Текст книги "Reveal"
Автор книги: Elle Brooks
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
WHAT WOULD LISA think of me now? Would she be jealous? Intrigued? Disgusted? I shut my eyes so tight that when I open them again, my vision clouds with purple spots. I will myself to think of something else, someone else. I should be thinking about Sam, I’ve never been good at doing what I should and this just proves it. I should be feeling guilty for what’s about to happen, but I’m not. I glance at my watch before wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand as I drive into her. It’s hardly romantic, but in about fifteen minutes she’s going to realize that this is a farewell fuck. I’m done with this, and if I carry on sleeping with her, she’s going to start reading more into it than what there is. She’s convenient—she was convenient—now she’s becoming a hindrance. I don’t have any desire to be in a relationship again, not ever. Been there, done that, and got my fucking heart shredded in the process. What kind of idiot would ever risk that happening twice?
“Oh, Cal, faster, baby…I’m so close.”
Her voice is a purr as I slam my hands down on her long tan thighs and pull her back roughly to meet my thrusts. My fingers press deeper into her soft taut skin. She’s warm and pliable, putty ready for me to mold however I need. I try my best to concentrate on her—on this—devote myself to the moment, but I can’t. Instead, I’m looking down and analyzing every fragment of her that sets her apart from Lisa—chew you up and then spit you out, Lisa. It’s as though the universe is conspiring against me, forcing thoughts of her as I’m screwing someone I carefully picked out to be her polar opposite. It’s not working, everything is tainted with associations of her. I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the image of my ex plaguing my mind. I have minutes before Zane will walk into the club, ready to work, and me screwing Sam over the bar is hardly something he needs to see, although it wouldn’t be the first time.
I push her skirt up a little higher, affording me a pretty nice view of her ass. I can’t resist giving it a light slap as I quicken my pace. The moan it elicits is enough to tell me that she likes being spanked, so I do it again only harder. She tightens around me instantly as her body goes rigid, and begins pulsating as she cries out my name. I lean over her pushing as deep as I can, burying my face into the back of her neck. I hate that I’m picturing Lisa as I find my own release. The warmth of my orgasm lasts a full twenty seconds before the shame, the hurt, and the anger seep back in. I want to be out of her, and I want her out of my club.
“I love having sex down here with you, it feels naughty,” she says, lifting her blonde head off the bar and twisting to look at me. She’s flushed and has that dreamy, sated look in her eyes. I slide back and pull my jeans up; I’ll take care of the condom as soon as she’s gone.
“Yeah, well don’t get used to it, Sam.” I pause, wondering how best to word this. “Look, I think this little arrangement has just about run its course. I’m sorry.” I lean forward and grab her hand, helping her stand.
“Wait, what? But I thought—”
“No thought required, Sam; it’s been fun. You’re a great girl, but I’m done.” There’re nicer ways to tell her this, and if I wasn’t so pissed at myself right now, I might bother to think of one, but I don’t do ambiguous. I don’t want any confusion, and I certainly don’t want her to hold out any hope that I’ll change my mind.
“So you’re breaking up with me before you’ve even given me a chance to pull my panties up? You lowlife asshole, Callum Speight!”
And there it is—the truth—she’s right and I sigh; I’ve never pretended to be the candy and flowers type. What you see is what you get, and I was hoping she’d seen me. Obviously not.
“Sam, we were never in a relationship, so no I’m not breaking up with you. Think of this as more of me notifying you that I won’t be calling on your services anymore.”
The thunderstorm gathering behind her eyes clues me in that I’ve said the wrong thing; she looks like she’s about to rip my balls off. I shift back, making sure I’m just outside her reach.
“SERVICES!”
Oh shit.
“I’m not a hooker, you complete and utter prick!” she screams, fixing her skirt and reaching for her purse that’s been discarded on the floor. “You’re a lousy fuck anyway!”
I watch her straighten her posture before storming towards the door like a tornado in her 5-inch heels, scattering chairs and stools in her wake. I stay propped up at the bar, making sure she leaves. The mood I’ve just put her in, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted to torch the place with me in it. I hold my breath as she stops short of the exit and whirls around. There’s pure fire in her narrowed angry eyes, and if looks could kill, I’d have just been cremated.
“And for your information, I faked my orgasm last night!”
I exhale and suppress my smile. I have to use a fair amount of restraint to keep from laughing; it’s not the time. I settle for indifference and shrug. “Of course you did, sweetheart.”
Zane steps through the door as Sam lets out a frustrated growl and pushes past him, slamming it loudly behind her.
