by Jana Aston
Chapter Eight
“It’s ‘break a leg,’” he says. “The saying. It’s ‘break a leg,’ not ‘break a dick.’”
I groan in exasperation. Now is not the time for semantics.
“Like breaking a dick wouldn’t be exponentially worse?” I snap back. I can’t believe this is the conversation we’re having right now.
“Fair point,” he says with a tip of his head, smirk still firmly in place, which annoys me enough to elaborate.
“For the record—” I hold up a finger, ready to make my case, but I’m interrupted before I can get very far.
“The record,” he interrupts, his brows lifted in amusement. “Do we need a court reporter present? Should I make a call?”
Ugh, this guy.
“For the record,” I start again after shooting him a look that conveys he had best let me finish, “the phrase ‘break a leg’ is an ironic expression of good luck. So telling someone to break a dick as they’re on their way to have sex is a pretty brilliant adaption of the phrase.” I cross my arms in triumph, because when you’re right you’re right. And I’m so right. I might even submit this phrase to Urban Dictionary because I think this one has a real chance of catching on.
He laughs out loud this time before shaking his head and turning on his heel to retreat down the hallway following the path we took to get here, his footsteps reverberating on the polished concrete floors.
“You’re nuts. Cute but nuts,” he mutters as he starts up the stairs.
“No. I’m actually really funny. That was just proof of that.” I jog up the steps so I can catch up with him at the landing and cut him off. “And no one has called me cute since I was twelve. I’m way past twelve.”
“I can see that,” he replies after a pregnant pause, his gaze dropping briefly to my cleavage.
Thank fuck this body shimmer is finally working.
“Good. What else do you want to see?” I rest my hand on the railing, blocking him from further escape, my head tilted to the side in what I hope appears as a blatant invitation.
“Excuse me?” He gets the most amazing line on his forehead when he narrows his eyes on me. There’s a hint of a laugh on his lips warring with the flicker of disbelief in his expression and I want him to kiss me. I might die if he doesn’t kiss me soon. Melt right into an angsty puddle of sexual need. Death by denial of his perfect lips.
“I’d be happy to break your dick,” I offer, then wince. “Okay”—I remove my hand from the railing and hold it up in the universal stop gesture—“I’ll admit that adaption didn’t really work.”
“Not quite.” He shakes his head, a smile on his lips. I take a half a step closer to him. Damn, he smells good too. He looks good, he smells good and I’m positive he’d taste good if I could just get his lips on mine. Or lick him. I might settle for licking him at this point if I didn’t think it might make things weird.
“Whatever. You get the gist,” I whisper, leaning in a bit closer. Kiss. Me.
“I’ll pass.”
Wait, what?
I’m positive if you looked up the word ‘disbelief’ right at this moment a picture of my face would be attached. It’d be in one of those animated three-second clips and the only thing moving on my face would be my eyelids, blinking in slow repetition.
My libido slows down a bit to give my brain a moment to catch up.
“No?” I repeat.
“Are you unfamiliar with the word, Payton?”
“You run a strip club.” I’m dumbfounded. Like what the fuck?
“So you think I indiscriminately fuck anyone who offers?” He says it calmly, seemingly without any care, but his response takes a second too long and his eyes don’t quite meet mine.
“No!” Sorta. Yeah, I sorta did. God, I’m awful, but really? “It’s not like I thought that many women offered,” I try to clarify.
His brows lift at that and then he laughs before brushing past me and continuing up the second set of steps.
“I meant outright,” I protest, clambering after him. “Obviously you get plenty of offers for sex. Look at yourself, of course you do.”
I’m not sure that came out right either.
“It’s a very flattering offer,” I add for lack of anything else to say. It really is. I’m far from hideous and besides, I’m not wrong about all the sexual tension between us. There’s enough of it to power all the neon in Vegas.
We’ve reached the landing to the second floor and he pauses and turns to face me, his eyes dropping to my lips. Finally, finally, finally. Then he shakes his head, as if shaking sense into himself, before opening the stairwell door without a word.
