by Callie Hart
The imposing, looming double doors of the Rock are infamous in Raleigh. You can see them, the burning torches mounted on either side of the thick, weathered wood, from up on the road that takes you out of town toward Iron Springs. Besides the Rock, there's nothing of note between Raleigh and the coast. If you're seen pulling off of that long, winding road through Grays Harbor County, it's pretty damn obvious where you're going, and there are plenty of people in a small town like Raleigh who'd love to judge you for it, should they just so happen to recognize your license plates.
There's no one around to see us peeling away from the road, though, as Alex steers the bike down a narrow, darkened driveway, the boughs of the trees forming a sinister looking tunnel over our heads, blocking out what's left of the weak afternoon sun. Loud, thumping, grinding music reaches my ears before the building's even in sight. And then, there it is, a single story, squat looking structure, constructed out of stone and rough-hewn rock, massive and quite possibly the ugliest building I've ever seen.
Alex navigates a path through the haphazardly parked vehicles in front of the bar, going around the side of the building, where he pulls into a narrow bay reserved for staff only. I feel so alive as I climb off the back of the bike, humming from the excitement of the ride. Alex takes the helmet from me, grinning. “I really have created a monster, haven’t I?”
I nod, grinning back. “Looks that way. I’ve been thinking about using the money I was saving to fix up the Nova to buy my own deathtrap now.”
“Uhh, the Nova’s gonna need some TLC real soon by the sounds of that engine,” Alex says, poking me in the side. “Maybe you should make do with borrowing my bike instead.”
“You’d let me borrow your bike?” The fake-surprised teasing in my voice makes him smile.
“You’re already holding my damn heart and my soul hostage, Argento. You might as well take everything else.”
These things slip out of his mouth so effortlessly, like they're so easy to confess. Most guys his age would rather bite off their own tongues than admit they felt any emotional tie to a girl. Alex, of all people, who is so stony and withdrawn from the world most of the time, has no problem admitting whatever he's feeling to me, though. There's a surprise around every corner with Alex. I still have to pinch myself whenever he looks down at me, and I see the longing his eyes, like I'm something of value, to be treasured, to be adored.
“My dad told me this place was commissioned by one of the scientists who worked on the U.S. nuclear program during the Second World War. He was paranoid, so he had this place built. It was designed to survive the fall out if Seattle were ever hit by a nuke dropped by the Nazis. Does it really have an underground bunker?”
He tells you that you own his heart and soul, and you start talking about the fucking Nazis. Way to go, Silver.
“Yeah,” he replies, chuckling under his breath. “But trust me. You don’t want to go down there.”
“Why? Are you nervous, bringing me here?”
He takes me by the hand. Laughing, he leads me toward an emergency exit at the rear of the building that’s been propped open with half a brick. “You don’t want to go down there because it’s a sex club, Argento. And no. Why would I be nervous?”
Sex club? Lord. I do my best to hide my surprise at that revelation. “Because this is where I find out how many strippers you’ve fucked?” I’m only half serious, half joking, but it has occurred to me—Alex might only be seventeen, but he easily looks twenty-one. Not to mention the fact that he’s hot as hell. There’s no way he hasn’t been involved with the women who dance here.
“I haven't fucked any of the strippers, Silver,” he says ruefully. “Most of the girls who dance are also available for extra services. Private services. And I don’t sleep with girls who fuck for a living. I respect their choices, it’s their decision to make, but I also respect my dick. I don’t want it to fall off.”
“They’re running a brothel?”
Alex shakes his head, no. “The girls might meet or find a client here, but they cater to them at home. Or in a hotel room. Whatever. The owner, Monty, will fire any girl on the spot if he finds out she’s been screwing the customers on his property.”
“Right. So, we’re not going to stumble across anyone fucking in a hallway then.” Cue nervous laughter.
Alex winks, ushering me inside, through the emergency exit. “Don’t worry, Argento. As long as we stay above ground, I promise you there will be no fucking.”