“Morning sunshine,” he says in his British accent, tipping his shades and grinning as he makes his way through the club. “The lovely Samantha looked like she wanted to kill you. Am I to assume that was the last time we’re likely to be graced with her presence?”
“Yup, pretty sure she won’t be back.” I pull my t-shirt over my head. “I’m heading upstairs to take a shower. Oh—you might want to give the bar a wash down.” I wink and his cocky grin morphs to a scowl.
“Fuck’s sake, Cal… cleaning cum stains off the bar is definitely not in my job description, arsehole.”
I laugh as I head up to my apartment. Zane pulls his jacket off, tossing it over a stool. “That’s the second time I’ve been called that in the last three minutes,” I shout down at him.
“Because it’s true!” he quips as I ascend the stairs two at a time, heading to wash the smell of sex from my skin and start this day over.
My living arrangements are a new thing; well, eight months, so in the grand scheme of things, new. I moved in above the club the second Tony’s lease ended. Tony was an aspiring actor, tall, dark and Italian. He had the whole package, except he was missing one tiny detail—he couldn’t act for shit. Naturally, he was always broke and never made his rent on time and truthfully, that didn’t bother me. He was a nice kid, quiet and kept the place in good shape. Plus, the talent that he often brought back on late nights was always an attractive sight. But when Lisa, my ex-fiancé, decided to blow my world wide open by telling me she was pregnant with another man’s kid, I couldn’t stay at our place a second longer. I packed up all my shit that night and spent three weeks in my brother’s guest room until Tony missed his rent again. I told him I needed him out as soon as possible, and a week later he’d moved back in with his folks. I moved in above the club. My club, Reveal.
It’s burlesque and one of New York’s best. I’ve messed up a lot of things in my twenty-eight years, but this place isn’t one of them. I’m proud to shit of it, even if my family doesn’t feel the same way. My mom regards it as the equivalent to a seedy back-alley strip club, which really fucking irks me. If she only knew that a ton of her socialite friends with their rich husbands frequented the place weekly, she’d change her mind. Then again, maybe not. I haven’t followed in my big bro’s footsteps and chosen an upstanding and elitist profession. She wears her resentment like a giant rosette of shame, and it couldn’t be more evident. Never mind that I’ve found something that makes me truly happy, unlike my poor sap of a brother. He works every hour God sends, constantly striving for more. He needs to be the best, the quickest, the youngest to accomplish whatever the fuck it is he’s working towards.
You see, my brother and I are alike in many ways. There are two years between us, and most siblings with relatively small age gaps clash in their adolescence. Not CJ and me. We were inseparable right up to our parents’ divorce. He was always a mama’s boy, whereas I identified more with my pops. They separated when I was fourteen, and asked us (rather than dictated) which one of them we wanted to live with.
It was a rainy Saturday morning in September. Mom called us down for breakfast and when we dragged our asses out of bed, like any other weekend, complaining that it was too early and we didn’t have school, they sat us down in the family room and dropped the bomb. Neither CJ nor I had seen it coming. They asked who we wanted to live with the way someone would ask how you took your coffee, like it was a simple everyday question that required no thought. CJ and I looked at each other in complete shock before answering at the same time—different answers. He chose Mom and I didn’t. I think she still harbors the hurt, even today.
My brother and I have the same thirst for life and determination, but focus on completely different things. Mom wasted no time shacking up with my stepdad. They were married six months after the divorce; the ink had barely dried on the dotted line. Pops took it hard. When CJ changed his last name before finishing his degree, it broke our father’s heart. Of course, CJ’s reasoning stood up. Our family name had no stature, whereas good old Daddy Laurence’s name was well thought of and could open up doors for him—which it did, in all fairness.
I’m not sure if it was then that we started to drift and have less in common. Maybe on some subconscious level, our relationship changed with his name. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my big brother or him for me, but we’re different people now. I can’t help feeling that if he actually stood back and took the time to smell the roses, he’d realize that chasing perfection is pointless. It’s an ideal, not a reality.
THE MARGARITAS I’M carrying back to our table are spilling as I walk carefully, balancing the glasses and keeping a firm grip on the hunk of change I need to give back to Lucy. We made a deal, she’d pay for the drinks if I went to the bar each time. It was fine a few drinks ago, but now my coordination is starting to wane and my normally steady hands are anything but. I lurch forward as the soles of my sneakers stick to the tacky floor of the bar, but manage to keep from falling. I grin triumphantly as I tip my head forward in an attempt to inspect my feet. I’m more than a little impressed with myself that I managed to stay vertical, but the victory is short-lived as I see I’ve lost half the contents of our drinks. The frozen alcohol-infused slush is slowly seeping through the once white canvas of my shoes, numbing my toes.
