Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  The woman bit her lip.

  So did I.

  “Wow! The pup isn’t shy, is he?” I shouted over the loud screeching of Axl Rose’s voice.

  “Actually, that’s the first time I’ve seen him come down from the stage on his own.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, this is his first tour,” she explained, holding her finger on the camera button while snapping away.

  Dimps let go of the woman’s hands and grabbed her head, thrusting his cock at her face.

  “Oh my God!” I laughed, my hand shooting to cover my eyes, my fingers spreading so that I could peek between them. It was a side to Dimps I hadn’t seen, and one I wasn’t sure how to take.

  Letting her go and planting a kiss on top of her head, he boosted himself up on stage and slid along his knees to join the others as they dropped to theirs at the precise moment Axl sang that he was gonna bring us to our knees. All five of them then performed a dry-hump-the-stage manoeuvre.

  The timing was on point, their bodies drilling the floor in perfect unison. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and wolf-whistled, clapping and helping to cheer them on with the one-hundred-plus other women in the room.

  “I hope you’re ready,” Cori yelled.

  “What?”

  “I said, I. Hope. You’re. Ready.”

  “Ready for wha—” I tried to finish the end of the word I’d started, but my mouth refused to close again and sound the letter T. It refused to close because it had fallen open right about the time all guys jumped to their feet and dropped five pairs of jeans, those jeans resting nicely around five pairs of ankles.

  Holy mother of butts.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been complaining about this job,” I said, annoyed while shaking my head, unable to remove the vision of five toned, tanned, taut tushies from my mind.

  Not that I wanted to. They were exceptional tushies.

  “I haven’t been complaining about that,” Cori replied, gesturing to the now empty stage. “I’ve been complaining about that.” She flicked her head toward the room of overzealous women. “And because the only other female on this tour is a lesbian, a lovely lesbian, but a lesbian all the same. Not to mention that the past four weeks have been a clusterfuck where Josh is concerned. That’s what I’ve been complaining about.”

  “Well, Josh-clusterfuck aside, what just happened on that stage totally makes up for everything else,” I said, fanning my face with my hand. “Jesus, Cor, they’re really good.”

  “Yeah, they are. They work so hard and take it very seriously. Even Josh.” Cori sipped her glass of water. “Okay, so yeah,” she said, swallowing, “he fucked around before I came along, but he always takes his performances and dance choreography seriously. It’s his livelihood. It’s all of their livelihoods.”

  I nodded. “I can see that.”

  “What I love is that each of them have their strengths, and each of them bring something different to the ensemble. They’re a family, you know?” She smiled toward the stage then sipped her drink again. “Anyway, I’ve loved being a part of this family. I’ll be sad when it ends.” Cori smiled dejectedly and swirled her straw in her glass, but I could see she was genuinely devastated and trying to tone it down.

  “Hey!” I gave her arm a friendly nudge. “Who says it’s gonna end?”

  She shrugged. “Everything ends.”

  “Yeah, but when it does, something else begins.”

  Cori scrunched her nose just as a loud, ear-piercing screech from the microphone sounded, garnering everyone in the room’s attention.

  “Ladies and ladies, are you enjoying yourselves?” Patsy asked, a rumble in her voice as she took centre stage.

  “Shit! The new act is next. I want to be at the very front of the stage. I’m okay on my own this time, so if you want to stay here by the bar, that’s up to you.”

  “Yeah, no worries. You go. I’ll be around.” I winked and watched her scoot off before I turned to the barman. “Can I have a Chardonnay, please?”

  “Sure, coming right up.”

  “Ladies, ladies, ladies, do we have a treat for you,” Patsy continued. “Tonight, for the first time my boys will perform their newest act. And I can tell you …” she teased, one eyebrow soaring high as she ran her hand through her short, bleached blonde hair, “it nearly turned me straight.”

  Everyone in the room laughed, some shouting things such as ‘bring it on’ and ‘I love Wild Nights’.