30
ALEX
This place is and always has been a dirty little secret. It's been renamed a thousand and one times in a thousand and one ways. The bank; the grocery store; the post office. When a guy's wife asks him where he's been, he'll say he was at the game. When a woman has to explain to her husband why she smells of stale booze and cigarette smoke, she'll tell him she was pulling an extra shift on the casino floor. Very few people tell the truth and admit to spending time at the Rock, though. It's tantamount to saying: I cheated on you; I fell off the wagon; I stole the housekeeping money; I broke a promise I swore I would never break.
When the door swings open and someone new arrives at the Rock, the customers already at the bar or snuggled into the booths all hold their collective breath, heads turning in unison, squinting into the dark to see if (horror of horrors) it’s someone they might know.
We walk through the winding hallways, past Monty’s empty office, and through the ‘Staff Only’ door into the bar. Fifty pairs of eyes turn on us as the patrons take a beat to assess the newcomers. It only takes a half a second for the regulars to recognize my face.
In the far corner on the stage, a Led Zeppelin cover band is murdering “A Whole Lotta Love.’ On the narrow catwalks that protrude out onto the bar floor, two of Monty’s favorite girls are already down to their bikini tops and G-strings.
I’m so used to this place that nothing about it surprises me. What the hell is Silver making of all of this, though? I try to see the place through her eyes, to imagine what she’s thinking right now, but it’s impossible. I’m jaded and rotten down to my core, and Silver is a fucking innocent. She’s good. We’re too dissimilar for me to piece together what might be going through her head as Jasmine, the stripper closest to us sinks slowly to her knees, arching her back, eyes heavy-lidded, glossed lips parted, and she slides her hands beneath her bikini top, cupping her own breasts. When one of the loggers sitting at the edge of the catwalk drops three dollar bills in front of her, she teases the material of her bikini top aside, exposing her tits, squeezing them in her hands, her pierced nipples on display, and Silver tenses beside me.
“Moretti! What the fuck, dude!”
Ah, shit. I scan over the top of the crowd, searching for Paul, the owner of the loud, obnoxious voice that just called out across the bar. Takes me a second to find him behind the altar on the other side of the room. Taking Silver by the hand I steer her toward him, doing my best to keep my face as emotionless as possible.
When we reach the bar, Paul—one of Monty’s nephews, the tallest, skinniest guy I’ve ever come across—glares at me, anger simmering in his eyes. “You fucking kidding me right now?” he hisses. “You know you can’t be here unless you’re on shift. No underage drinking at the Rock.”
“Fuck you, Paul. I’ll come here whenever I want. And you’ll shut your goddamn stupid, ugly, dumb, moronic…” I can’t keep it up any longer. He’s already started to smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and once he starts, I can never keep my shit together. I laugh, dropping the act as he leans across the bar, holding his fist out for me to bump.
“What’s up, man?” Paul arches his eyebrow, jerking his head none-too-subtly toward Silver. I know it’s absolutely killing him not to openly point at her and demand to know who she is. Paul’s barely three years older than me, attempting to graduate college this year if he can get his grades up, but he acts like he’s still in high school.
“Paul, this is Silver. Silver this is Paul. No, no, I
Paul lowers his hand, throwing a bar rag over his shoulder. “Asshole. I’m cleaner than you.”
“Doubtful. Paul lives here above the bar, which means he probably pops anti-virals like most people pop daily vitamins. Monty’s not in?”
Paul pulls a face at me in return for the jab. “He went out on a run. Be back in a couple of hours. You need him?”
“No. Just saw he wasn’t in his office.”
“You want a drink then, or are you pretending you’re a good boy in front of your beautiful friend?”
“Hah hah, dickhead. No, I think we’re go—”
“Tequila,” Silver says, leaning her elbows against the bar. “Shots. Two, please. And Alex doesn’t have to pretend to be anything around me. I know who he is.”