This motherfucker.
“Why the hell not though?” I slide past him into the hall and stand in front of him, one hand on my hip, the other pointed in his face. “That was a great offer.” I punctuate that with my finger. “Most men would be delighted with such straightforwardness.”
“Would they?” The smirk is back on his stupid, perfect face. “Is it an offer you make often, Payton?”
Oh, no, he did not.
“Listen, asshole. That’s really none of your business. I can hand out a golden ticket to whomever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. The number of tickets handed out does not change my value as a female, so save your sexist bullshit for someone who cares. I’m not going to apologize for being in charge of my own sexuality and asking for what I want.”
“A golden ticket. Jesus Christ, I can’t with you.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t with you either. You’re not even seeing anyone. What is your hangup?”
“I’m not seeing anyone?” He looks interested by this revelation, his brows shooting up before his lips relax into an amused grin.
“Are you?” Fuck a dildo, I should really verify my information with more than one source before I dive into things. This is exactly how I got kicked out of the Girl Troopers in the second grade. Well, not exactly. But sorta. No, this is nothing like that.
“No,” he agrees with a shrug. “I’m not.”
“You are such a pain in the ass.”
“So.” He says it slowly as if he’s in no hurry. He never speaks in a hurry though, I’ve noticed. I wonder if he’s like this with everyone, confident enough to know that they’ll wait to hear what he has to say. “I should service you on demand because I’m not otherwise involved with anyone? Is that what you’re saying? Isn’t that sexist as well?”
“It would be,” I agree, “if you weren’t every bit as attracted to me as I am to you.”
“Am I?”
God, not this song and dance again.
“Yes,” I insist confidently. If I’m wrong about this so help me, but I’m already in this deep, there’s no point backing down now. Might as well go for broke—this is Vegas after all. Also, I’ve never been a coy girl. Go for the brass ring and all that. “You’re curious about me,” I tell him. “You look at me like I’m interesting. Or at the very least pretty.”
Somewhere in this exchange he’s stepped half a foot closer, but he’s still not touching me.
“You like my ass,” I add in a last-ditch effort because he’s neither saying anything or kissing me.
He moves another inch closer and smiles. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes and I’m holding my breath because sexual tension is tense.
“I look at you that way because you’re nuts and I never know what’s about to come out of your mouth.”
“Oh.” Oh. I blink. Wow, did I get this wrong. My cheeks heat in embarrassment and I drop my gaze to his shoulder. I’m still really into the way the jacket fits him. Perfectly cut, the seam running from neck to sleeve really does it for me, so there’s that.
“And because you’re beautiful.”
Oh. Okay. We’re doing a mixed signals thing. I bite my lip and risk another look at him.
“Game-changing beautiful.” The words are whispered against my ear. “Possibly crazy, definitely trouble.” This whispered aga
inst my lips.
And then he kisses me.
Chapter Nine
He doesn’t tip my chin up with a single fingertip. No, instead he palms my jaw, his fingertips burning into the skin behind my neck, his thumb on my chin, his lips soft and firm and warm and perfectly pressed against mine. And he most certainly does not kiss me like he’s indifferent to me. He kisses me like he wants to do filthy things with me.
I love it when I’m right.
It’s almost as satisfying a feeling as Vince’s tongue exploring my mouth, but no I told you so in the world could top this kiss. He tastes minty and he smells exactly like a grownup man should. Spicy and masculine. Like a forest on a fall day, with a treehouse complete with a rope ladder for climbing. He’s warm, the heat of his body pleasant in a hallway I hadn’t realized was chilly until I was pressed against him.