  “Alright, alright. Hang on to your panties, because without further ado,” she continued to tease, lowering her voice as the lights lowered along with it, “I think you’ve earned it.”

  “Here you go, ma’am. It’s on the house for cast and crew,” the barman explained.

  I turned back to face him, and he nodded to my lanyard, which read ‘crew’.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “Not a problem.” He winked and moved on to the next person waiting to be served, so I turned back around just as the drums of ‘Earned It’ by The Weekend kicked in. Oh, well played, Patsy. Well played.

  I loved this song. It was so God damn sexy, one of those songs you couldn’t help swaying your hips to, which was exactly what I did as I stepped away from the bar, focussing on the stage and sipping my wine.

  Lit only by a mild blue light, the stage was dark, but I could make out five silhouettes, moving into position before stepping to the slow beat of the song with their heads down. It was too dark to see what they were wearing or decipher any detail—not from where I was standing—so I moved closer to the stage, finding a spare seat on one of the outer tables.

  Acknowledging the three women already seated there, I smiled politely as I sat down. They didn’t care. They didn’t even notice me. Instead, their eyes were glued to the front of the room.

  It was by far the better view.

  I took a sip from my glass, and the blue light brightened when the vocals began, illuminating five topless, muscled, hot-as-fucking-hell barefooted men wearing black, hip-riding trousers.

  I practically choked. For the love of bare feet and muscles. Or maybe I snorted. Probably a combination of both. Actually, I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d done. I just knew that what I was seeing was one of the hottest things my eyes had ever witnessed, and they’d witnessed a ton of hot things.

  My eyes were thankful, though—I could tell. They twinkled like glittered fairies while the beddable dancey man-meat ran their hands all over their bodies, as if rubbing soap suds under the spray of a shower. Damn! If they keep up all of that rubbing, gliding and gripping, I’ll need a shower, too. Preferably a cold one.

  The pre-hook of the song began, the singer’s smooth falsetto and lyrics combining perfectly with the way each of the guys rolled their bodies in unison. It was so bloody sexy. Everything about it was sexy. The level of sexy was sexy. Sex was sexy. I needed sex. Now. Fuck!

  Calm your lady farm, Em, and take another sip of wine.

  Wine was good.

  Wine pacified.

  Wine was disappearing too quickly.

  Resting the rim of the glass on my lip, I stared heatedly as Brad and Noah step-slid forward simultaneously, turning to their sides as if on rails—back-to-back—and holding their arms in front of them while swirling their hips in semi-circles to the beat of the chorus. I nearly bit the glass. Holy double eye-orgasm. Double the holy fucking wet-twin-dream.

  Okay, so, admittedly, I’d ruled out any romantic attraction to Noah early on in the week. But fuck me, I could quite easily forgo romantic fluff right about now and plant myself between his and Brad’s cocks. I could make a bridge with the two of them, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. They were both very appetising. Very appetising.

  Both men took a step forward and moved in opposite directions, opening the stage and allowing Dimps, Chief and Josh to strut forward, thumbs hooked in the waistband of their pants and inching them down every time the singer said ‘you’ in succession, which was four times.

  I counte
d.

  Hello, happy trails! All three of them proudly displayed the sprinkling of hair that led to their cock. Why, thank you. Much appreciated. It was super-nice, tempting and all, but damn … just one more ‘you’ and I would’ve seen where the trail of happiness ended. Argh!

  The chorus began, and I sang along about a girl being perfect, that she was worth it, deserved it, and earned it. It was also the point in the song where all five guys stepped off the stage and a found a girl they could perform that notion for.

  My eyes followed Brad as he made his way through the crowd, stopping not too far away from where I was seated at the foot of a pretty, longhaired brunette with blonde highlights. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes but a kind smile on his face. It was a devilish expression, and it contorted my stomach.

