Revenge at Raleigh High

by Hart, Callie

  Leaning close, he whispers into my hair. “It’s a viper’s pit down there, Argento. We look. We don’t touch. We are not touched. Anyone tries to take liberties, I will fucking break them. If it looks like you’re getting overwhelmed or stressed, I pull the plug and we walk right back up those stairs. Lastly, anything I say goes. Those are the rules. Now finish your last shot. We’re leaving.”

  * * *

  ALEX

  I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been down here over the past eighteen months; this will make for my fourth excursion down these stairs while the Rock’s ‘Wages of Sin’ court is in session. The first time, I had to feed the beast. I had to know what the fuck was going on down here. I was just as curious as Silver seems to be now, so I sat in one of the dark booths alone, absorbing everything that went on around me, cataloguing and filing away the writhing, naked, red-lit flesh to be assessed at a later date, when I was back in the trailer. I stayed for little over an hour, draining half a bottle of Jack in the process, but I was approached at least eight times during those sixty minutes. To my discomfort, it was mostly by guys—huge, jacked, ex-con type dudes who looked like they could eat me for fucking breakfast—asking if I would fuck their wives.

  Suffice it to say, I politely declined their generous invitations. Their wives might have been hot, but even back then I wasn’t stupid enough to participate in an activity that was likely to get me fucking killed.

  The second and third time I came down here, I was running cases of beer down to the club because the punters had drunk the bar dry. I can’t decide if coming down here with Silver tonight is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in the history of my life, or if it will be just another strange thing we can say we’ve experienced together, but I’ll admit there is a sense of anticipation relaying around my body like a train on a track, growing faster and faster as it careers down the lines.

  I walk ahead of her, casting my eyes in every dark corner of the club’s main bar area—a habit I picked up in juvie, as well as every foster home I ever stepped foot inside. Once I’ve established that there’s nothing to be wary of, I look around again, forcing myself to see the place as Silver must be seeing it right now, for the very first time. The place is packed with half, and in some cases, fully naked bodies. From the looks on people’s faces, there’s absolutely nothing untoward about this. Groups gather around high-top tables, sipping cocktails, laughing and joking with one another.

  Naturally, there are no windows. The bar that runs along the left-hand side of the room is lit with subtle yellow lamps and candles dotted along the shelves, in between the polished bottles of liquor. The rest of the club is bathed in red light, casting sensual shadows across exposed flesh.

  At the far end of the bar: the stage is double its normal size, and three extra stripper poles have been brought down from upstairs. People—couples, and occasionally a three or foursome—lounge in the booths angled toward the stage, watching as a raven-haired woman wearing little devil horns on her head dances seductively on the stage. In her hands, she uses two large crimson feather fans to hide her body, strategically turning them over and spinning them, letting one fall only to preserve her modesty with the other at the last second. Or nearly preserve her modesty. She’s naked, pale skin practically glowing up on the stage, the fans covering anything that might make her blush. Except, every few seconds or so, a fan will slip or be coquettishly lowered, and the curve of her breast will be visible. A flash of nipple. The apex of her thighs. And the dancer is not blushing.

  I give Silver a sidelong glance. She’s seen worse than this upstairs in the regular bar. The strippers up there get fully naked if enough dollar bills are dropped at their feet. It’s different down here, though. There’s a heightened sexual tension in the air. The men and women at the high-tops, sprawled out in the booths and leaning up against the bar haven’t just come to enjoy the show. They’ve come to find some excitement of their own. To make some sort of clandestine, taboo connection with someone, even if that connection is only made when they meet a stranger’s eyes and an unspoken message is passed between them.

  I am nothing more than my desires.

  I am here to be used.

  I am here to be plucked.

  I am here to command.

  I am vulernablepowerfulweakbrokenhurtstrong.

