“Ms. Wheeler, I’m going to hold up this sheet for you to flip over onto your back.” I do as the massage therapist instructs and shimmy down a little on the table before flipping over to my back. The left-over tequila from last night sloshes around in my stomach, and for a split second, I worry it’s about to make a reappearance. Thankfully it is a false alarm.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension in your shoulders, Ms. Wheeler. After this massage, you may want to consider a soak in one of our mineral pools.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
“It’ll help with the hangover too,” the therapist whispers, and we both laugh.
Another thirty minutes goes by and while I still feel like shit, my muscles aren’t nearly as tight as they were when I first entered the room. I thank her for her patience and gentleness as I exit the room and head to the main salon to meet the girls for pedicures.
As I settle into my spa chair and dip my feet into the warm water, I can feel three pairs of eyes staring at me. Glancing up, I catch Jessi’s smirk first. This cannot be good. Once I look to Jen and then Courtney, I know they’ve concocted some sort of plan.
“No.”
“No, what?” Courtney asks as she picks up her mimosa and takes a sip. How she’s drinking that is beyond me. “Hair of the dog, babe. It’s girls’ weekend, drink up.” I glance to where she’s pointing and see a glass to my right with my own mimosa.
“No to whatever it is you three have up your sleeve. Tonight, we’re going to a nice dinner, and I am not drinking.”
“We’ll see,” Jessi singsongs, and I flip her off before laying my head back, closing my eyes, and letting the technician give me a much-needed pedicure.
I’m lost to the oblivion that is a pedicure when my thoughts flash to the scene I walked in on twenty-four hours ago. I still cannot believe Trenton cheated on me. I’m sure my phone is full of missed calls and text messages from him. I’m glad Jessi took my phone from me. Of course, I’m a little worried she’s sent him texts in my place, but I’ll deal with the fallout later.
“Whit?” I hear my name, and I open one eye to see Jen standing next to my chair. Jessi and I met Jen and Courtney in college. We were all at a rush mixer freshman year and about fifteen minutes into the meet and greet at the first house, we all bailed and went bowling. Greek life wasn’t for us, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
“Yeah?”
“Jessi told us what happened,” she begins. I look to the chair Jessi was sitting in a few minutes ago and see both she and Courtney have left. “Don’t be mad at her. I saw she had your phone and the way she was cussing and flipping it off, I was a little worried, so I made her tell us what was going on. I’m so sorry. We’re here for you, whatever you need. Just ask, okay?”
“Thanks, Jen. I wasn’t trying to keep you guys out of it, it’s just . . . well, it’s fucking embarrassing. I’m not sure how I feel right now but I do know I’m embarrassed.”
“There’s no reason for that. We love you. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. We may have to lie to Jessi if you decide to forgive Trenton. She’s made a lot of comments about dull knives and meat grinders.”
We both laugh, and I thank Jen for understanding. The nail technician finishes up my pedicure, and I join the girls in the locker room where we’ll rinse off from our spa treatments before heading back to the room. As I turn the corner, I see my three best friends waiting for me, each with a huge smile on their face and arms open for a hug. I don’t hesitate as I let them pull me in for the most awkward and stifling group hug ever. And it’s exactly what I needed.
“What are we doing here?” I ask as the driver pulls up in front of an ominous building with no windows.
“A little fun. Just roll with it, okay? Trust me.”
“Jessi, there are a lot of things I do, but trusting you is low on the list.”
“That’s insulting. I always have your best interests at heart. So take your lack of trust and get over it; we’re going to have fun tonight. Come on.”
We all exit the car and thank the driver before stepping to the double red doors that lead to the unknown. Well, unknown to me. I’m sure each of these girls know what to expect beyond the doors. The moment they open, I’m assaulted by the noise. It’s loud. The beat of music wafts from the building, and I look to Courtney who is holding a door open, motioning for me to enter.
“Come on, ladies. Good times await us.”