  I insta-hated everything about her. I hated the way her cheeks flushed, how her hands covered her face, how her smile split her dainty little head, and how she sat there rigid when Brad straddled her lap and lowered himself to her.

  Yeah, I hated her. And I hated me for allowing the green-eyed monster to rear its ugly head. It was an imposter, the hideous thing, and it had no right to infiltrate the happy I’d cloaked myself in. Ugh! I had to bury it and fast, because my icky thoughts were completely unreasonable. This was what Brad did. It was his profession, and he was good at it—more than good, he was amazing.

  Trying to shake the verdant shade consuming me, I smiled and focussed on his performance skills, his acting … which was star-fucking-rated when he took hold of her hand and placed it against his heart, lip-syncing the part of the song where he explained that she knew their love would be tragic and that she was his favourite kind of night. Favourite kind of night? Oh, I’ll give you favourite kind of fucking night.

  The green in my vision brightened, so I sipped my wine again and momentarily closed my eyes. Deep breaths, Em. He’s phenomenal. A true performer. Focus on that. Focus on how talented this gorgeous man is and respect it.

  I opened my eyes again and found Brad’s focus on the girl to be unwavering—his desire, explosive. It was exactly how it was supposed to be. Not to mention that his timing to the music was impeccable and on point, especially when he stood during the second pre-hook, placed his hands in browny/blondie’s hair, and thrashed his cock in her face, gently making contact with her cheeks, nose and chin. Seriously! What the fuck? I haven’t even been that close to his monster yet.

  My mood was clearly taking a soaring nosedive into Bitchy City, pulling to a stop at Ridiculous and Uncalled For Airport. But in my defence, Brad had not long ago told me that he liked me, wanted me, and was gonna have me, and unfortunately for me, the pretty little stripy-tigerhead he was dancing for was seeing more action than me. It wasn’t right. I wanted action. I wanted that action.

  Skolling my wine and firmly setting the empty glass down on the table, I bit the inside of my cheek and sighed. Deep down, I wasn’t jealous of him touching and seducing the women in the room, because it was a performance. He. Was. Performing. And I’d done the same thing many times before. Well, not quite the same thing. I’ve never dry-face-fucked any of my co-stars. But I got it. I got the tease. I got the reason behind the attention he paid the women … I got the whole concept. I just didn’t like it all that much.

  I gave a passing waiter my meek smile as he collected my glass, continuing to watch as all five guys took a step back while keeping their eyes locked on their ‘chosen ones’ and body rolling and thrusting to the beat. Despite Brad fucking the air surrounding him, I couldn’t deny that the choreography was incredible. I was a dancer too and knew what was involved in putting an entire act together, so I could definitely appreciate the performance structure, theatrics, and talent required to carry it all out. So yeah, it really was impressive.

  All five guys simultaneously dropped to their knees, and once again, dry-humped the ground. I bit my thumb, my eyes slowly roaming the dips and curves of Brad’s back and arse. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something deliciously dirty about a man dry-humping the ground. Perhaps it was how his hips rolled, his arse mounded, and how his cock gently caressed the floor below. Yes, perhaps it’s that.

  Swallowing, I removed my thumb from between my teeth and licked my dry lips just as Brad crawled forward and opened his ‘chosen one’s’ legs. He shuffled forward and dipped his head, dragging his mouth along her thighs, up her tummy, over her chest, and stopping just centimetres from her mouth. Whoa!

  I sucked in a sharp breath and my heart all but stopped beating. Surely not. Surely, he wouldn’t kiss her. That had to be a no-go zone. Kissing was intimate. The touch of one’s lips to another’s was when no words were spoken yet everything said, when mouths connected, unvoiced, each other consumed instead. It was a language of lust, passion, and love, and it shouldn’t be spoken with just anyone—especially not some random woman in a crowded room.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  Unable to watch his lips touch hers a moment longer, I willed the knot of discontent lodged in my throat to go down before standing up and exiting the room. I needed a moment alone. I needed air.