  “This is absolutely insane,” Silver says. I watch as her eyes skate over the scene before her. She pauses on a couple in a shadowy booth close to the burlesque dancer. They’re in their late twenties by the looks of things. Sleek and toned—the kind of couple who have a joint fitness account on Instagram and wear t-shirts that say ‘Swole Mate’ on them. The woman is completely naked, her legs parted, and the guy sitting beside her is stroking her clit, teasing her, whispering into her ear as she stares, glazed-eyed at the dancer.

  My dick stirs in my pants, already getting hard. Not because of the woman being teased by her man. But by the brief burst of dark fascination that flares in Silver’s eyes. She reins it in quickly; I could believe I’d imagined it, but her breathing is a little too deep. A little regulated. She’s a fool if she thinks she can hide the fact that she’s turned on from me. I’ve spent far too long studying her now. I know every slight, subtle change in her mood and where it will take her.

  She turns to me, smiling conspiratorially. I think she’s a little embarrassed. “This isn’t so bad. I was picturing some crazy mass orgy or something. Lots of people all having sex on some giant, gross bed.”

  I smirk, gesturing to the open, insignificant looking doorway off to one side by the stage. “Walk through there and that’s exactly what you’ll find.”

  Her eyes double in size. “Jesus.”

  “Along with sex swings, and racks, and little private rooms, and…well. Just don’t walk through that door unless you’re prepared to see some shit.”

  She swallows thickly. Kind of adorable, really. Kinky little Dolcezza doesn’t even realize she’s kinky yet. She’s like the bud of a flower, petals all wrapped up and swaddled tight around herself, waiting to bloom. “I think I need another drink,” she tells me, grabbing hold of my hand.

  Behind the bar, Jasmine and Delilah are running the show tonight. They’re dressed in next to nothing, little kick-shorts barely covering their expertly fake-tanned ass cheeks, tits threatening to spill out of their bikini tops any second. They won’t spill out, though. They’re fake and barely even fucking bounce as the girls hurry up and down the bar, serving guest after guest.

  Delilah sees me standing at the end of the bar and breaks out into a mile-wide grin. She gestures that she’ll be with me next.

  “Blondie sure has a big smile for you. I’m assuming she wants to fuck you?” Silver says teasingly. She leans up against the bar next to me, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

  “She does,” I say coolly.

  Silver looks both horrified and amused. “Awesome. Now I’m up against porn star wannabes with perfect teeth and giant tits? I suppose I’d better make the most of my time with you if that’s my competition.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “A porn star wannabe?”

  “Your competition,” I clarify. “You don’t have any.” I angle my body, leaning into her, enjoying the scent of gardenia that hits the back of my nose when I breathe her in. “There isn’t a woman in this building you need to worry about, Argento,” I rumble. “There isn’t a single woman in the world you should think about that way.”

  “Oh, come on.” She laughs. “Guys always want their hall passes. They usually set it aside for Jessica Alba.”

  “Fuck that.” I tangle my fingers into her hair, enjoying the thickness of it. She looks up, pale blue irises fixing on mine, and the future stretches out in front of me. It’s happening more and more often. The questions that used to plague me every hour of the day, ricocheting around the inside of my head like stray bullets demanding answers, all crumble to ash. See, they’re no longer necessary. The uncertainties, the decisions that w
ill need making, the choices I will have to make…they have all been taken care of with the arrival of just one person in my life: Silver.

  Whatever happens now, whatever I wind up doing, Silver is the only thing in my life that really, truly matters. “You’ve taken root now. I’m done. You’re all there is for me from here on out.” Every word is true.

  She feels the weight of the truth in my confession, I can see it on her face, but she chooses to continue with her line of joking self-deprecation anyway. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be saying that if Jessica Alba was up on that stage, making eyes at you.”

  “We can stop talking about Jessica Alba now. I have no clue who she is, but she doesn’t fucking matter. You are the sun, Silver. You’re gravity. You’re the air in my fucking lungs. I’m a satellite, trapped in your orbit, and I’ll remain here until the end of time. My face and my dumb, wretched heart, will always be turned to you.”