Jessi links her arm through mine and tugs me through the doors. As we step into the space, it’s not only loud but so dark it takes me a few blinks for my eyes to adjust so I can see. The area we’re standing in reminds me of an old school movie theatre: a woman sits behind a cash register, a bright light shining down on her platinum hair, an e-cigarette raised to her lips. A long drag later, and a puff of smoke fills the space. Apples. It smells like apples.
“Four,” Jessi says handing her credit card to the woman. I still have no idea where we are, but I do wonder briefly if it’s a cabaret or comedy show. That would make sense. I could go for a musical or, God knows, a laugh.
After the woman swipes Jessi’s card, we walk through a heavy black curtain. What is with all the dark colors? Has nobody around here heard of beige? The room isn’t as dark as the lobby. A huge stage takes most of the space to my right while a bar lines the back wall. Lights shine brightly behind the bar while the lights around the stage are dimmed, only lit enough to prevent someone from running into it. Scattered around the room are various tables and chairs. Some are tall tables while others are more casual in setting with large plush swivel chairs that remind me of one my dad used to have in his home office. I’d spin on that chair over and over until I was so dizzy I couldn’t walk straight.
Lost in my thoughts I don’t realize the girls have started walking toward the bar. Of course, they are. “Oh, let’s sit here. It’s close to the bar and the stage,” Courtney shouts over the music, and we all agree as I pull out a chair and sit in it. Yep, it spins just like my dad’s.
The girls head to the bar, never asking for my order. They don’t need to. They know I’ll tell them I don’t want a drink, we’ll argue, they’ll push, and I’ll concede. This is a dance we know well. I look around the room and quickly notice there are no men here. Everyone working is a woman and every patron is a woman. Weird. Maybe it’s ladies’ night.
“Here you go, Whitney. House special.” I accept the glass from Jessi and take a tentative sip. I’m pleasantly surprised when my taste buds are greeted with various tropical flavors. I could drink these all night.
“What is this?” I ask as I take another sip.
“I don’t know. Something with vodka and fruit. It sounded like a safe bet. By the look on your face, I think it’s a winner.”
“It’s amazing. Thanks. What is this pla—?” I begin but am cut off when the room darkens and the lights above the stage come on. The crowd goes wild as the sounds of “Pony” by Ginuwine pump from the speakers. My head whips to Jessi, looking like the cat who ate the canary, and I know I’m in for it.
“This isn’t . . . you didn’t . . .”
“I so did. Welcome to your very own Magic Mike night!”
She no sooner gets the words out of her mouth than my gaze turns to the stage as a very muscular man dressed in sweats, a white tank, and red ball cap dances across the stage.
Holy shit.
I pick up my glass, bring the straw to my lips and suck until there’s nothing left in the glass. I thrust the empty glass toward the center of the table. No words. No requests. If they’re going to take me to a male strip club, they can at least buy my drinks.
“I’d climb that cowboy like a fucking tree.”
“Hell yeah.”
Jen and Jessi clank their glasses together in solidarity as I sit back in my seat, sipping on my third, maybe fourth, drink of the night. Does it matter? Not really. After the Magic Mike remake took place on the stage, the acts kept coming. One after another, we had a biker, a
sailor, and now a cowboy gyrating on the stage.
Don’t get me wrong, each one is sexier than the last. Well, except perhaps the Magic Mike wannabe. That guy could’ve just stood on the darkened stage, his head down, and his hands crossed in front of his crotch. A crotch that, by the looks of it, was very impressive. Very.
“Ladies, give it up for Cody the Cowboy. We’re going to take a little break, let the guys catch their breath.”
The DJ finishes his announcement and quickly changes the sensual and sexy music over to a little 1980s rock. I pull my straw to my lips and suck down the last of the cocktail as I begin dancing in my seat. I can’t help it if some old school hair band guitar solo gets me groovin’ in my seat. Dear Lord. Did I just say “groovin’ in my seat”? To myself? I must be getting drunk. Good.
“I appear to be emptyyyyy,” I singsong to my friends. Jessi gets a smirk on her face.
