by Dani Stowe
Three hundred dollars? I gulped. “I guess I am that smart.”
“Bring the papers to Elliot Crowe’s. Do you know his house?”
“Next door to Charlotte Prescott?” I nodded with a lift of my brows. “Oh yeah.”
“Good, there’s a bonus there waiting for you. I heard you have a crush on Nancy Berkeley.”
I sneered, “Who doesn’t have a crush on Nancy Berkeley?”
Nancy Berkeley was a hazel-eyed brunette, built like a supermodel and a ballerina only with a reputation for behaving badly and, unfortunately, for dating bad boys.
Nick cocked his head. “Do you know anything about her sister?”
“Taloulah?” My face tensed and my gag reflex flexed. “She’s pretty—sorta. But she’s weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“A total geek.”
“Really?”
“Mmm, nah. Loulah’s more of a sad dork.”
“Like you?” The snap in Nick’s voice was sour. He was clearly perturbed.
I quietly sat, putting my head down. I probably shouldn’t have said something nasty about Loulah. She was always sort-of-a-friend of mine.
Nick sighed. “Hey man, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m new in town. I’m just feeling defensive. You know how it is aaand,” he sang, “it looks like we’ve arrived at your house.”
How did he know where I lived? I didn’t even give him my address.
The limo came to a halt and his bodyguard got out from the front seat to open the door for me.
“So, you want to be friends?” questioned Nick. “I can offer you more than cash in exchange for homework. I can offer you protection,” he said firmly with a point to the bodyguard holding the door. “Not all the time, but whenever we hang out.”
It felt like a business proposition, although I didn’t know what a business proposition was just yet. Nick had a contagious spark in his demeanor that was also a little intimidating. I already knew with Nick, the last thing you’d wanted to do was stand next to him with anything that could ignite a fire...
At least, back then you wouldn’t.
It felt strange and different—the way this friendship was beginning. It was clear from the start our friendship would never be equal. Nick would always be the one in charge. But I was smart enough to know then that every group, even a savage one, needed a leader.
Stepping out of the limo and into the sweltering heat, I immediately started sweating straight into my T-shirt. I really did need to lose weight.
“Dontyne,” Nick called out, putting his sunglasses back on. “Are we friends?”
“Sure, kid,” I smirked.
Nick laughed. “Kid, huh? I like that. I knew you were smart. I’ll see you at school. Have lunch with me and the other geeks tomorrow. We’re all going to be very good friends.”
Chapter 2
Dontyne
Nick shakes the container in his pocket. I find that I am mirroring his action, shaking the Bang as well to hear it tic-tac in my pants.
Midnight—that’s when NIM is scheduled to pop the pill inside the club, except for me. Nick has allocated me as the designated observer. I’m supposed to take mental notes of what happens to document and report on later. The Bang I have will be kept on hand in case of an emergency. Designated observer sounds worse than being a designated driver. I’m not going to have any fun and I’m the one who is single.
Technically, Nick is single as well, but he doesn’t need to get involved with any more women. He can barely manage the ones he keeps tied up—literally.
We follow Nick through the massive heavy metal gate into a foyer lined with tropical palms and decorated with thousands of tiny lights. It looks like Christmas in the Bahamas. Nick pushes open the heavy metal doors to a short corridor when immediately the boom of bass against the clickity-clack of a midlevel snare plus overly synthesized high-pitched sound effects pierce through my body, trying to hypnotize me by rhythmically pounding through my flesh and bones.
“Turn around!” yells an enormous monstrosity of a man, circling his fingers to encourage Nick to do as he says. The bouncer, who fills the entire space of the corridor through the doors with his mass, waves his wand, a metal detector, over Nick’s back and then his front.
“Whoa, whoa!” yells another man, squeezing out from beyond a small crowd lingering near the end of the corridor. He’s a short, skinny Caucasian with slicked black hair and a very long, but crooked, pointed nose. In truth, it looks like it’s been broken a few times. “Thomas! Please don’t handle Mr. Rohr,” he says.
“Bossman,” replies the bouncer, Thomas. “You said check everyone.”