  I’m not a romantic person by nature. I don’t say these things to try and flatter her with pretty words. This is simply the confession of a helpless man resigned to a beautiful fate.

  We stare at each other like we’re both tumbling forward into the void of eternity, and neither one of us can stop ourselves from falling.

  “Christ Almighty, that shit is far too intense for this crowd,” a laughing voice says.

  Female. Bright. High-pitched. Alabama accent.

  Delilah.

  The connection between Silver and I snaps. Suddenly, we’re standing back at a bar, in a sex club of all fucking places, and there’s a blonde woman leaning over the lacquered wood, sliding a manicured hand up my bare forearm. “Alex Moretti, I have begged you to come hang out with me down here and you have shut me down every time. Who is this gorgeous young thing you’re eye-fucking, and more importantly…are you planning on sharing her?”

  Delilah’s probably not bisexual. The girls here will flirt with one another all the time if they think it’ll make a customer hard. I’m not a customer, and Silver isn’t just some other stripper, but Delilah’s a resourceful girl. She’s been doggedly trying to bed me for at least six months. I think it’s become a game to her now, purely because I keep saying no. More than likely, making eyes at Silver is just another crap shoot on her part, throwing something at the wall to see if it sticks.

  I withdraw my arm, finding Silver’s hand and lacing my fingers through hers. “Sorry, Lilah. We’re doing research for a school project. Do all strippers have Daddy issues? Care to comment?”

  I’m joking. I’m never cruel to the girls. She needs to know this isn’t happening, though. She drops the act, rising out of her, popped-hip-check-out-my-delicious-curves lean—the same lean that pays her fucking rent—and throws back her head, laughing loudly. “Such a shit, Moretti. And wow. How do I keep forgetting you’re still in high school? Thanks for the unpleasant wake-up call. I probably need therapy, but I can’t quit the chase with you, Jailbait.”

  “Age of consent is sixteen in the glorious State of Washington,” I remind her. “I’m legal. Just not interested. This is my girlfriend, Silver.”

  “Huh. Yeah, the intense staring contest gave away the fact that you two weren’t just fucking. Girlfriend, though? Bold move, Alex. I am impressed. Monty tried to fuck you yet, sweetheart?” she asks Silver. “If he tries anything, don’t bother trying to talk him down. Go straight for the balls. He barely feels it anymore, but it’s the only version of no he understands.”

  Silver blinks. Her face has gone completely blank. Takes longer than it should for it to click: any joke about a guy trying to force himself onto Silver is going to go down like a lead fucking balloon. I squeeze her hand, shaking my head. “She’s fucking with you. Monty doesn’t even hit on the girls. He’s all business.”

  Delilah pretends to pout, sighing dramatically. “Honestly, I think he’s a eunuch. I’d suspect he was gay, but the guys who dance here sometimes have all taken a run at him, too, and…”—a quick shrug of her shoulders—“…nothing.”

  Silver doesn’t really know how to act. This is a strange situation, an exchange that commenced with a sexual proposition. Her awkwardness is plain in the way she tucks her hair back behind her ear, and then repeats the motion less than a second later. Trouble is, Delilah’s a pain in the ass. She’s as blatant as a hammer to the side of the head. But she’s also super bubbly and genuinely likeable. Silver’s probably having a hell of a time deciding if she’s supposed to hate the woman on sight or want to go gossip about boys with her in the bathroom.

  “Since you two high schoolers are only here to research a school project, I obviously can’t serve you alcohol,” she says formally. “But can I interest you in some soda?” The bottle of Patron Silver Delilah holds up in her hands looks nothing like soda to me. I bite back a smirk as she pours two healthy measures into a pair of rocks glasses in front of us. When I try pay, she rolls her eyes like I’m the most tiresome creature she’s ever come across. “What do you think this place is? We don’t charge staff members for soda. Get the hell out of here before you really offend me.”