“Well, ladies it looks like it’s time for shots.”
Ah hell.
Fifteen minutes, a shot, and a fresh cocktail later, I’m feeling more than buzzed when a song I know well begins playing.
“Whit! It’s your stripper song,” Jessi shouts. It is. Every girl has one and this one is mine. I remember seeing the video once and thinking it was the sexiest song in the world. It’s not. But in my young teen mind, being a beautiful woman in a flowy white dress, rolling around on cars, while a man sang about you seemed to be the coolest thing in the world. Yes it’s true, “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake is my song choice should I decide to take a walk on the wild side and become a professional dancer.
Looking back, my standards were quite low when it came to how a man should serenade a woman. Perhaps that’s why I walked in on my fiancé getting a blow job on my couch. My beautiful soft heather gray couch with the perfect yellow and teal throw pillows. I’m a sad panda. I can never sit on that couch again. Never lie on it and binge watch a new show over the course of eight hours on a Saturday.
“I have to get a new couch.” My declaration doesn’t surprise my friends as they each simply nod at me. “And pillows. I really love those pillows. Court, remember when we found them? I was so proud. Dammit. Fucking blow jobs.”
Yep, I’m drunk.
Miss Drunkerton.
Mayor of Drunk City.
Tipsy Sissy.
On my way to shit show. At least this way, it doesn’t hurt as much. I’m not even crying over the loss of my couch or my pillows. Drunk status works well for me.
“Drink some water. All the guys are going to come out and dance. You need to be with it for this. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get a dick in your face.” I scrunch my face in response to Jessi’s statement and take the offered water.
“I don’t want dicks in my face.” I believe my proclamation. Maybe. Not really. I’d totally take a dick in my face. Well, maybe not my face. I bet fucking Trenton would see red if he knew I sucked another guy off.
“I should give a guy a blow job.” I say to nobody in particular but it catches the attention of more than our table. The ladies next to us hoot and holler while also offering their support of my suggestion. We strike up a conversation with them. It’s one of the ladies’ fortieth birthday, and they’re out to celebrate. Each tells us a little about them, and I realize this could be the four of us in another fifteen years. I hope so, anyway.
“Here we go,” Jessi says, rubbing her hands together as the lights flicker a few times to indicate the show is about to start. I finish my water and grab another from our table before finishing it off in a few gulps. I know I’m going to have to use the restroom eventually, so I excuse myself and walk the few feet to the hallway marked “Restrooms” while the girls begin dancing in their seats.
I quickly do my business and take in my reflection. Something is different about the woman staring back at me. I’m still me with my long light brown hair brushing the tips of my breasts as it flows over my shoulders. The curl I put in it earlier is barely holding on, but it’s enough to make it look like it has more volume than is true. My dark brown eyes aren’t nearly as puffy and red as they were yesterday. My olive skin could use a little more sun, but that’s what I was hoping to do on my honeymoon.
My honeymoon.
Sighing, I feel the prickle of tears in my eyes and quickly brush the thought away as I peruse my own body. The black tank top with an intricate design hangs loosely, hiding the extra five—okay ten—pounds I’ve put on over the last few weeks as I stress-ate over the wedding, while my dark-wash jeans make my ass look like I’m an avid squatter in my workout routine. The peep-toe stilettos I’m wearing elongate my legs and don’t let on that I’m on the shorter side of average. Not too shabby for having found out I’m marrying a cheater.
My skin begins to flush as I think of Trenton, and my hurt bubbles to the surface. Fate steps in the moment I contemplate giving in to my frustrated sadness because one of my favorite songs fills the small restroom. I may not be a professional dancer, or even a talented amateur for that matter, but I like to shake my ass like the next girl. Don’t get me wrong, I would never put myself on the stage like the men we’ve watched tonight. But as I stand here running cool water on my wrists, I begin swaying my hips. Maybe I should tell the girls we need to leave and go to a dance club. I could dance this emotional surge I’m having right out of me.