“Mr. Rohr is not everyone.” Bossman puts his hand on Nick’s shoulder and pats it.
“How are you, Sam?” asks Nick. “I see you still haven’t gotten your nose fixed.”
Now, I’m sure Sam is another one of Nick’s save-and-rescue-then-make-you-my-minion projects.
“You don’t pay me enough, Mr. Rohr,” Sam laughs then turns around, eyeing the rest of us critically. “Are these your associates?”
Nick smiles. “My friends, yes,” he nods.
“Friends? I didn’t think you had any friends, Nick,” he responds cockily with a bobble of his head.
The pound of music deafens when Nick’s face turns sour and he speaks through gritted teeth, “Only my friends call me by my first name.”
Sam’s crooked nose twitches as his face softens and he dusts Nick’s shoulder. “I apologize, Mr. Rohr. Come. I’ll get a table for you and your friends. Thomas, move out of the way for Mr. Rohr, please.”
The big bouncer steps aside and Sam leads us out of the corridor into the club, which I now know belongs to Nick, though I had no idea he had one.
Women. Beautiful women dressed scantily linger everywhere between business suits and packed pub tables on a sparkling red carpet under swirling golden disco lights. The club is nice. Really nice. It even has an exotic smell—cloves mixed with licorice and a hint of orange brandy. I should not have expected anything less from my friend, Mr. Rohr.
A large stage framed with thick scarlet curtains sits under multiple crystal chandeliers that cast an extra glow over pole dancers, except they are not typical dancers that you’d find at a strip club. These women, painted gold, are gifted gymnasts. They climb, bend, slip, spread, and maneuver about the pole as if they are performing in a circus rather than in a club for executives.
And executives they are. The way the patrons, both men and women, carry themselves—chin up, chest out, shoulders down exuding confidence, despite the gnawing hunger for the prime rib being flaunted about ready to be drizzled with steamy au jus made of drool and sweat could make an average person too shy of such expensive delicacy.
After hiking up a few stairs, we are led to a large round booth with crimson high-back seats and a black stained lacquered wooden table in the corner. The view, once we sit down, is spectacular. Everything glitters and glows below, but nothing shines more than exposed smooth skin of various colors—ivory and bronze in every shade is decorated with loose gems and tight-fitted shimmering fabric.
“Something to drink, Mr. Rohr?” asks a lovely young lady, wearing what looks like a bikini stitched of gold sequins and decorated of feathers that float along spaghetti straps over her shoulders and hips. She has short cropped black hair and lips so plump, they look like they’ve been pumped with filler. I flush warm with the sight of the young lady and I look to Elliot then Jax, hoping they haven’t noticed I’m blushing. I’m a little embarrassed; this girl is too young for me.
It puts me at ease to see both Elliot and Jax have their heads turned away, afraid to get caught up in her spell as well. But Nick? I shake my head. Nick glosses over the waitress from head to toe and it irritates me that he does so knowing well that Loulah is sitting, waiting, in the back of the limousine by herself—alone.
“Nothing for us tonight,” Nick replies. “We’re on a special diet. Just a couple of waters.”
The waitress squints in dismay and the lights in the club go out. “You can’t just come in here and not buy anything,” she squawks. Clearly, she has no idea who Nick is and, if she did, she’d be bent over in his lap or on her knees by now.
Applause starts up and the waitress is still standing, fronting us as a spotlight illuminates behind her over the stage. “We came for the show,” Nick pushes the waitress. “Get out of the way,” he roars.
The waitress kicks her heels as she leaves, revealing a single red spotlight behind her, which illuminates a single pole on stage below.
The show? I’m rather excited!
The high-tech house music fades away and a sweet melody takes its place. It’s a slow bluesy song, which hardly seems as sexually driven as the previous heart pounding complex and sophisticated techno intermingle played previously. However, not only does my heart pound relentlessly when a woman appears on stage, but I find myself in a state of shock when my jaw falls off my face.
What the fuck?
