Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  Our eyes locked on one another’s, glistening excitedly as I entertained that tantalizing thought, until Brad broke our gaze and nodded to my beer. “I hope you like b—”

  “Holding out on me, you have been,” Noah interrupted, his eyes on me, his tattooed arm now draped over Brad’s shoulder.

  Brad rolled his eyes. “Nope, not at all, little brother.”

  “Really? Well then who do we have here?”

  I immediately stuck my hand out for Noah, palm faced down … it was only fair. “I’m Em, Cori’s best friend.”

  “Nice to meet you, Em. I’m Noah.” He leaned forward, took my hand, and kissed the top of it.

  My skin tingled in response. “Nice to meet you, too. Soooo …” I drawled, a knowing smile forming on my face as I retracted my hand, “… you two related?”

  Brad scoffed, and Noah didn’t answer. Instead, he quietly took me in, his eyes resting on my midriff.

  My eyebrow lifted at the brazenness of his wandering sight, and I took a swig of my beer. “Would you like me to spin for you?” I asked, my toe pointed as I stepped forward and shifted my weight to pivot 180 degrees, repeating the move until I’d spun full circle for him. “Tada!”

  Josh laughed and murmured to Cori, “You weren’t wrong.”

  “I know, right?” she answered.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what they were talking about, but I furrowed my brow and gave them both a sly, questioning grin.

  Cori playfully shook her head at me then linked her arm in mine once more. “How ’bout we find a table and order some dinner, yeah?”

  “Great idea.” Noah beamed, clapping Brad on the back with a loud whack. He then turned and placed his two pointer fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, causing everyone within a mile’s radius to look up. “Dimps. Chief. Food!” he shouted across the room.

  Two guys at the bar nodded and headed our way, both of them delicious pieces of eye-candy, too—the variety you wanted to suck continuously, like a gobstopper. Sweet fuck! I swear that if Cori hadn’t informed me that Dimps and Chief were also a part of the revue, I would’ve no doubt guessed they were anyway. I mean, hello biceps!

  “That’s Chief,” she whispered in my ear, nodding toward Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome. “He’s the leader of the pack. Really nice guy, too. He has a girlfriend, so don’t even go there.”

  I whispered back, “Pack? As in wolf pack?”

  “Yeah.” She giggled. “Very much so.”

  My eyes flicked in the direction of the smaller-built blond with the world’s biggest dimples. “What about the pup?”

  “Dimps? You’d eat him alive,” she said dismissively.

  “Well, I am really hungry …”

  If the look Cori then gave me could be translated into words, it would’ve said ‘Don’t even think about it or I’ll slap your vagina … hard!’

  “Whaaaat?” I exclaimed, innocent devilry dripping from my face.

  “Come on, you. I’m sure Brad and Noah will keep you plenty busy anyway.”

  Stumbling just slightly as she walked me in the direction of our reserved table, I rested my head on her shoulder. “Oh, I have no doubt they will.

  ***

  Meat. I was the meat in a Brad and Noah sandwich, and I couldn’t have been happier. Brad was the bun, the soft, warm, you-know-you-shouldn’t-eat-but-just-want-to-sink-your-teeth-into-it doughy goodness. And Noah was the spicy sauce you craved, but then regretted afterwards. Why? Because spicy sauce tasted oh-so-good yet burned like fuck. It also left your arse hurting a good twenty-four hours later, and I guessed Noah would have the same effect. Regardless, I enjoyed my twin sandwich. Eat now. Worry later.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” Brad asked from his position to my left.

  “I’m an actress and singer … a stage performer.”

  “We’re all stage performers, sweet cheeks,” Noah chimed in from his position on my right.

  I smiled sweetly at him. “Well unlike you, I keep my clothes on.”

  He forked a bit of steak. “A shame, that is.”

  His funny way of talking piqued my curiosity. “You talk backwards a lot,” I mumbled, swallowing a piece of my salt and pepper squid.

  “Right, you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a Star Wars nerd, that’s why,” Brad interjected. “The dickhead has been doin’ it since we were kids.”