Making my way back to the table, I glance up to the stage and see three men walking on stage, the spotlight focusing on the man in the front. Dressed in a tailored suit, he is standing with his arms behind his back and his head down. From his stance, I assume he’s the first dancer we saw tonight. I stop for a minute to watch. His muscles look like they want to bust through the fabric of his suit, and I can almost envision it happening. I’m still standing there when a hand grabs my own.
Before I know what is happening, I’m being tugged forward. I look to my hand, the one nestled in a much larger and darker hand; my heart rate kicks up. I look behind me, eyes wide, to see my friends smiling ear to ear, and I don’t want to know where I’m headed. When I turn to look, my worst fear is coming to fruition.
The stage.
No words are spoken as I’m guided to center stage. The man in the tailored suit has stepped back while I’m standing under the huge spotlight. The women in the audience don’t change their enthusiasm even though I’m the last person they’re hoping to see on this stage. I peer out to the audience but can barely see anything from the light shining down on me like an epiphany. Or alien abduction. I’m kind of wishing for the alien abduction part. I know the general vicinity of my friends and hope they can read the look of horror on my face from where they’re sitting.
“Ladies, it is my understanding we have a little bit of a situation being . . . well dealt with tonight. You see, this lovely lady recently found out some bad news and her friends brought her here tonight to cheer her up.”
My head turns quickly toward the DJ at his statement. Holy shit they did this. I will kill them. We will never celebrate their fortieth birthdays because none of them will make it to twenty-five. Bitches.
“I think the only way to turn that scowl into a smile is to dedicate this next dance to her. What do you say ladies? Let me hear you.” The crowd erupts in ear-piercing hoots and hollers. I’m mortified but have no time to think of an escape from the stage, because the next thing I know, a chair is placed behind me and two large hands brace my shoulders, guiding me to sit. Shit.
Covering my face with my hands I shake my head in disbelief. This cannot be happening. Oh, but it is. I said I wanted dicks in my face and fucking Karma just handed me one on a silver platter. Or better yet in a pair of dress pants. Peering through my parted fingers, I watch as the men on the stage dance around me. I’m startled when fingers gently glide across my biceps. Before I can turn to the person touching me, a deep gravelly voice whispers in my ear, “Just relax. We won’t do anything crass.”
Unable to completely relax, I drop my hands to my lap and grip my jeans for somethin
g to do with my hands. The man behind me continues to lightly brush his fingers across my skin. Unlike my initial reaction, I find myself settling a little more and relaxing a fraction. While the man behind me remains close, the other two dancers work the stage and the audience. Their moves are perfectly choreographed and sitting here, this close to them, I can really appreciate how hard they work. It’s fucking hot as hell under this light, and they must be melting with how much they’re moving. A few of the women rush the stage to toss not only money but their panties. Gross.
As the song begins to transition to another, I turn my gaze from the audience to the dancers. The man who was calming me has joined the other two. He remains clothed while the others are down to almost nothing. I’ve settled back onto the chair a little more and watch the dancers when the third dancer stops in front of me. His ass is eye level with me and for the first time since I was placed on this stage, I’m fine with where I sit. Hot damn. Now, he spends a lot of time on squats.
I no sooner have that thought than he turns and faces me. His white dress shirt is pulled from the waistband of his pants as he begins unbuttoning it. Sweet peppers, he’s ripped. Six packs be damned, this dude is sporting no less than a ten pack. Hell, let’s go for a solid dozen. If I thought it was hot before, I now feel like I’m walking on the surface of the sun, it’s so hot. Hottie with the dozen pack is swaying his hips as he begins lowering his shirt off his back. As he comes eye level, I catch his eyes.
Eyes I know.
Eyes I stared into for two semesters my sophomore year of high school.
The eyes I dreamed of every night, wishing they’d look at me the same way.
“Lucas,” I whisper.
A wink and a wicked smile that wasn’t there when we were fifteen are the only response before he says, “Hey Whit.”
I Don't: A Romantic Comedy Page 2