  Stepping through the automatic glass doors as they opened, I walked out into the fresh but humid night air, taking a seat on a wooden park bench adjacent to a tropical-themed garden. Twinkling stars dotted the sky above, and the gentle breeze blew a subtle aroma of frangipani from a nearby tree. It was nice, sans the distant sound of cars travelling the freeway, an ungrateful reminder that I wasn’t lost in a tropical oasis.

  I felt a little ill, but mainly lost. Lost because I didn’t know what to make of Brad kissing another woman. Lost because he and I weren’t an item, therefore it shouldn’t effect me as much as it was. And lost because I was in desperate need to talk to H. He still hadn’t responded to the last message I’d sent about him only being words and nothing more. My response had been harsh, and I knew he wouldn’t have liked hearing it, but my intent was never to offend or make him feel that he meant nothing to me, because he did. He meant a lot. His words meant a lot. They always had.

  Removing my phone from my clutch, I opened our message thread and started typing.

  Em: Silence says so many things,

  and more often than not

  they are all wrong.

  I pressed send and waited, hoping he would reply, which he did. My phone beeped seconds later. Relief washed over me like a drug-induced high.

  Mr Happy: Perhaps they’re not wrong.

  Perhaps they’re right.

  I smiled sadly, able to tell by his words that I’d offended him, but at least he responded.

  Em: I wouldn’t know.

  I don’t speak in muted tongue.

  Mr Happy: No, you certainly don’t.

  Damn it, he’s shitty. I hate it when he’s shitty.

  Em: What was I supposed to say, huh?

  You tell me.

  I waited for him to offer his perspective on the matter, even though I didn’t really want to get into the whole we-can’t-be-together argument with him. But he didn’t respond, so I waited a little longer then gave in, spurring him for a further response.

  Em: Cat got your tongue?

  His reply wasn’t instant, but it did come a minute or two later.

  Mr Happy: No. My tongue is busy.

  You’re interrupting.

  An unsettling feeling waved through me, and I wasn’t sure if it was one of prurience or bitterness. Either way, I didn’t like it.

  Em: Apologies.

  Go back to eating your ice cream.

  I smiled at my retort.

  Mr Happy: Oh I’m eating, love.

  Just not an ice cream.

  It is sweet, though.

  I call bullshit!

  Em: Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk while eating?

  It’s rude.

  Mr Happy: Yes, she did. But I’m a big boy now.

  I make my own rules.

  Em: You also make up bullshit.

  Mr Happy: W
hatever you say, love.

  Now excuse me while I finish my dessert.

  Argh! Arsehole much? He was bluffing. He had to be.

  Em: I don’t believe you.

  You can’t type on your phone

  and eat out a woman at the same time.

  Mr Happy: Don’t try and call my bluff, love.

  And don’t ask me for something

  you don’t want proof of.

  With my heart racing and my hand trembling just slightly, I responded anyway. He wasn’t going to win. Not this time.

  Em: Don’t tell me what I want and what I don’t want,

  because you don’t know.

  I pressed send, my feeling of nausea increasing. Shit! I shouldn’t have said that. I’d outright lied. But fuck, I was pissed off. H had pissed me off. He’d deliberately baited me. All I’d wanted to do was apologise for the original message and for upsetting him. I’d only wanted to make things right between us and let him know he was more to me than just words.

  I’d just wanted to chat … and see how he was.

  My phone chimed his message, the ring surging right through my body. I paused, but only for a split second before opening it.

  Oh my fucking God!

  H hadn’t used words. He hadn’t needed to. Instead, he’d sent a picture of his finger pressed inside a woman’s pussy. And I suspected by the camera angle, she’d been none the wiser about him taking the photo.

  I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. That message was aimed at hurting me, and it had. Deeply. I knew he fucked women. Of course he did. I just did not need photographic proof of it. I did not need it waved in my face.