My dick is immediately hard, throbbing against the inside of my thigh, partly because of the way her ass is sticking out, looking perfectly fucking biteable in her tight black jeans, but also because of the sassy confidence she's emitting as she watches Paul place the shot glasses down on the bar.
“On me,” Paul says. “I knew I was saving my promo tab for a good reason. See me if you want another round. Colleen's fucking PMS-ing. She tried to choke out the new bouncer 'cause she caught him looking at her ass. She'd probably charge you double for your drinks right now sooner than comp them. Oh, and…no offense,” he says, grimacing at Silver. “About the PMS thing. I'm a total feminist. But seriously, it's a real thing here. The girls all sync up. It’s like fucking Armageddon one week out of the month.”
“Throw down the shovel, man. Walk away. You’re not doing yourself any favors,” I laugh, picking up one of the tequila shots. Silver hardly seems bothered by Paul’s comment. The savage little smirk on her face says she’s enjoying watching him squirm, though. Paul slides us two wedges of lime on a cocktail dish and then heads off to serve someone else, flipping the bird at me over his shoulder as he goes.
“He seems nice,” Silver offers. She’s holding her shot, the back of her hand already salted.
“Didn’t realize you were such a hardened drinker, Argento. You look like a semi-pro right now.”
“Yeah, well, you forget. I was friends with Kacey for a long time before I was cut from their little squad. And Kacey Winters will drive anyone to drink, friend or otherwise. Come on. Down in one.” She licks the back of her hand, and I can’t fucking help myself. I grab her by the back of her head, hand fisting in her hair, and I kiss her. Her lips are so damn soft. She sighs into my mouth, breath sweet and warm, and I have to convince myself it’d be a bad idea to tear her clothes off and fuck her up against the bar right here and now.
Using the flat of my tongue, I stroke it against her own, stealing the salt she just licked from her hand, and my mouth aches with the taste of the sea, of a childhood spent running up and down Black Sand Beach with an icy wind pulling at my clothes. She moans, a quiet, tense pant of pleasure, and my hands almost get to work on the button of her jeans.
Silver opens her eyes and looks up at me, pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed, and I realize a little too late maybe that my thumb is rubbing along the addicting curve of the underside of her breast.
“Alcohol,” she whispers, dazed. “Shit, let’s do the shot before I embarrass the crap out of myself and climb you like a tree, Alex.”
I can’t tear my eyes away from her. I keep her in my sights as I throw back the tequila, the burn lighting me up from the inside as the booze floods my chest. I’m fucking fascinated by the way the shot glass presses against her bottom lip. The way the muscles in the graceful column of her throat work as she swallows. The tiny wrinkles that form on the bridge of her nose as she shakes her head, wiggling her fingers as the tequila hits her.
Oh, holy fuck. You stupid son of a bitch, Alex.
How can I not have realized until now? Feeling more than little slow on the uptake, it occurs to me that at some point, I became so enthralled with Silver Parisi that there isn’t a part of her I’m not completely and utterly in love with.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, cringing when she notices me staring at her. “What? Did I spill it all down my face?” she asks. “You didn’t do the lime.”
“I don’t need the lime.”
“Of course you do. It’s the rule. You do the shot, and then you—”
“Silver?”
“—do the lime. We have to get ano—”
“Silver.”
She finally stops talking. Looks up at me, eyes a little bright from the tequila. “Yeah?”
I lean into her, brushing her hair back behind her ear. Only she can hear me when I whisper into the shell of her ear. “I’m in love with you. Did you know that?”
She stiffens, her breath catching in her throat. When she looks at me out of the corner of her eye, her smile is gone, and she…fuck, why does she look afraid?
“Yes.” Her voice cracks on the word. “I did.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I stroke the back of my index finger over the smooth, porcelain of her cheek. Fuck, she's so fucking beautiful, it makes me want to scream. To trash the entire bar and set the whole place ablaze. I can't fucking take how perfect she is.
