by Lane Hart
Rolling my eyes at his exasperation, I give in with a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks,” he says with a huff before ending the call.
“Something up?” Winston asks.
“Just got a rowdy crowd over in the Tidelands rental, and Ernie is out for blood.” Sighing, I hang up my pool stick on the wall, telling them, “See you guys tomorrow,” before I head out the door and climb on my bike.
Charlotte Newsom
* * *
“Someone’s at the door!” Sydney yells.
“I’ll get it,” I say. “Who the heck would be showing up here at this time of night?” I wonder aloud to my tipsy self on the way to the side entry, which is where it sounded like the knock came from. I open up since there’s no peep hole, just a screen door, and find a tall man in dark clothes standing on the other side of the screen that I keep locked.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I think you know why I’m here,” he grumbles.
I rack my alcohol laden mind to try and figure out why he would be here when it finally hits me.
“Shit! Oh, shit!” I say as I unlatch the screen and push it open for him to come inside. “Wait, it’s not Thursday!” I laugh and slap his hard, very hard chest. “You’re a day early, dude! You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow night!”
“I wasn’t?” he asks, sounding confused. When I look up, up, and up even further at his face, his reddish-colored brows are bunched up, forehead crinkled underneath a flop of curly, auburn hair.
“Nope,” I answer with a slight sway to the right that I cover up by slapping my palm against the wall while studying our man. “And what’s with this outfit? I asked for a police officer.”
“Huh? Why did you ask for a police officer?” he asks while I take in his attire, a leather biker vest with white patches slung over a plain gray t-shirt with a pair of frayed jeans that have a gaping hole at the knee.
“Well, cops are hot and have handcuffs,” I explain. “But fine, forget it. You’ll do,” I tell him with a wave of my hand. “Tessa loved the Sons of Anarchy. Not to mention you look like a time traveling Jamie Frasier from Outlander.”
“A Jamie-what-the-fuck?” he asks, looking to me and then to the living room where the rest of the ladies are gathered around, laughing and talking about disastrous first dates. None have yet to beat mine and Adam’s. We ate at a new Mexican restaurant and both ended up in the hospital with food poisoning that night. But the next morning, when Adam got released first, he went to the hospital’s gift shop and bought me a bouquet of flowers as an apology and a request for a redo first date, which I happily gave him.
“Look, you screwed up the date and the outfit, so how about you stop asking questions, get your ass into the living room and start taking your damn clothes off already,” I order him since alcohol makes me even bossier than usual. Hiring a stripper is crazy, even I can admit that. But isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for the bride-to-be?
“You want me to take my clothes off?” the eye candy asks with a cocky smirk.
“That’s what strippers do, right?” I grumble as I look him up and down. “And seriously, dude, can’t you find, like, some other career? I mean, I get that you’re supposed to be hot and, like, every woman’s fantasy, but you’re taking it a little too far. It’ll probably be impossible for a woman to forget seeing you naked.”
“I apologize?” he says slowly, making it sound like a question with his dark green eyes full of humor.
“You should be sorry,” I tell him. “Now go.”
When he turns toward the living room, I follow behind, telling him, “Just a warning, these ladies will probably get a little handsy. Your manager or handler or whatever he is said that you don’t mind.”
“I don’t?” It sounds like another question before I give his tight ass a smack to get him moving.
“Go on now! Take your clothes off. I’ll turn on the music.”
“Okay then,” he mutters. “Guess it’s time for me to get naked.”
Good thing he’s pretty, because I’m starting to think that he’s not the brightest bulb in the box.
Chapter Two
Roman
* * *
Charlotte is even more stunning up close than she is from afar. I wasn’t prepared for that, and I was completely caught off guard by her playful, drunk rhetoric and confusing line of questions.
Which is how I somehow find myself in the center of the room with five women watching me like hungry hawks while sipping their drinks from brightly colored and thick, dick-shaped straws. It’s a little intimidating, to be honest, which is not something I’m used to feeling. I’m the president of the Savage Kings of Myrtle Beach, the second biggest chapter next to the Emerald Isle originals. Some would say I’m one of the most powerful men in South Carolina, right behind the governor. I keep order in a party city full of chaos by staying cool-headed and making hard decisions.
Never before have I had to figure out how to seductively take my clothes off for an audience. Usually I just shuck them as quick as possible to get naked for either a woman or a shower.
“So, ah, what are we celebrating tonight, ladies?” I ask the women with my hands on my hips as they stare unblinking at me.
“Wedding,” the one with shoulder-length red hair speaks up and says. “What I mean is I’m getting married in two weeks!” she adds with a grin and holds out her left hand to show off the huge rock on her finger.
Ah, so this is a bachelorette party. A bachelorette weekend. My gaze lands briefly on Charlotte, who is staying the furthest away, leaning her shoulder against the side door I came in through. She brought her friends down to the beach during her anniversary week to celebrate one of them getting hitched. That can’t be easy for her, a reminder of the husband she lost…
“Congrats,” I look back at the redhead and tell her as I walk over and start lowering each of the windows. I have to do something to keep the sound of their loud music down for Ernie’s sake before he makes good on his promise to call the cops. A round with the local PD while I’m mostly naked is not what I need tonight since the Kings are already on the chief’s shit list. He gives us hell as often as possible, because he knows we have more respect in this town than him and his entire department.