  I plant a twenty down on the bar for her as a tip instead, we collect our drinks, and I lead the way toward the stage. The place is packed so the booths are all taken. Luckily, there’s a table free right in the middle of the madness, though. Silver sits, eyes fixed on the dark-haired dancer, twin spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.

  “I don’t wanna be that person, but I can’t help it. I have to ask,” she hisses. “How many girls have you slept with here?”

  “Inside the actual building? Or who work here, you mean?”

  Silver does a terrible job of containing her horror. It’s difficult not to laugh. “Who work here, I suppose,” she answers.

  “In that case, none.”

  She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “All right. I’ll bite. How many woman have you fucked inside the actual building, then?”

  Damn, my cheeks are killing me. I want to laugh so fucking bad, it hurts. I take my time, pretending to count out my conquests on both hands. Twice. Eventually, I nod, face her, and say, “None.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not gonna lie. There have been plenty of opportunities on both accounts. Monty doesn’t like drama, though. He’d kill me if I brought it to his doorstep. I’m not stupid enough to dip my pen in company ink. This is hardly the kind of place you’d bring a date to get laid, either.” A glaring lie, apparently, since that’s exactly what the rest of the people sitting in front of this stage have done this evening.

  The burlesque dancer stalks on her high heels down the steps from the stage, into the crowd in front of us, and the people around us draw in a collective breath. Her fans are still in her hands, covering her breasts, but she’s being more daring with them now, letting her hands drop for a second or two longer when she teases them across her body.

  Silver sips from her drink, hiding her face in her glass, but her curiosity pours off like smoke from a raging forest fire. I watch as she peers at the dancer over the top of her tequila. Her breath quickens when the woman with the black hair, smooth and straight as a ruler, selects a guy from the audience and straddles his lap, winding her arms and legs around him. She grinds herself into his lap for a second, painted lips parted, her fans dropping, pinned between their bodies, and she leans down, a millimeter away from kissing him…

  …but then she quickly turns to the woman sitting beside the guy, obviously his wife from the tortured look of disbelief on her face, and grabs her by the neck, pulling her into a deep kiss.

  “Holy shit,” Silver hisses under her breath.

  I take a sip, hiding my face in his glass. I’m trying not to smirk.

  Silver elbows me in the ribs. “Don’t laugh. This is all new to me,” she complains.

  “You’re adorably innocent for someone who loves fucking so much, Argento.” A flush of color climbs up her neck. She doesn’t know what to say to that. She knows I’m right. She’s acting like a little school girl who’s
never been touched before.

  “I guess you’ll have to rid me of my last scraps of innocence then, won’t you, Alessandro Moretti.”

  Oh, Silver. Silver, Silver, Silver. Sounds like she’s feeling brave. She has no clue what it would be like for me to do what she’s asking of me, though. “How about we just stay here and ride this thing out. See how comfortable you are first.”

  She keeps her mouth shut. The show continues, growing more and more risqué as the night progresses. Delilah sends over two more drinks for us, and we both drain our glasses, both of us watching as the burlesque dancer abandons her feathers and all sense of modesty along with them. Before long, she’s on her knees, three tables over, with a guy’s hard cock in her mouth, blowing him while his wife strokes and fingers her naked pussy.

  The tequila’s gone to my head and to my dick. I’ve never struggled to maintain an erection when I’m drunk. Tonight, I’m harder than a length of fucking steel rebar, and it isn’t because of what the burlesque dancer’s doing. It’s because Silver’s tits are straining against the flimsy material of her shirt, and her breathing’s a little too uneven. She’s enjoying what’s going on around us, fascinated by the sight of so much naked flesh. After all, it isn’t just the couple with the dancer who have thrown caution to the wind. Nearly all the couples around us are either making out now, groping at each other’s bodies, or they’re out and out fucking.

  She turns into me, burying her face into my neck, hiding. “Alex…” Her voice is thick with hunger—the sound sends a body-wide shiver racing down my spine. My arm’s already around her waist. I slip my hand up underneath her shirt, tracing my fingers over her skin, drawing small circles against her side.