  I nodded my understanding. “I love Star Wars! Princess Leia when held prisoner in Jabba’s Palace was super hot.”

  Noah slammed his hand on the table and placed his other one across his chest. “In love, I am. My future wife, I have found.”

  I laughed. “Not, you have.”

  “Em likes to remain clothed, Slick. Clearly she’s not your type.”

  I shot a surprised look at Brad, spying him glaring at Noah. Wow! Cori wasn’t wrong. These two are competitive. The prospect of a twin battle excited me as much fun could be had with two identical hotties wrestling for my affection, but I remembered what Cori had said earlier. I didn’t want to start a war on my first night in town. I was evil, but not that evil, so I opted to lighten the mood again. After all, this was my game, not theirs.

  Resting the prong of my fork on my bottom lip, I playfully propositioned them both. “You boys could always teach me how to take my clothes off, you know. You could give me some Wild Nights Revue lessons.” I wiggle-danced in my seat to emphasise my point. “The art of on-stage sultry attire removal is absent from my list of credentials.”

  Cori leaned forward and stole a piece of squid from my plate. “You sure ’bout that?”

  “Hey! Get your mitts off my fish. And yes, I am sure. I’m quite prudish, remember?”

  She scoffed playfully. “Sure you are. And that’s not fish, by the way.”

  I studied it quickly, making sure it wasn’t chicken. “Is too.”

  “Actually, it’s not. It’s a mollusc.”

  We all looked at Dimps as if he’d just spoken another language, which he kinda had.

  “What?” he said defensively. “Squid are invertebrates. Fish aren’t. Fish don’t have limbs either so technically, what she’s eating isn’t fish. Sorry. I’m Lucas, by the way.” He reached his hand over the table.

  I shook it. “Em.”

  “But you can call me ‘Dimps’.” He put his head down and continued eating his spaghetti bolognaise, sucking a long noodle until it disappeared into his mouth.

  The kid was cute, as in puppy-dog cute. I wanted to pat him, and preen him, and put his head in between my breasts and motorboat him, he was that cute. And I didn’t exactly have motorboating breasts.

  Speaking of breasts, mine were doing quite well in my tight red top. They’d received acknowledgement from both Brad and Noah—Brad, more so. I swear his stare was so intense that at one point, I thought he was trying to project a Jedi mind trick onto them. Oh, but then again, he isn’t the Star Wars fan. Shit! Maybe he was actually just trying to find them? God, I hope not.

  That last thought made me shift uncomfortably, so I inconspicuously draped my hand in front of my chest to provide a small but relieving screen. I was not a shy person, nor was I prim or overly self-confident—quite the opposite, actually—but I did have boob issues, tit tribulation … chest-complaints. And it wasn’t a cry for sympathy on my part, either. I was a woman, and despite what others saw and what reassurance they offered, there was always that one part of myself I would never be happy with.

  Hang on a minute … no … fuck it! I’d promised myself that I was going to wear my itty-bitty titties with pride tonight, and fuck me to Sesame Street, I was gonna.

  Faux yawning, I lifted my hands and settled one each on the backs of both Brad’s and Noah’s chairs, subtly pushing out my chesticles. “I’m so full. Can’t eat anymore fish.”

  “Molluscs,” Dimps coughed out.

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “You choking on one?”

  “No. I had spaghetti.”

  “
I can see that. You have a bit of sauce here.” I lifted one of my hands and pointed to my chin, indicating as if that were the part of his face that was splattered with sauce.

  He wiped the spot.

  “And here.” I pointed to my nose, insinuating there was more sauce on that particular spot, too. There wasn’t. He didn’t know that though.

  Dimps wiped his nose. “Gone?” he asked, his adorable dimpled-cheeks beaming.

  “Sure.” I winked at him.

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said satisfactorily.

  Cori mouthed the words you’re evil from her position opposite me.

  I shrugged. Maybe I was. Then again, I liked to think of myself as an angel, except under my white virginal gown I wore red lace panties and a corset made for the dirty depths of hell. I had pretty feathered wings and a pronged tail, horns and a halo. Yep, I was good and bad, all rolled into one.