As an afterthought, I pull down the shades too, because I’m about to do something I don’t want the old man or anyone else to ever see.
Sure, I could’ve set the record straight as soon as Charlotte made it clear that she thought I was a stripper. But I didn’t because, well, fuck…because I don’t think I can refuse that woman anything.
Now I know why Adam was so adamant about not leaving her and not breaking her heart by telling her about his baby mama and kid.
Not that he ever got the chance to come clean…
I made it home from Afghanistan in one piece with only a few nightmares that occasionally make it hard to get a full night’s sleep. About six months later, Adam came back in a casket. He was in a helicopter that crashed, killing everyone on board and leaving behind not only a widow but a son by another woman, both of which I’ve taken responsibility for and keep an eye on from time to time for him.
“Whatcha waiting for, honey?” the oldest, middle-aged woman of the group asks when she goes over and turns up the radio, making me wince because…Ernie. “Are you gonna give us a show or what, hot stuff?”
“Yeah, take it off, big daddy,” another lady adds, putting her on my shit list for the d-word nickname. I won’t be giving her a lap dance.
Holy shit. I’m about to give these women lap dances!
Well, I may not have been in this position before, but I’ve had plenty of strippers dance for me. How hard could it be?
After playing with her phone a moment, the middle-aged woman makes the stereotypical male stripper song ‘It’s Raining Men’ begin playing on the stereo. Without any further prompting, I get to it, pulling off my black, leather cut first. Folding i
t, I walk over and hang it on the back of one of the chairs at the dining room table because it’s a sacred piece of fabric, not one to be ripped or torn off for entertainment purposes.
And thank fuck I’m wearing a new pair of very snug, bright blue Under Armor boxer-briefs without any holes in them yet. Not that I knew anyone would be seeing them tonight, but plans change. I’m rolling with it. Besides, I’ve got a huge package that I’m not ashamed of sharing with a few women.
One thing I am worried about is getting too…excited during this charade.
While I try to come up with a few ideas of non-sexy topics to focus on, I reach behind my back to yank my t-shirt over my head, and…the women erupt like they’ve never seen a chest before.
Ernie was right. Even though it’s only five of them, they sure do make a shit-ton of noise. Well, all of them except for Charlotte, who is still watching soundlessly from the sidelines. While she may not be whistling or cheering, she is definitely checking out my goods. Why that makes my chest swell a little like a proud peacock, I’m not fucking sure.
My fingers go down to my big, skull king belt buckle to start removing it when the bride to be suddenly jumps to her feet and says, “Stop right there!”
I freeze, figuring she doesn’t want me to keep undressing because it feels like a betrayal to her groom.
But then she adds, “I’ve got some cash in my purse!”
Cash?
“Ooh, me too!” the older lady says before the rest are up following suit, racing around the house with their dick straw drinks in their hands.
I’m still trying to figure out what the hell cash has to do with anything before Charlotte, obviously seeing my confused expression, helps me out. “They’re getting dollar bills to stuff into your undies.”
“Oh. Right,” I reply as I continue with the undoing of my belt. “What about you? You got any dollars for me?”
“Me?” she responds while her eyes stay locked on what my hands are doing. “No…no. I’ll, um, write you a check, you know for the other half of what I owe you. Unless you take debit? Or PayPal?”
Once my belt is free from the loops, I toss it down, pop the button on my jeans and lower my zipper.
“I could go to the bank and get cash from an ATM, if you prefer…”
I don’t get a chance to answer her before the rest of the women return with wads of money in their hands. They circle me like vultures, so I do what I guess any stripper would do in this situation — I toe off my boots and take off my pants.
Charlotte
* * *
Holy…wow. Never in my life have I ever seen a body so hot as the one before me now. And never before has my body had such an automatic reaction to the male form. It’s possible that the alcohol in my system is magnifying the fact that the stripper is over six feet of amazing. He’s not the best dancer, only occasionally moving his hips as the other girls take turns tucking dollar bills into his very tight and tiny boxer briefs, but my girls don’t seem to mind. I envy them; how carefree they are with the man in front of them. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be doing the same thing. Tessa doesn’t seem to feel any guilt at all about touching another man’s body so intimately when she’s about to marry Paul. Meanwhile, I haven’t been on even a single date since I lost Adam. I haven’t touched a man or looked at a man the same way since. It’s not that I would feel guilty about it. It’s just I don’t think I’m ready to move on. Dating nowadays seems so superficial. I want to be with someone I can talk to, who knows me like Adam did. He was my soulmate; and while I know he wasn’t perfect, I don’t think I could ever find someone like him a second time.
Which is why I haven’t tried. Instead, I’ve kept myself busy with work for the past five years, helping plan other people’s financial futures since I can no longer imagine retiring with Adam in forty years…
“Here, girl, you look like you could use another drink,” Bev says when she thrusts a strawberry daiquiri with a penis straw in my face.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I take the drink and sip it.
