He linked his arm with mine and walked us toward the front of the motel. “You’re a part of our thing. It’s your job to document our thing. And anyway, I have this move I want to try on—”
“No way,” I interrupted, stopping in my tracks. “No freakin’ way!”
“Aw … come on, I—”
“Is my brother trying to get into your pants?”
I turned my head to find Noah approaching us, his blond wayward hair stylishly messy. “If so,” he continued, “then ‘no way’ is the perfect answer. My pants are much nicer than his.”
Glancing down, I spied his pants. He was right. They were nice: fashionably ripped denim that screamed sexy. Noah’s entire look was clean-cut but with an edge of scruff. Come to think of it, he actually looked and sounded more like Brad than Brad did.
Unlinking my arm, I took a step back and pointed suspiciously at both of them. “Hang on a minute. Who’s who?”
“Surfer,” Noah said, performing a fake surfing maneuverer.
“Wait! Isn’t Brad surfer?”
He stopped his faux display. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“But you’re Noah.”
“Nope, he is.” Brad pointed to his brother.
I turned my head, looking from one to the other and feeling as if I were at a tennis match. I settled on the real Noah. “I thought you were Brad.”
He smirked. “I know.”
Brad’s expression was one of amused recognition. “Dude, that’s not cool.”
I narrowed my gaze. “You two have done this before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Noah laughed. “Come on, you’d do it too.”
Inwardly scoffing, I agreed. I probably would. “Ugh! How do I tell you both apart?”
“You can’t.” Noah relinked his arm with mine and encouraged me to keep walking.
I freed myself from his hold but kept his pace. “Bullshit! There’s got to be a way.”
“The only difference is the size of our cocks,” Brad explained, stepping up to my free side. “Mine’s much bigger.” He ran his hand through his hair then draped his arm over my shoulder.
I pushed it off and stopped. My time as the meat in a wholesome, male-revue-hottie sandwich was done. “Right! Both of you stop that, and keep your hands to yourself. Next one to touch me without permission gets a foot to the balls.”
“I’d do as she says,” Josh said, stopping by the three of us. “That foot of hers is lethal. My balls are still bruised.”
Good! They deserve to be.
Standing there with my hands on my hips, gazing from one guy to the other, I realised I was in a position most girls would kill to be in. All three of them were incredibly hot, available, and persistently flirting with me, so why was I frustrated and threatening violence? Because none of them are genuine, Cori. It’s just a game, one they no doubt play often.
It was such a shame. I liked games, but they were normally of the board and electronic variety. Still, I had to decide whether I was going to let their boisterous ways stress and annoy me for the entire three-month tour, or whether to remove the proverbial stick I seemed to have currently up my arse and just go with it. I chose the latter; after all, they seemed harmless … with the exception of Josh. I was still a little wary of him, especially after what Matt had said.
Relaxing my defensive posture, I smiled and sighed. “Come on then, show me what moves you’ve all got.”
***
Baz the bus driver—yep, that’s his name—drove all of us to the venue, which was a mere five minutes away. Lenny, Patsy and the rest of the crew set up for the performance while the guys and I ate dinner in the bistro next door. It was a strange scenario at first, because when I took my seat at the table, I noticed nearly every single pair of female eyes in the room looking in our general direction. Actually, they weren’t looking—more like bugging.
“Does this happen everywhere you go?” I asked, picking up my menu.
Matt looked up and tilted his head. “Does what happen?”
I gestured to the eye-bugging women in the room with an inconspicuous sweep of my hand. “The staring.”
He performed a quick scan, shrugged and returned his attention to the menu. “Pretty much.”
Lucas, on the other hand, utilised the staring eyes and playfully winked and waved at a couple of teenyboppers across the room. They giggled and blushed like idiots.
“Dude!” Brad scolded, hitting him across the head. “Those two still believe in the Easter bunny.”
Lucas frowned. “I was just being friendly.”
