your presence was requested.”
“By who?” I asked.
“One of our VIPs,” she smiled. “The Singers are in tonight.”
I grabbed Chelsea’s hand, genuinely chuffed for her, and her face was a picture.
“One of the Singers asked for us?!” she shrieked. “Which one?!”
She was in. Blatantly. Suddenly the night didn’t seem so bad. Maybe this really was Chelsea’s big shot.
“Was it Theo Fernando?” I had my fingers crossed for her. Toes, too.
The hostess shook her head. “Not, Theo, no. Jason Redfern.”
Oh the irony. Sacrificing a night with my Jason, so Chelsea could land hers.
Our guide opened the barrier to the VIP area, letting us through. It was considerably more packed than I’d anticipated, heaving with Z-listers, and footballers and hangers on. Smiley woman got us our champagne then left us to it.
“Oh my God!” Chelsea squealed. “Jason Redfern wants me!”
Her eyes darted around the crowd for a glimpse of him.
“What about Theo what’s-his-name? I thought it was true love?” I teased.
“Nah, Redfern’s better,” she grinned. “Much more A-list. I just didn’t think he was an option.”
“He’s not, presumably. He’s married to that Cherry Electric woman, you said?”
“Not an option for a relationship, no.” She swigged her champagne. “But a night would be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Are you for real?” She rolled her eyes. “Enough to make me a name.”
“You cannot actually be serious?”
“Have you any idea how much money there is in kiss and tell?” she groaned. “Picture this. Centre-spread: Chelsea Rawlings spills all about her hot night with the England captain. April Redfern in hiding, devastated by betrayal. And then there would be cute little me, dressed in a Singers scarf and stockings and looking fucking awesome. Just think how much that’s gonna do for my modelling career.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. “That’s your great career plan, is it? Fuck a footballer and sell him out for a kiss and tell story?”
She shrugged. “Only if he’s already married, I’d rather be a footballer’s wife than a kiss and tell girl.”
I sipped my champagne. “I’m bloody glad I’m not famous, not with people like you around. It must be a nightmare.”
“Stop being so bloody moral and help me find him, will you?”
My eyes scanned the booths. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Does he look like an ogre?”
“Fuck no. He’s fucking gorgeous.”
“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”
“Tall, dark... athletic...”
“…Twelve inch cock,” I giggled. “Probably one of my callers.”
She didn’t even pause. “He’s got tattoos on his chest, and shoulders. Top of his arm, too. Faces and stuff, like icons. Think his gran was Roman Catholic or some shit.”
“That’ll sure help me identify him, since everyone is fully clothed this evening.” A trio of blondes walked past in little more than belts with their pert little arse cheeks on show. “I take that back...”
She squealed in my ear, jumping up and down on the spot. “I see him!” she hissed. “Over by the DJ booth in the corner. He was looking right over here!” I tried to look but she yanked me by the elbow. “Jesus, don’t make it obvious.”
“What now, then?” I sighed. “Can we dance or something?”
“You think that will work?”
“No idea, I just want to dance,” I grinned. “Worst case scenario you’ll have to march on up to him, and say Hey, I’m Chelsea. Fancy a fuck so I can sell your story to the papers? How could he possibly refuse?”
“I could go up to him.”
“I was joking.”
“What if someone else pulls him in the meantime?”
I grabbed her arm, determined to get my groove on. “Then you’ll just have to take Fernando instead, won’t you?”
“Redfern’s got until midnight to make a move,” she said. “After that I’m just gonna jump on him...”
Poor guy wouldn’t know what hit him.
***
Jason
Theo’s birthday crowd was dripping with hangers on. They spilled onto the dance floor, giving more attention to who was watching them than they did to the music. Hair flicks and pouts, and exaggerated wiggles. Fake. All fake.
But not Gemma.
She found her groove without a care for the crowd around her, shaking her juicy arse without a damn for how cool she looked, or who was dancing next to her. A whirling, smiling tornado of red curls, vivacious and contagious. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Her blonde friend was pretty but couldn’t dance for shit. She swayed like a mannequin, eyes scanning the crowd as she shifted from side to side. I’d avoid her eyes as they hunted adoration, but they seemed to follow me. Me and any other guy who was anyone, most likely.
I sank into the Singers’ crowd, keeping a hand in the conversation without losing sight of my dirty girl. Theo was already well gone, a drunken mess by midnight, slurring and chanting and grabbing any tits within arm’s reach. Lads will be lads, and I was too old for this shit. Too old for this place.
It didn’t take long before the usual drunken bullshit started up. Dare or forfeit. Forfeit invariably involves necking down some alcoholic monstrosity and dare invariably involves fucking about with women.
I made it pretty damn clear I wouldn’t be joining in.
Theo’s dare was a piece of piss. Snog some random at his table. The girl didn’t even pretend to object, slobbering his face off while he copped a good grope of her ass for the privilege. Riley’s dare gave him sixty seconds to get a girl to flash her tits for the boys. He managed it with twenty seconds left on the clock. Then came Powell’s dare. Powell’s good for anything, crazy bastard.