  I was a pleasurable nightmare.

  As if H telepathically knew what I was thinking, my phone chimed with his message alert. The sound was like a beacon to my body, awakening it in anticipation of his message content. A delightful tingle climbed my spine, and my fingers itched. They wanted to grab my phone and trace the words that always dampened my panties and parched my mouth. They wanted to obey his instruction if, in fact, that was what he’d sent me. And they wanted to open that message there and then and put me out of my amorous misery.

  Bad fingers. Bad, bad fingers.

  Smiling innocently, I reached for my clutch that was sat on the table and pulled out my iPhone. I couldn’t open the message with Brad and Noah in eyeshot, so I pretended to read a different message before pushing my chair back and standing up. “Sorry, I have to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

  “Everything alright?” Cori asked, her brows drawn together.

  “Yeah, it’s just Sarah.” I rolled my eyes, dramatising my annoyance at my sister’s supposed need for me to contact her. What can I say? I’m an actress … a damn good one.

  Cori smiled her understanding, so I made haste to the ladies’ room, finding a cubicle and leaning against the closed door before opening the message.

  Mr Happy: I’m sitting here,

  wondering what your pussy tastes like.

  My pussy clenched at the thought, a wave of desire flooding me. I bit my lip and sent him a reply.

  Em: I can put you out of your misery, if you like.

  I pressed send and waited, excitement over his next move almost proving too much. I knew what I wanted him to say, and I knew how I would answer.

  Mr Happy: I like. I like very much.

  Em: I thought you would.

  Mr Happy: So tell me, what does it taste like?

  I want you to taste it for me.

  Now.

  It was exactly what I’d thought he would say. That was how he operated. He dangled his carrot—among other things—knowing I liked to bite, knowing I couldn’t help myself, and knowing I’d dangle my own carrot in return. We just knew what the other wanted, even when it was something that we shouldn’t.

  Smiling and sucking in a deep breath, I hiked up my skirt, opened my legs, and slid a finger inside my underwear. I was already wet and yearning to be touched. Damn! How does he do this? Why does he have such an effect on me?

  Our dynamic didn’t make any fucking sense. What we shared were just words—letters strung together into something legible. Just words? Yep, you keep telling yourself that.

  “Fuck you, H,” I growled to myself while sliding my finger inside, as far as it would go. My eyelids fell shut as I visualised him watching me, and that was all it took for my head to fall back and my bottom lip to find its way in between my teeth. Oh God! The slide of my finger felt good. So good. And it shouldn’t have. Maybe it was because I was in a public place. Maybe it was because I was doing something he wanted me to do. Or maybe it was because I wanted it as well. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of much where he was concerned. All I knew was that he made me feel good in the worst possible way.

  Continuing to visualise his heated voyeuristic expression behind my closed eyelids, it spurred my finger to continue its movement. H would revel in the knowledge of what I was doing and where I was doing it, and that alone made me smile, but more so when the sound of my phone chimed another incoming message.

  I stopped my finger’s slide, pulled it out, and placed it in my mouth, slowly dragging it free before I pressed open.

  Mr Happy: Now now, naughty girl. I said just a taste.

  Em: Mmm …

  Mr Happy: Fuck! Tell me.

  Em: I can’t. My tongue is busy.

  Mr Happy: You don’t need to use your tongue to tell me, love.

  Em: My finger is busy, too.

  Mr Happy: Fuck! TELL ME!

  Em: I taste sweet, of course.

  Mr Happy: Tell me something I don’t know.

  Em: You don’t know that.

  And you never will.

  ***

  I never really understood how I felt after a ‘session’ with H. And I think that was because he left me feeling a wash of emotions—exhilarated, confident, a little dirty, naughty and desired. He empowered me and that gift was priceless. Power was something we all craved. Fuck, wars were started and fought over it. Power led to greed, and greed was a strange little thing. It was the invisible push for more, the intangible force that led to tangible things … like tasting my own arousal while hiding in a public bathroom, because I was greedy for his reaction and also too fucking greedy to say no. Fuck!