“You need to get over there and feel that man’s abs,” she whispers. “If I hadn’t touched them with my own fingers, I would’ve sworn they were painted on.”
“No, thanks. I’m good here, watching you four make fools of yourself.”
“Suit yourself. More hot man for us,” she laughs as she strolls back over to the fray. The guy now has Tessa sitting in one of the dining room chairs so he can shake his ass for her. I catch a brief glimpse of his ass crack when she peels the waistband back to stuff more bills into it. When he turns around, she yanks on the front waistband and then looks down into his shorts.
“Yowzah!” she exclaims when she lets go and looks up at us wide-eyed. “He’s a big one.”
“Tessa!” I exclaim. “He’s not a piece of meat! How would you feel if he tugged your shirt down to look at your boobs without asking?”
“Do you wanna look at my boobs?” she questions the man, who grins devilishly.
“I’m good, but thanks,” he tells her.
“Charlotte needs to get laid,” Tessa announces. “How much would that sort of thing cost?”
“He’s not a whore!” I remind her. She’s so drunk she’s mixing up strippers with prostitutes. “And I’m not going to pay a man to sleep with me!”
“Suit yourself,” she replies.
For the last few months, ever since Tessa got engaged, she’s been trying to set me up with anyone and everyone – waiters, the personal trainer at our gym, a guy who was at the park walking his dog. I get it, she doesn’t want me to be lonely now that she’s found the love of her life. But I’m doing just fine on my own.
I watch intently as Sydney runs her tongue over the stripper’s nipple, and I feel a sting of…jealousy. I wish I could let go of emotion and finally just sleep with another man. Adam was my first, though, so getting naked with anyone else just seems strange. Awkward. I’m not ready to put myself out there like that, even though I occasionally find myself hornier than hell. Like right now.
Chapter Three
Roman
* * *
After I’ve been groped and licked by multiple women while mostly naked for what felt like hours, when in reality it was probably only about thirty minutes, I turn the music off for Ernie’s benefit next door and tell the women, “It’s been a pleasure. Take care, ladies, and congrats again on the wedding.”
“Thank you!” they all call out.
I search for Charlotte, the gorgeous blonde, as I pull my jeans back on to get one last look at her up close before I leave, but she’s not in the living room or holding up the wall near the door.
After slipping on my shoes, I grab my t-shirt from the floor and my cut from the back of the chair to head into the kitchen to see if she’s there.
I find her standing in front of the sink, splashing water on her face.
“I’m all finished,” I say, startling her based on the way her shoulders tense.
“Oh. Okay,” she replies when she grabs for a paper towel from the roll to blot her face dry before turning to face me. “Th-thanks for coming, even though you got the days mixed up.”
“My bad,” I tell her as I waste time to drink her in. From head to toe, the woman is a flawless work of art, otherworldly in her beauty, like the rare Helen of Troy, launching a thousand ships kind. With her ivory face rosy and flushed from alcohol or arousal, she looks sweet and sexy all at the same time, a nearly irresistible combination.
“Sorry about all the, um,” she waves her hand toward the living room. “Licking and inappropriate touching.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, a little bummed that she didn’t do either. I’ve never wanted a woman’s hands on me as much as I want hers to touch, and grope, and fuck…now I’m getting hard. At least I have my jeans on. “Although, I usually prefer to be the one doing the licking and touching.”
Charlotte, no shit, shivers. “Ah, yeah. Whatever you say.”
“Is the
re a reason you didn’t touch me?” I ask her.
“No. Nope,” she answers while staring at my bare chest. “I’m just not the type to touch strangers or whatever, and I guess I didn’t drink as much as the rest of the ladies.”
“That’s too bad,” I tell her. For a split second, her jaw drops before she recovers and responds with the last thing I expected.
“I’m a widow.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, rather than admit that I already know. “Recently?” I ask, even though it’s been years.
“Why? Does that really matter? Is a longer amount of time supposed to somehow magically erase the fact that my husband, the love of my life, is dead?”
So not only is she bossy, but she’s got a backbone too, as well as a hell of a temper when she gets defensive. I think I would enjoy arguing with her on a regular basis and then fucking her silly when it’s over and I win.
“Guess not,” I answer. “And I imagine it can’t be easy being here, celebrating another woman’s wedding as a sad, lonely widow.”
“Who said I was sad? Or lonely?”
There it is again. Her hackles are raised. The woman really needs a few good orgasms to calm her ass down. I’d be happy to report for that duty.
“So, you’re not sad or lonely about being a widow for some unknown length of time, but you haven’t moved on either?” I ask.
“That…I…” she tries to figure out a way to argue that point, but I’ve backed her into a corner. Giving up on how to respond, she scrubs her hands over her face and brushes her hair behind both of her ears. “Let me, ah, just get that check for you so you can get going.”
“You don’t owe me a thing, lady,” I call out, but she’s already left the kitchen in a hurry.