The jacket I like so much is soft gripped between my fingertips, but beneath it Vince is hard. And I don’t mean his penis. If he’s got a hard-on he’s not grinding it against me like a randy teenager. Only a minute ago I’d have been okay with a randy teenager bump-and-grind, but not now. Now that I’m in the midst of this perfect kiss I don’t want anything else. He’s hard as in he’s firm in all the right places. My forearms are pressed against his chest and he’s so deliciously solid. The feel of him makes me feel like I’m safe. As if I’ve suddenly developed some kind of prehistoric appreciation for strength and virility and muscle. Or maybe it’s simply an appreciation for the mental picture I’ve concocted of him fucking me against a wall without dropping me.
He slides his other hand into my hair and tugs, maneuvering my head to change the angle of the kiss and sending a rush of heat through me. His fingers brush against my scalp and I take back everything I said about not wanting a quick grind. I’m dying for more, anything more as long as it happens right now.
He breaks the kiss and steps back, my fingers reluctantly falling from his jacket. I’m slumped against a wall I hadn’t even realized I’d been pressed against, and I’m grateful for the support. We’re both breathing heavily and eyeing the other as our chests heave slightly. Somewhere a door swings shut, and a phone rings, and then it’s silent.
“I told you so,” I blurt out because I can’t help myself. He wasted a solid five minutes playing hard to get when we could have been making out. Plus anyone who says saying I told you so isn’t satisfying is lying. Plus plus, that kiss was even better than I imagined it, and believe me, when I imagined it it was phenomenal.
“That you did,” he agrees because he’s a smart man. Then he wipes his bottom lip with his thumb and I about lose my mind.
“So, your place? My place?” His place would be preferable because I already know what my place looks like and I’m nosey. “Your office?” I suggest when he doesn’t say anything. “Is there a utility closet around here? I feel like you’re too tall for us to have sex standing up but I’m willing to try it if you are. Unless you have a sex room with a swing or maybe a footstool.”
“A sex room,” he repeats slowly, head tilted slightly to the side, “with a swing.”
“Okay, wow. Based on your tone I’m guessing that’s a no. No need to be judgey about it.” He’s the one running a strip club and he’s judging me for asking about a sex swing? This guy. “No worries. It’s more of a bucket list item than a deal breaker.”
He stares at me for a long second, blinks a couple of times, then does that head shake thing again, the one where it seems like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “It’s time for you to go home,” he announces, before turning on his heel and walking away. Away from me. Again.
Unbelievable. It’s unbelievable because that kiss was stellar and I know he felt it too. A nun watching us through a peep hole would have felt it, for Christ’s sake. Hmm, I wonder how bad it is to think about nuns while forsaking the Lord’s name in the same thought? It’s probably not good. A nun watching through a peep hole would have felt it too, for goodness’ sake. Is that better? I don’t know, the point is he’s obviously got some kind of self-restraint fetish. Or he might be Catholic, same difference. Either way I need to re-evaluate my night.
Vince is headed in the opposite direction of the locker room but I follow him because I don’t have any other plans and I don’t want to be alone. Lydia and I have only lived together for a few weeks but I’m used to her company and the idea of going back to the apartment without her sucks. It’s not that I’m incapable of being alone, but I don’t prefer it. I could go to Hennigan’s like Lydia assumed I was going to, but going to a bar by myself seems kinda sad. I could go back to the apartment and sit in the hot tub, but I didn’t blow my hair out this afternoon just to go home and sit in a frizz bath, thank you very much. Besides, the pool closes at eleven and I had an energy drink before I left the house, so it’s gonna be a long night.
Vince reaches a door and half turns, his shoulder pressed against the door as he leans in to open it. “You’re still here,” he points out unnecessarily, because where else would I be?
“Relax. I respect your celibate life choices. You do you.” Then I breeze past him into the room because I’m not going to let his bad attitude ruin my night. I may be a girl who knows what she wants, but I also know when to quit. If he’s not interested, his loss. The night is still young, there’s still fun to be had.