  Taking a much-needed breath, I assessed my face in the mirror above the basin. “What are you doing?” I quietly asked myself, my bright blue eyes seeking an answer I couldn’t give … an answer I didn’t have.

  Lies.

  I had the goddamn answer. I just didn’t want to have it. Perhaps I was ashamed, or maybe I was in denial. I didn’t know. And that was the problem.

  “Get it together, Em,” I whispered, giving myself a much-needed pep talk.

  This form of self-encouragement helped me get by each day, regardless of its validity. It had become the counterfeit shoes on the feet I took counterfeit steps in.

  It had become my ruse.

  “You’re not a bad person.” Lie.

  “What you do is perfectly fine.” Lie.

  “You’re not hurting anyone.” I scoffed at that last lie because clearly, I was hurting myself. I was at war with me, battling me. And when you’re at war with yourself, there can never be a victor.

  Some days, I don’t know if I am weak or if I am strong,

  whether I’ll break or stand tall, whether I’ll fight or fall.

  Some days, I just … don’t know.

  I suffered depression, and nobody knew the extent of it. Not my sister, not my mother, not even Cori. I’d kept my anguish and misery a secret because it was mine to bear. I didn’t want to share it, didn’t want to surround it in neon lights, and for quite some time, I didn’t even want to acknowledge that I had it, because for me, it felt as if it had come out of nowhere.

  One minute I’d been vibrant, happy … the world, my oyster. And the next I was lost, my only path a downward spiral. I thought that if I ignored the hollow feeling inside, it would eventually swallow itself.

  I was wrong.

  It swallowed me.

  Every time I looked in the mirror, it would swallow me. Every time I was knocked back for a part in a production, it swallowed me. Every time I failed at a relationship, it swallowed me. And every time I opened my eyes when dawn broke it swallowed me.

  Like love, depression was personal. It was never the same for those it consumed. It sewed itself into the threads of your being and became a part of who you were. Sure, friends and family could show love and lend support, but deep down none of that mattered. The threads of depression were tightly knit, and you were the only one who could find those threads and unpick them—they were yours to unravel.

  Nowadays, for th
e better part my depression was under control. Sure, I relapsed when times were difficult, and sometimes when they were not. But with medication, H, my diary, reading and yoga, I was much better equipped to cope on those days. And I did. I’d coped just fine for the past ten months.

  The same couldn’t be said for a time two and a half years ago, the point where I was fairly sure my depression began. It was the time of uni exams, late nights of cramming, stress-filled days, and uncertainty as to where my career was headed and if years of study would pay off.

  It was the time I lost myself.

  But roughly one year later, I stumbled upon H.

  I’d like to tell you that it all started with a blind date, followed by a fluffy romance and subsequent textual flirting. But it hadn’t. Not even close. No. My relationship with H started while I was working my second job—mindlessly answering lewd messages with lewd messages of my own. It started when Mr Happy, together with his smiley-face profile picture, appeared on my SexyTexts.com home screen. Yeah, you read that correctly … I’m a professional sex-texter.

  I made money by fooling men into believing the cum they just blew into their hand was the by-product of me touching my double-D breasted, size-eight supermodel-like, lingerie-clad body.

  It wasn’t.

  It never was.

  In fact, for the majority of the time I sexted my clients, I was in my Hello Kitty PJs, my hair in a messy bun, sitting on my sofa while scoffing down pizza and chocolate. Yep. Glamorous stuff.

  I couldn’t really complain though, as it was quite the cruisy job, which was good for me. With my strict training and dance regime, I could only devote part-time hours—normally three a day—to my sexting role. And when I was in between productions, I could work more hours and earn more money. So yeah, it was a good system. Not to mention the cruisiness extended to being able to work from home, or anywhere I logged onto the interface. That was a major plus. What wasn’t a major plus was the money. It wasn’t great. It was okay, and let’s face it, ‘easy money’, but considering what I had to do, what I had to read, and what I had to see in order to earn it, the money was shit. Honestly, my eyes have been subjected to some of the funkiest looking cock-vomit to exist, and there’s no amount of money that can rectify that eye-rape. Ever!