The familiar woman rolls her head, allowing the long length of her auburn hair to fall loosely over her bubble-ass tucked in a shimmery ivory-colored cheeky bottom. The clinging fabric barely covers her butt but wraps tight up to the front of her torso, cutting at the waist. Her full breasts bounce under a matching, plunging V-neck brazier as she struts across the stage leisurely but deliberately, her six-inch stilettos coming up to her knees adding to the poke of her hip with each step. But the killer pieces to her ensemble are the ivory beads and pearls in extreme excess choking her neck, with more falling loose to dangle across her front and hang from her shoulders.
The only thing I don’t like is her make up. Each cheek hosts a circle of red rouge and her lips are exaggerated with a deep red lipstick. She looks like a scantily dressed pinup model from the fifties—a Marilyn Monroe—except with auburn hair and a painted doll-face.
There is not a man present, including me, that would not want to take that doll backstage to rub her Hollywood-red lipstick all over himself while swallowing each and every one of those pearls, happy to yank all that dangles away with his teeth. The thought of having those pearls in my mouth, that lipstick smearing...
I’m salivating. My dick is hard.
The spotlight follows doll face as she walks until she drops to land in coordination with the music to a wide-open split on the floor, exposing her center covered with just a thin line of shining fabric to the crowd. My gut burns as the crowd erupts with woos and cheers.
I’m so hot. I feel like I’m about to sweat and my collar feels tight, forcing me to undo my top button and fan my shirt.
Swiftly, the dancer claps her long legs together when suddenly she’s on her knees, crawling across the floor in a display of cat-like acrobats—twisting, turning, rolling, humping the Goddamn floor! She humps in an exaggerated performance and, if that isn’t enough, she starts humping the air, her bubble ass and square hips poking up and down like she’s being taken hard by some unseen force—she’s no longer a doll but a puppet.
The crows caw again and I roll my head to the side as my neck has an uncomfortable kink and I feel trapped, sitting in this corner.
The music picks up and sparks stream, shooting down from the ceiling in the background. I look at Nick. He’s smiling, delighted, and I’m wondering if he’s seen this show before. This is his club.
I look around because I’m burning up with the familiarity of what’s going on onstage. My mouth feels dry. I wonder where the waitress is and why she hasn’t brought us the waters we asked for.
I reluctantly look back at the stage. The woman is jiggling—gyrating on the floor as she touches herself. Men are moving in closer to get a better look. I’m beginning to hope she doesn’t undress—strip. She looks like a freakin’ sacrificial virgin who’s been drugged and is soon going to be tossed into a fiery volcano to appease the club gods.
But just when I believe she’s about to be abducted by the heathens in the audience, she lifts her legs until they grip and twist around the pole at centerstage, and the next thing I know she is in the air, pulling herself to a magnificent height—spinning and splitting her legs among pearls dangling, sparks flying, and her hair flowing freely in every direction. People are whistling and cheering. Even Jaxon and Elliot seem pleased and excited about such a show. I feel my nostrils flare with steam rising out of my core.
I can’t stand this. This is not dancing. This is bullshit! Too much bullshit for me to bare. It makes me sick. I rub at my forehead with the heel of my palm. I should probably turn my eyes away, but I can’t. I can’t stop watching her. Nobody can keep their eyes off her. I can’t fucking look away from...
Nancy. My. Fucking. Nancy.
I force myself to take my eyes away to gawk at Nick. “Is she why we’re really here?”
“What’s the matter, Don?” Nick chortles. “I thought you liked to watch Nancy when she was dancing.”
I grip my head with two hands, twisting it to crack my neck both ways to loosen up before I respond. “That’s not dancing.”
“Well, she didn’t make it as a dancer, but she does give lap dances. Would you like one? It’s going to cost you though. I believe she’s already booked for the night, but lucky you—you’re a rich man. I’m sure you can outbid any one of these jokers with the salary I pay you.”
I lean back, sliding my ass down to slouch in the booth. The music has picked up and Nancy starts to twirl onstage with more titillating rigor. Cheers erupt and I ache scanning the crowd. Women have their eyes turned away, but the men are captivated. They’re completely taken by her and the burn in my gut is becoming an inferno.