“Argh, careful Robz!” Lucy shrieks, sliding from around the table and grabbing the glasses from me.
I smile. “Whoopsie daisy.”
“What?” she asks giggling.
Confused, I shrug. “What?” I’m trying not to sway but doing a terrible job.
“Oh my God, you’re trashed!”
“No, I’m not,” I answer. As if on cue, I hiccup and practically fall into my seat.
She smirks as if she knows better and takes a sip of her half-empty margarita. I feel kind of awkward not paying for my drinks, but Lu insisted we come here and wouldn’t let me pay. It’s probably a good thing, too, as I can’t afford my rent; dropping money on overpriced cocktails would be beyond stupid in my current predicament.
“What time is it, Lucy?” I ask, only my voice sounds funny, and her name comes out Looshey.
“Holy shit, babe. I think you should switch to water. You’ve only had like five, wait six, or maybe seven? Yeah, seven drinks. Actually that’s quite a lot. We should both switch to water.”
I frown. I have no clue what she’s talking about, and I’m definitely not drunk. I wish she’d sit still, though; she’s making me dizzy. The mention of water rattles around in my head and my mind summons up the image of the poor guy I burned in the coffee shop this morning. He poured water over himself, and me.
It was hot.
Not the water, but the gesture. At least I’m remembering it being hot; at the time it was completely humiliating. He was really good looking…I think. Damn, my head’s spinning.
“I have to call about the stripping. You know, the person, your friend. I need to do the stripping. What time is it?”
“Okay, sweetheart, do not call Annie’s boss while you’re this wasted. I’ll text her and tell her that you’ll call tomorrow. You’re in no state now.”
I toss the remainder of my drink back and shake my head as the alcohol burns the back of my throat.
“You think I’m a state?” I pout. “I’m pretty enough to be a stripper.”
Oh, God, am I?
Lucy’s eyes crinkle as she shakes her head. What a bitch, she doesn’t think I’d be a hot stripper. “You think they won’t wanna put money in my panties? Do they actually do that? What if I’m wearing a thong? It wouldn’t hold much money…I should wear my Bridget Jones panties. I could get a grand in those bad boys,” I say, tapping my nose as I let her in on my master plan to earn more cash. She’s all out laughing at me now. “Lu, quit being mean, I’m pretty enough to make a grand!” I whine, slumping back into my seat.
“First off, Robyn, you’re one of the prettiest girls I know.” That warms me and makes me smile. “But if you think wearing Bridget Jones panties will rake in the big bucks, you’re obviously more drunk than you look. Plus, it’s burlesque, there won’t be guys pushing bills into your underwear.”
I narrow my gaze and point at her, poised to say something profound and important, I’m sure of it…but I can’t think what.
“Babe, are you okay?”
It’s too hot, and I suddenly feel as though I’m riding the tilt-o-whirl at the fair. I take a deep breath. Am I okay? No, no I’m not. Oh, fuck!
“I’m gonna—” I clamp my hand over my mouth and look frantically around me in panic. I grab my bag, the closest thing within reach and empty my stomach, dispelling the drinks I’ve been knocking back, along with the toast I ate this morning. Which, coincidently, is the only thing I’ve eaten all day.
“Oh, you’re doing it,” Lucy squirms. “You’re really doing it—right into your bag. Shit!”
I can’t lift my head. There’s vomit coming out of my nose, and my eyes are stinging. Lucy hands me the paper napkins our drinks were resting on, and I try clean my face up before raising my head while she rubs my back and hushes me soothingly. A deep cough interrupts her and I crack an eye open. A large—no, scrub that—a huge monstrosity of a man in a crisp black suit is eyeing me with obvious disdain. If disgust had a face, it would be his.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says. His nose is wrinkled; I think he’s holding his breath.
I slump further back into my seat; I couldn’t be more mortified. Why is my life turning to pure shit? I hear Lucy apologize to the guy and then she’s helping me onto my feet and picking my bag up, holding it as far from her as humanly possible while maneuvering me out to the sidewalk. We burst through the doors and a welcomed blast of cold air cools my overheated skin. I revel in it for a whole two seconds before everything angles and begins to spin. I want to grab onto something to stop me from falling off the earth, so I clamp my arms around a post, but it falls and shouts fuck! Then everything goes black.