Turning in his seat, Matt glanced toward the young girls and sighed. “Dimps, try not to excite the teenagers, okay? We don’t need bad publicity. Bugs incites enough of that as it is.” Bugs? Who the hell is Bugs?
“They don’t look like teenagers,” Lucas moped.
“Oh, young Padawan, much to learn have you.” Noah patted him on the head. “But those three …” He nodded toward a table of women not too far away, “ … those three are fair game.”
“Bugs, it’s your shout,” Brad said, leaning back on his chair.
Josh pushed his chair back and stood. “Corinne, what will it be?”
“Ahh, just a water with lemon, please.”
He screwed up his face. “Try again, but this time add alcohol.”
My eyebrows rose. “Should you all be drinking before a show?” I glanced from one guy to the other.
Matt winked. “One won’t hurt.” He looked at Josh. “The usual.”
Josh lifted his chin in acknowledgement and made his way to the bar.
“Bugs?” I asked, smiling curiously.
“Yeah,” Brad said, chomping his teeth. “After the bunny. They have the same teeth.”
I laughed. Excellent!
“Right,” I said, still giggling and directing my question to Matt and Noah. “Let me get this straight. We have Bugs, Dimps and Surfer, so what are your nicknames?”
“I’m Chief, and Noah is Slick.”
I tapped my lip with the tip of my finger. “Chief makes sense. But Slick?”
“Yeah, he has a fetish for baby oil.”
“It’s not a fetish,” Noah explained, unperturbed, while leaning back in his chair. “It’s an appreciation.”
I face-palmed and lost it, bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Each and every one of them was quite the contradiction: manly, buff, testosterone-fuelled, yet baby oil-loving dancers. They were a chalk and cheese sandwich, a hot ice cream … a freakin’ oxymoron. It was so funny. It did, however, make them all the more charming.
Stemming my laughter, I took in a deep breath, picked up my menu, and scanned the contents, settling on salmon with steamed rice and veg just as Josh placed a drink in front of me.
“Thank you. What is it?” I asked, picking up the glass and sniffing the contents.
“A drink.”
I huffed. “I can see that. What’s in it?”
“Liquid!”
Rolling my eyes, I sipped the straw, squinting when the bitter taste registered. “Shit, that’s strong.”
“It’s just a gin tonic, sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” I coughed, “Did you forget the tonic?”
Josh laughed. “Such a pussy.”
“Hey, Cori, that should be your nickname,” Noah suggested.
“Pussy. It suits her, doesn’t it? I like it already,” Josh added.
“You like bruised balls,” Brad warned him.
Matt glared at them all. “You guys right? Bit of respect, please?”
Josh’s stare held mine as he brought the rim of his glass to his lips, his eyebrow lifting, a smirk on his lips. “Depends who’s bruising them.”
I matched his challenging expression. “Keep it up, Bugs, and you’ll get your wish. But be warned—something tells me your idea of bruising is different to mine, so you may want to rethink that.”
Noah drummed the table loudly with his hands. “Score! I think Bugs has met his match.”
<
br /> “That’s it,” Dimps declared, a proud smile plastering his face. “Cori’s nickname can be Elmer. Elmer Fudd.”
Oh fuck. No. Really? I preferred Pussy.
***
We ate our dinner and headed for the performance room. The guys weren’t due to be on stage for another two hours, which was plenty of time for a quick rehearsal. Sitting on the floor in front of the stage, I was experimenting with camera angles and happily snapping pics of them conversing while practising their routine. The perspective from my position was fantastic—camaraderie, passion and determination visible in the way they perfected each aspect of their performance. Despite cracking the odd joke about tea-bagging brides-to-be, one thing was abundantly clear—they all took the choreography seriously, especially Dimps. Every time he mucked up a dance sequence, he kicked a chair and chastised himself harshly.
Seeing him so passionate yet incredibly self-deprecating opened my eyes as to just how vulnerable these men really were. A lot was riding on them, not just their appearance.
