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.