Theo surveyed the crowd, scoping out a challenge. My stomach hit on the floor when he pointed it out.
“There,” he laughed. “Chubby red strutting her stuff on the dance floor. Fuck her in the toilets and bring us her knickers.”
Powell grinned his head off. “Not into fat girls, mate. Pick again.”
The table stamped their feet. Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit, but Powell put his hands up.
“Alright, alright. Chubby it is.” He skulked away, heading for an oblivious Gemma while my fists twitched at my sides.
“Show’s over,” I said. “Training on Monday, you’ve all had enough.”
“Only just getting started,” Theo laughed.
“Show’s fucking over, Fernandez,” I snapped. “I fucking mean it. This shit’s going too far.”
I made my way towards the dance floor, but Winstanley blocked my way, necking champagne from the bottle. The drunk prick was stumbling about the place; obscuring my view of the dancefloor and spouting barely-audible drivel. I struggled to get away, palming him off onto Danny Fieldman on his way back from the toilets.
I made an escape to the shadows at the side of the DJ booth for a better vantage point, scanning the dance floor for my dirty girl and that stupid asshole Powell. If he touched her, I’d rip his fucking spleen out. And yet I was fucking hard. Hard at the thought of him pounding her soft, wet pussy in the club toilets.
Shit.
My eyes followed Powell, tracking him across the room. He was dancing with a leggy brunette, mission potentially aborted. I’d only just caught sight of Gemma when a hand grabbed at my arm.
“Looking for me?” The voice was giggly and drunk, cutting above the thud of the bass like chalk on metal.
I stared in horror as Gemma’s blonde friend grinned up at me.
“Outside earlier? You asked for me.”
“You seemed to be having some problems,” I grunted.
She twirled a wisp of hair around her finger. “My friend had the problems.” She gestured in Gemma’s direction. “They wouldn’t let her in. She’s not really cut out for this kind of place, you know?”
That strange irritation again, right in the pit of my stomach.
She pouted a stupid duck face. “We could go somewhere, if you like, and I could, um, show you how thankful I am.”
“No thanks necessary.” I turned away enough to give a hint, but she followed, angling herself between me and the dance floor.
“I can be discreet... we could get a hotel... go to mine...”
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said, politely. “I’m heading home soon.”
She looked like I’d slapped her, a slack expression of wide-eyed disbelief. “I’ll really make it worth your while, Jason. I promise.” She leaned in to run a hand up my arm.
Jesus. My eyes flitted to Gemma. Still a mass of bodies between her and Powell.
I took Blondie’s knuckles and gave them a squeeze. “You have a nice evening, sweetheart.”
I stepped away, but she wouldn’t let up. “Wait, I mean, um, you asked for me... I thought...”
“I’m sorry you thought,” I said. “I was just trying to help.”
“But I’ve seen you looking... I know when a man wants me...”
People were staring, I could feel them. Redfern’s pulled, get in, mate. Look at the tits on that one.
“You’d better get back to your friend.”
“She doesn’t care, too busy dancing. She didn’t want to come here anyway.”
Gemma twirled with her arms in the air, curls glowing in the spotlights, and Powell shrugged off the brunette, making his way closer. I lost my train of thought, toppled from concentration enough to miss the lunge Blondie made for me. She pinned me to the DJ Booth, her hard little tits pressed to my chest as she wrapped her arms around my neck. Her mouth mashed against mine, her tongue darting across my lips. I took hold of her shoulders and pushed her away, staring into big blue eyes and fake lashes. Her expression shrivelled into embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But no.”
“But you wanted me... I saw you looking... You’ve been staring all night.”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
Her lip trembled in cartoon grief. “Please...” she hissed. “Please, Jason... I won’t tell anyone.”
“Goodnight,” I said. I pushed past her, back into the crowd, back in time to see Powell make contact, sliding up to Gemma to wrap his arms around her hips, bucking against her like a horny fucking stallion. My throat dried, and I could feel the pulse in my temples as she turned to face him, still dancing, putting her mouth to his ear as he angled in for more.
I dithered, on the verge of dashing onto that dance floor without a care for who the fuck saw me. But how could I? Gemma didn’t even know who I was. Maybe she even wanted him. Wanted his cock up her sore snatch in the club toilets. Maybe she’d hand over her knickers gladly, ride him as the whole fucking club watched.
Fuck.
I took a step forwards onto the edge of the floor, but someone was ahead of me. Gemma’s blonde friend was dashing across the dance floor to snatch Gemma by the arm, out of the reach of Powell and then onwards, until they were out of sight.
Thank fuck for that.
***
Gemma
Chelsea’s grip was like a vice, dragging me through the crowd like a madwoman. She rushed us into the toilets, darting into an empty cubicle and bolting the door behind us. She plopped herself down on the seat and stared up at me with watery eyes.