“Dimps! Go for a quick jog around the establishment and get some fresh air. You’re not going to achieve anything when you’re this fired up,” Josh advised.
I looked up, surprised to see him standing by my side. He must’ve jumped down from the stage while I was checking the frames I’d shot.
Taking a seat on the ground next to me, he lowered his voice and leaned in. “The kid is too hard on himself. The dancing will get easier the more he does it.”
“Some people aren’t naturally talented in the coordination department, like you are, you know.” I raised my camera to my face again and snapped a few shots.
“No, they’re not, Dimps definitely being one of them. But he’ll get it. Just like Slick did.”
Pausing, I turned to face him, eyebrows raised. “Slick couldn’t dance?”
“Nope. Had as much rhythm as a plank of wood.” Josh gestured toward Noah, an impressed smile on his face. “Now look at him!”
I diverted my gaze to Noah, on stage, who was popping his shoulders and turning sharp and concise to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails, as if he were some sexy robot. “Wow, he’s great! You can tell he’s enjoying himself. It’s a pleasure to watch.”
“Bingo, sweetheart.” He leaned back on his hands, his position, cool, calm and collected. “That’s exactly right. Women are harsh as fuck when it comes to the dancing part. Yeah, they want to see as much of our body as possible, but for the majority, it’s the performance as a whole that’ll have them coming back for more and bringing their friends along with them.”
“So you’re saying that women don’t pay money to see you get naked?”
He chuckled, arrogantly. “No. I’m not saying that at all. Of course they fuckin’ want to see me naked, but they want the entire package: looks, body, personality and dancing. Men, on the other hand, are different. When they go to a strip club, they just want to see tits, arse and pussy being paraded in their face. They couldn’t give a fuck how good of a dancer she is. They just sit there with a hard-on and dream about fucking her. That’s it. Men want sex. Women want entertainment.”
I nodded slowly in agreement. “Huh … I guess you’re right.”
“I am right. It’s harder for us guys. Our performance, as a whole, is the key. You could be the biggest motherfucker there is, benching five hundred kilo, or you could have the largest cock in the world. None of that matters, because if you can’t nail confidence on that stage, you’re fucking screwed and will be eaten alive.”
Patsy poked her head through the crack of the entry doors. “Forty-five minutes till start,” she yelled. “They’re queuing up outside, and I can tell you, they seem feisty as all hell! I hope you’re prepared.”
Noah dry-humped a chair on stage. “Excellent. That means there’ll be some biters.”
I scrunched my nose. “Biters?”
“Yeah. Slick isn’t opposed to having his arse bitten.”
“Oh my God! Women actually do that to you?”
“Sure. If you let them or aren’t quick enough to stop it.”
“And you guys like that kind of thing?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If a man did that to a female performer, he’d be thrown in jail.
“Some do, some don’t. Slick does, Chief doesn’t. Surfer is alright with it if he’s wasted, and I reckon Dimps will follow in Slick’s shoes.”
“What about you? Do you like being bitten?”
Josh leaned in with a predatory glint in his eyes, the subtle graze and press of his teeth very quickly finding my neck. “The question is, do you?”
I tensed and then shivered, the sensation and proposition sending a direct message to my pussy. Holy fuck! “Ac … actually,” I stuttered, pulling away from him, “I don’t.”
He grinned. “The shade of your cheeks and the firmness of your nipples say otherwise.”
Quickly looking to my breasts, I noticed the not-so-subtle impressions through my blouse that he was referring to. Shit! I covered my chest and scrambled to my feet. “It’s cold, arsehole.”
“It’s summer.”
“The air con is on.”
“You want me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.” He stood up and invaded my personal space. I tried to step back, but his hand held me pressed to his side. “Your cute little cunt is pulsing, isn’t it?”
“You’re such a rude prick,” I whispered, smiling mildly toward Matt who was glancing in our direction, concern on his face.
Josh, too, joined the pretence and smiled before taking my camera in his hand. “You take selfies with this?”
I turned and glared at him, knowing where he was going with it. “I can, but I don’t.”