I bang my fist on the table. “How long have you known?” I ask Nick.
“Known what?”
He knows exactly what the fuck I’m asking. “How long have you known that Nancy has been working here doing this type of work?”
“A few months.”
“Mmm,” I groan and rub my forehead.
“She looks beautiful,” interrupts Elliot.
“Shut the fuck up,” I scowl and look back to Nancy on stage.
She is beautiful.
I force myself to turn away again. “What kind of game are you playing here, Nick?”
“I’m not playing any games, Don. I just thought you might want to see her.”
“Why would you think I’d want to see her. You do know she broke my heart?”
“I know.”
“Because I was overweight.”
“Yeah, I know that, too.” Nick almost sounds apologetic. Right now, I can’t tell if Nick is a true friend or not.
“Then why? Why would you bring me here?”
“Because you’re not overweight. Not anymore.”
Fuck, I feel like I’m about to lose it. I’m a lost kid again. “But Nancy was the worst of them. Even after I pulled her out of the fire, she was the worst.” My stomach is churning.
“Look at her,” Nick orders.
I look at Nancy on stage. I do love to watch her dance.
“I doubt she’s a bully anymore,” Nick continues. “Sure, this is my place, but even I can’t protect her here. I’m sure she’s the one being bullied now.”
“So, what? You hired her and then brought me here because you think I’m still in love with her the way the rest of the geeks are still infatuated with the rest of the Cunt Squad? You think if I just take the Bang, that I’ll find out she’s secretly and madly in love with me and we’ll get married, have babies, and live happily ever after?”
“No,” Nick snorts. “I just thought you might want to take her home, put your prick in her, and fuck her brains out. Reward yourself with a little of your reverse psychology crap.”
Fuck her brains out. By the way they adjust their shoulders, I can tell Elliot and Jax are uncomfortable with the notion. They wanted more than to fuck their cunts. They wanted the women they’ve been in love with their whole lives to fall equally in love back with them. It’s why they created the Bang. All
that hard work—they got exactly what they wanted. I can see in their eyes they’re hopeful of the same fate for me.
“Uh—oh, her song is about to end, Donnie boy.” Nick points to the stage. “You’d better decide if you want that lap dance or not before you miss your chance.”
I slouch lower in the seat. “I don’t want a dance.”
“That’s cool.” Nick bobs his head cockily. “So, you won’t mind if I take her to the back then. Let her wiggle on me a little.”
Rage! More rage than I’ve ever known overwhelms me.
I grip Nick by the throat, squeezing. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you act like such a damn savage? You have her fucking sister in the limo outside for Christ’s sake!”
Elliot pounces on my back as Jaxon tries to unfold my fingers from Nick’s neck. They’re hollering at the top of their lungs, trying to pull me free from Nick, but I feel like a madman. I’m pumped with so much adrenaline, it’s easy to push them back enough where I’m able to put both hands on Nick’s throat.
“She’s exiting the stage,” Nick chokes. “It’s no-ow or ne-ever.”
Now or never. The words cut through the music and hollers of club patrons, taking me back to a time and place where those words not only challenged but changed me...
Nick hollered when it was time to cross the ladder to get to Charlotte’s house on fire. At eighteen, I was afraid I was too heavy and would sabotage the entire rescue because of my weight. Elliot insisted, with a quick calculation in his head, the ladder would support up to four people at a time, including me. But I was still afraid to go until Nick smacked me over the top of the head. “It’s now or never, asswipe. Be a man, man up, and get your dick on.”
I remember how bad I was feeling—scared. By the time I got into Charlotte’s attic, I was even more mortified. I was there to help but at the moment, I wasn’t too keen on being a hero—I was scared shitless I was about to die. Still, I went along and was the third nerd to pull a girl up to the attic. When she was finally in front of me—safe and beautiful, filling my heart with relief and joy—I realized why I followed through. I was ashamed that Nick had to encourage me at the start of the rescue, but I vowed to never make that mistake again. I vowed I would never again need encouraging when it came to being a man.