“It’s not my place to tell you your feelings, Alex.” She’s putting on a brave face on it, laughing lightly, trying to be glib, but her hand, still holding her shot glass, is shaking. I take hold of it, closing my own around it, steadying her.
“I know plenty about lust. There’s very little anyone could tell me about want. There hasn’t been a day in my life when I haven’t needed something or someone. But love? Shit, I hardly know anything about love, Silver. I’m out of practice. You’re gonna need to help me out a lot with this one.”
“Who’s to say I know any more about it than you do,” she asks. The bar’s loud as hell, the band striking up another song, laughter and chatter all around us, but I hear her as clearly as if we’re standing in a silent room, quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “Who’s to say I’m not going to need just as much help?”
My chest feels like it’s splitting open. My heart’s a fucking ruin. “Why? What does that mean, Argento?”
“It means…god, Alex. Don’t you know that I love you, too? That I have no idea what the hell I’m doing either?” Her playful smile has disappeared. Her eyes are shining even worse than before, only now the burn from the tequila is gone, and it looks as though she’s about to burst into tears.
I cradle the side of her face, cupping her cheek in my hand, brushing my thumb against the line of her cheekbone. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Is it too much? Loving me? If the answer’s yes, then I’ll take you home right now. I’ll change schools. I’ll go, and you’ll never have to see me again. I don’t ever, ever wanna cause you pain.”
She catches hold of me by the wrist, turning toward me, a look of panic on her face. “No. Alex, no. Don’t you dare let me go. Loving you is the only thing that makes any sense right now. It’s everything else around us that’s fucked up beyond belief.”
I'm suddenly aware of someone standing next to us, on the other side of the bar. Paul's returned and he's got a fresh bottle of tequila in his hand. The roar of the bar comes crashing back down around us, people pressing in on all sides. “Looked like the one shot wasn't gonna cut it,” Paul says, smirking. “Thought you guys might appreciate some bottle service.” He gestures for our glasses. I give him mine, and Silver slides hers robotically toward him over the sticky countertop. Neither of us speaks as he tops us up and winks. “I know we just met,” he says, addressing Silver, “but I will tell you this. This guy has never brought a girl here. And I have never seen him look at anyone the way I just saw him looking at you. I had to run to the bathroom and throw up before I could bring this over. It was positively disgusting. That said, if he's done something to upset you, I already like you enough to take him out back and tan his tattooed hide for you. Just say the word, and it's as good as done.”
“Fuck you, asshole. You’re dreaming if you think you could,” I say, scowling at him halfheartedly.
Silver just smiles shyly. “It’s okay. He hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he did the opposite. He just made me really, really happy.”
SILVER
We drink, we dance, we talk, and then we dance some more. Once we’re sick of the noise in the bar, Alex takes me to a flat, dry spot on the hill behind the Rock, and we lie there for a couple of hours, freezing, looking up at the stars, talking about Ben and Max. The fresh air works wonders, and by the time the Uber pulls up in front of the house to drop me off, I’m stone cold sober. The windows are all in darkness, apart from one: Dad’s office window. He told me to be home by midnight, so it was safe to assume he was going to wait up for me and make sure I abided by his curfew. A wishful part of me had been hoping he might have just said fuck it and gone to bed, though. I see the blinds twitch and curse between my teeth.
I get out of the ride and let myself into the house, bracing for the litany of questions that will be coming any second now. In three…two…one…
“Silver?” he calls from his office.
Damn. No sneaking up the stairs unnoticed then. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then walk down the hall and stand in the doorway. “Hey, Dad.”
He takes his glasses off and sets them on his desk. “Three minutes past twelve, kiddo.”
“Are you gonna cane the back of my hands?” I say, grinning at him.
“For three minutes? I should think only a light beating’s in order. How was your night?”
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