“Pity. Your pussy in a picture frame would look nice on my bedside table.”
Snatching my camera from his hands, I headed for the door. I was a big girl and could hold my own, but even I needed a reprieve from someone like Josh. His words were so crude, yet they also lit a fuse within. I’d never been spoken to in the way he spoke to me, and I didn’t want to admit that I liked it.
As I grabbed the handle, turning it to exit the room, Matt’s voice sounded loud and clear. “Bugs, a word. NOW!”
***
The room was buzzing with excitement, women of varying ages seated around tables covered in white damask cloth. Wild Nights Revue promo posters and banners adorned the walls, and waiters and waitresses rushed about, clearing the last of the plates from the dinner service. There were grandmas, near-naked skanks, shy wing-women, and brides-to-be wearing novelty veils covered in flashing lights. And I could honestly say that, outside of a beach or swimming pool, I’d never seen such little clothing on women. Holy shit! I think that chick’s vagina just ate her shorts! And, love, a good part of the front of your dress is missing. You may want to search for it.
I almost swivelled on the spot in an attempt to try and search for it but, instead biting back my astonished smile as I approached a table of women, the discussion they were having centred solely on the guys. “Last year, Matt chose me to go on the stage. God, I hope he chooses me again. I’ll just die if he doesn’t.”
“I’d rather ride Brad’s surfboard,” another said, dreamily.
They all laughed.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, gaining their attention. “I’m the revue’s official photographer. Do you mind if a take a couple of photos for possible promotion?”
Squeals pierced my ears.
“Of course not. Will they be online?” one of them asked.
“Quite possibly, yes.”
“Oh my God! How’s my makeup? Does someone have a compact mirror? Please tell me someone has a compact.”
“Just use the selfie-camera on our phone. That’s what I do,” her friend offered.
Suddenly, six of the women pulled out their phones and inspected their appearance, a couple of them even taking the chance to touch up their lipstick and pucker their lips in a kiss expression.
I nearly gagged … on the vanity-inspired vomit that rose up my throat.
“Quickly, ladies, you all look gorgeous. Trust me.” I didn’t have all fucking day to stand there while they plastered on superficiality. Sure, I got that they all wanted to look nice for the picture, but there’s nice then there’s going overboard nice. These ladies were definitely going overboard.
“Okay, hmm … how will I get you all in the frame?” Turning, I dragged a spare chair from the table behind me and stood on it, selecting the wide-angle view feature of my camera.
“Awesome! Above photos are much more flattering,” one of them stated.
I faux-smiled my recognition to her. “Okay, one two three, smile!”
Duckface. City.
… I shit you not.
If I’d had a loaf of bread handy I would’ve broken off pieces and tossed them in their general direction. Pursed lips had never looked so … pursed.
Assessing the photo on my screen, it took all of my inner strength and willpower not to burst into giggles. “Excellent! Thank you, ladies.” I jumped down from the chair. “Have a great night.”
A blonde raised her empty glass. “Oh, we will,” she stated with surety. “Especially when Josh comes out.” She fanned her face dramatically.
“Oh please, Jen, he’s gonna pick me, not you.”
The blonde hiked her breasts. “You wish. I have these! Game over.”
My eyebrows rose. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“It’ll be game over when Mr Sex On A Stick whispers in my ear and not yours.”
Oh … that’s right, the infamous whisper. Surely he wouldn’t choose one of these bimbos. I mean, male slut or not, the dickhead had to have standards. Then again, vending machine girl was far from … well … anything.
Turning, I went to retreat before the proverbial vomit in my mouth projectiled.
“Hey! Wait! How do we get a copy of the picture?”
I paused. “Keep an eye on the Wild Nights website and social media pages.”
They all squealed again. “Bottoms up, lovelies.”
The chink of clinking wine glasses, together with over exuberant giggles, faded as I headed backstage to go to the toilet before the show began—my bladder on the brink of bursting.
Revue Page 6