“Whoa, what the hell happened?”
She took jagged breaths, her voice squeaky. “I tried to kiss him. I did kiss him.” She covered her face with her hands. “I kissed Jason Redfern, in front of everyone. Oh my God, Gemma, he didn’t want me. He pushed me away! Jason Redfern pushed me away!”
I crouched in front of her, put a hand on her elbow. “Hey, it’s alright. Don’t cry. It’s his loss.”
“No, it isn’t! It’s my loss!”
“He’s just one guy, Chelsea. It doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t understand!” she said. “He’s Jason Redfern!” Her eyes widened. “I’m too ugly for him, aren’t I? The other girls are prettier than me! I’ll never be a footballer’s wife. It’s my nose, isn’t it? And my tits, they’re not big enough. And I’m ugly!”
“Of course you aren’t ugly,” I said. “You’re gorgeous. Look at you.”
“I could’ve died, Gemma. I can never go out there again. Ever. I’m so embarrassed.”
I took her hands and gave them a squeeze. “Let’s go dance. It’ll be ok. Chin up.”
“I’m not dancing! Not now!” she cried. “My life is over. Everyone is laughing at me.”
“That’s ridiculous, and even if they are, who gives a shit?”
“I give a shit!” Tears spilled and dragged mascara with them. I grabbed her some toilet roll but all it did was smear. “I want him, Gemma. I really, really want him. He’s everything!”
“You’re really drunk, and there will be loads of other nights, other footballers,” I smiled. “There’ll be plenty of them falling over themselves to take you home.”
“Not him.”
I shrugged. “So what? It’s no biggie. Life goes on.”
“So, I’m not pretty enough to get a modelling contract, ok? Not what we’re looking for. Sorry, you’re not the look we’re going for right now. Sorry, we’re looking for a brunette, someone taller, someone shorter, someone prettier. He was my big chance, Gemma! My big break!”
“He’s just a guy in a club, Chelsea.”
“The whole world would’ve known my name!”
“Not in a good way.”
“All publicity is good publicity.” She dabbed her eyes. “I can’t believe he did this to me, asshole.”
I pulled her to her feet, wrapping her in a hug while she sobbed against my shoulder, railing against the pain of rejection and how terrible the world was.
And then I took her home.
Chelsea has always been a terrible bed buddy. She fidgets, and takes up way too much space for her size. I put up with it anyway, glad that the tears had finally stopped. She’d hate her confessions in the morning. Confessions of soul-destroying modelling auditions and meetings with fashion designers that never turned into anything. Confessions of being on the edge of the in-crowd, just some nobody from Hatfield, a silly girl whose face doesn’t fit. Confessions of being in debt up to her eyeballs and no way to pay the rent. Poor Chelsea.
Confident Chelsea, the girl who’d make it big in London and snare some footballer, had shrivelled into nothing, leaving a fragile little girl who felt as self-conscious as the rest of us. Maybe we’re all like that, deep down, even the pretty ones like her. Maybe the pretty ones have it worse; so much more to prove.
“I’m sorry I was mean to you, Gem, about the dancing. Sorry about earlier, too. You managed to pull, didn’t you? I can’t believe you pulled a footballer and I didn’t. What the hell?!”
I let it slide. “I didn’t pull him,” I said. “Don’t think I would have done, either. And forget about the dancing thing, I know you didn’t mean it.” I risked a laugh. “You did come charging in to save the day when you thought I was being murdered, that kinda makes up for it.”
“Who is he?” she asked. “This Jason. God, another bloody Jason. Urgh.”
“Just a guy, that’s all I need to know.”
“Do you like him? Is that why you didn’t pull Powell? He’s a midfielder, you know.”
“I don’t even really know Jason, and that Powell guy was only a kid.”
“He’s twenty, not a kid. What’s even the deal with this Jason? Do you want to know him?”
I stared up at the ceiling. “No. Yes. I dunno.”
“I think you secretly like him.” I heard her yawn, and shuffled down under the duvet, getting myself comfortable while I weighed it up. “I think you have a thing for him and that’s why you wouldn’t have got with Powell. You don’t normally have a problem fucking men in clubs.”
Ouch. She had a point.
Thoughts of Jason spiralled around my stomach in a champagne glow. His voice. His touch. His heady scent. The excitement of his name against a text message icon. The way he made me feel with his hand all the way inside me. All the dirty ways he knew what I needed. A night in that club, surrounded by gorgeous people, and posh drinks, and loud music, and all I’d been thinking about was him. I wouldn’t have fucked that Powell guy. Chelsea was right.
“I do like him,” I whispered. “I like him so much it’s crazy. Insane, right? It doesn’t make any sense. How can I feel like this about a guy I’ve never even seen?”
But there was no answer. Chelsea was already sound asleep.
I was up first, pottering around the kitchen when Chelsea surfaced. She didn’t look so hot, her extensions a matted blonde mess around her face, and streaks of mascara still plastered to her cheeks.