“Robyn…Robyn, wake up babe. ROBYN!”
I startle and snap my eyes open. Lucy’s face is hovering above me, along with a guy I don’t recognize. My mind is scrambling to make sense of things, but I’m drawing a blank.
“I think she banged her head,” the stranger says to Lu while keeping his eyes on me, scanning my whole face like he’s looking for something. He has an accent. It’s nice.
“Can you sit up, Robz?” she asks, and then everything suddenly clicks into place. I’m sprawled out on the sidewalk because I got sick in the bar, and we were asked to leave. A groan escapes me and embarrassment lights a fire under my skin, no doubt illuminating my face like a shining beacon of shame. I sit up gingerly, and the guy looks relieved. I still don’t know who he is, and my confusion must be evident as he begins to explain my unasked question.
“You tackled me as I was walking past you just now. One minute I’m walking, the next, you grab a hold of my legs and I’m eating dirt.”
He’s wearing an expression I can’t read. The roughness of his voice doesn’t match the look on his face, and I want more than anything for the ground to open up and swallow me. I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed—it’s literally sobering. Seriously, fuck my life.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, lowering my eyes to the ground. “I thought I was falling; I just grabbed onto the nearest thing.”
“I know I’m good looking, sweetheart, but you are definitely the first woman to ever literally fall at me feet,” he smirks and I let out a relieved sigh that he’s amused rather than angry with me.
“I’m Zane, by the way.”
Lucy’s eyes practically roll to the back of her head as she groans, “That was smooth,” and laughs sarcastically. I’m shaking as I take a deep breath, trying to curb my humiliation. Zane twists, throwing a dazzling white smile at her. It stops her frozen, and I watch as her mouth pops open a fraction as her eyes fall to his lips. His smile widens—self-satisfied. He’s obviously used to that type of reaction. He’s good looking and he knows it.
I attempt to stand and my stomach rolls in protest. Lucy and Zane each both grab a hold of me, positioning me between them, and if I thought I could make it home without their support I’d be telling them to let me go, but I’m not entirely sure I’m supporting my own weight at the moment and my legs don’t feel like they belong to me.
“We need to get her into a cab,” Lucy huffs.
That sounds like a great idea to me. I need to lie down.
“There’s no way anyone is going to risk taking her anywhere; she looks like she’s about to get sick or pass out. Does she live far? We can walk her; the fresh air will do her good.”
Lucy pauses a moment, and I want to shake my head that walking is a terrible idea, but the second I begin to move my head from side to side I feel my stomach object to the movement.
“No offense, Zane, but we don’t know you. There’s no way I’m letting you know where she lives. How do I know you’re not some creeper that’s about to chop us up and wear our decapitated fingers as a souvenir necklace? Thanks for the offer, though.”
That does it. I dive forward out of their grasp and drop to my knees and throw up over a subway vent, the hot air rising from the grate making me feel worse and prolonging the whole sorry affair.
“Look, I’m not a creeper—scout’s honor,” he tells her, doing the weird finger salute thing. “But your friend—”
“Robyn,” she interrupts.
“Robyn looks like she really needs to get home. Either you can struggle by yourself with her, or I’ll help you. I promise I won’t chop you up or wear either of you, cross my heart.”
It’s quiet as Lucy contemplates his offer. I’m considering lying down where I am just as she thrusts her hand under my arm and begins to lift me.
“Fine, but smile.”
“Huh?” he and I both reply in confusion as she takes her phone from her back pocket, still half holding me in my seated position, and takes a picture of him.
“I’m sending this to a friend. If we wind up dead, the cops will know exactly who to look for.”
“Okay, you’re strange,” he says before taking my other arm and lifting me up like I’m weightless.
“You think you can walk, Robyn?”
I groan. “Yes,” I lie as he looks back to Lucy.
“Where we headed?”
“About six blocks that way.” She points in the general direction of my home and he nods. We don’t take more than twenty steps before Zane sweeps me up and begins to carry me like a baby. In any other circumstance, a stranger carrying me through the streets of New York City in the dark would be equal parts weird and terrifying. I’d mace the guy the second he got too close, but I don’t see how my life could be much worse at the moment, so I can’t bring myself to care.
“We’re more likely to make it there by sunrise if I carry her,” I hear him say. My eyes drift closed against the worn leather of his jacket, the movement strangely soothing. My stomach begins to settle and right now I’m so comfy I don’t mind if he murders me later.