I’m in a private room of sorts, based on the small stage and the singular pole; fewer than a dozen chairs surround the stage, which is empty. The chairs, however, are not. Two of them are occupied by a couple of executives from my workplace. Rhys’ buddies. Lydia mentioned they were here and here they are. Lounging in a set of armchairs, drinks in hand, talking to a cocktail waitress. She’s got her ass perched on the edge of the stage and an empty drink tray under her arm and she’s laughing at something that’s been said before I entered the room with Vince.
Canon Reeves and Lawson McCall. I’ve not actually met them but I know who they are, of course. I’ve seen them in passing at work but I’ve never had any need to interact with them, as neither works in my department. Even if they did, they’re many levels farther up the food chain than me so it’s not like we’d be hanging in the same meetings.
I pause mid-step, a bit unsure if meeting them for the first time in the private room of a strip club is awkward.
Definitely awkward.
For them, not me. I’m not the one paying to see tits.
“Hi, I’m Payton.” I stride over and introduce myself as Vince drops into a chair beside them with a grunt.
“Lydia’s friend,” Canon responds, standing. “You work in event marketing.”
Of course he’d know that. He’s the head of security at the Windsor. Once introductions are made I sit on the edge of the small coffee table so I can face everyone. I cross my legs and lean in and not for nothing, Canon notices my tits. Too bad I’m not interested in him. The whole boss thing is really not my jam.
“The first rule of Fight Club,” I start, clasping my hands together and ensuring I have everyone’s attention, “is what happens at Fight Club stays at Fight Club.”
“That’s not the first rule of Fight Club, Payton.” Vince replies dryly, two fingers resting on his forehead, his arm bent resting on the arm of the chair. “You don’t talk about Fight Club. You’re mixing it up with ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’”
“Why can’t I talk about Fight Club?” I’m indignant. “Don’t start your sexist bullshit with me, Vince. I can talk about Fight Club if I want to talk about Fight Club. You are not the boss of me.” Hmm, maybe the boss thing could be my jam.
“The saying, Payton. The line from the movie is ‘the first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club.’ It’s not ‘what happens at Fight Club stays at Fight Club.’”
“Oh. Well, I’ve never seen the movie.” I wave a hand because the details are of little importance to me. “Besides, it’s practically the same thing.”
Vince stares at me. I’m pretty sure I’m less
than a minute away from him kicking me out again.
“Hey, is that bourbon?” Canon is holding a glass of amber-colored liquid with one single square ice cube. “I’ve always wanted to try that.” I pluck it out of his hand and knock it back before setting the empty glass onto the table beside me with a grimace. “Whoa, that was supposed to be sipped, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Canon agrees with a grin. “But I like your style.” He likes my tits too. I really should give him another thought.
“Thank you.” I nod in acknowledgment of the compliment. “It’s nice to be appreciated.” I slide a frown over to Vince before turning my attention back to Canon again. “Do you come here often?” I bat my eyelashes at Canon in a dramatic over-the-top faux flirt.
“Why are we talking about Fight Clubs?” Vince interrupts as Canon laughs.
“Oh, right!” I drumroll my hands against my thighs for buildup. “Let’s have one of those nights where we wake up tomorrow with a tiger!”
“Like The Hangover?” Lawson asks.
“Exactly like The Hangover,” I agree, tapping my nose and pointing back at him with a wink and a finger gunshot.
“Yeah, I’m in,” Canon agrees with an easy shrug.
“That sounds like a real great idea.” This from Vince, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Canon and I exchange an eye roll. I know it sounds like a bad idea, but my life coach said bad decisions lead to good decisions because you learn from your mistakes, and I bet this is exactly the kind of scenario she was referring to. I wonder if I can convince Vince to get a life coach.
“You’ve already done your good deed for the day. Let’s have fun,” Canon responds as I nod and order a round of shots. “Besides, it’s not like you’re needed here. You have a manager who runs this place.”
“Is the manager hot?” I ask because hey, Vince had his chance.
“The manager is a woman,” Vince retorts.
“Don’t judge me,” I snap back.
Canon looks between us and laughs again.
