Get Lucky (5 page)

Now that he’s closer, I get an even better look at his body in casual wear. And it’s probably the tequila talking, but he’s in pretty good shape. That black tee clings in the right ways to his torso. I can pick out the definition of sculpted pecs, and his arms are built. I admit it; I let my eyes trail down to a very firm ass in his well fitting jeans. No boxers hanging out with this boy; class all the way.

“Stop inspecting me,” he grumbles. I give an over-the-top wink.

“Like to see what you’re working with, Wexler.” I sashay into the limo, squeezing in beside Tyler and Stacy. Tyler waves in the other girls, and Meredith ends up sitting beside him.

“Hey, Merry. Lookin’ good,” he teases.

Damn, Meredith may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s bold enough to make him forget that fact. She arches a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. It’s like Joan Crawford going after college frat boys.

“You being a naughty boy so far?” she asks, giving his knee an enthusiastic squeeze.

“You know it.” Still grinning, Tyler pops a bottle of champagne.

The night’s going along beautifully, so long as I can ignore Nate Wexler, certified lawyer and registered pain in the ass. He sits there with his hands on his knees, tense, like he’s holding his breath and waiting for this night to be over.

“Where to next?” Shanna calls, now wearing a plastic tiara of her own.

“We were thinking a strip club,” Nate says, with all the pain of a man who probably wanted the boys to have a sedate steak dinner and be in bed by eleven-thirty.

Aw. Poor baby.

“Yes!” Tyler shouts, clapping his hands. “Strip clubs love when you bring ladies in. They’ll probably give us some free drinks.”

“I’m not sure women enjoy going to strip clubs, Tyler,” Nate says, the disdain in his voice so obvious even Stacy blows a raspberry.

“You’re right. We like sitting at home, knitting, and watching Downton Abbey,” she mocks.

And while I do love tea, crocheting, and the Dowager Countess, I agree with her. We’re not a set of prudish wilting flowers.

“Bring on the ladies,” I say, nudging Nate with my elbow. We eye each other. Again, I find myself falling into the magnetic blue of his eyes—just for a second, of course. I don’t care how good-looking he is, though. I’m not into stiffs and snobs, and he is way both.

Nate squares his jaw, but he says nothing. Score one for me.

“The Palace Veil it is,” Mike says, arm around Stacy’s waist.

Everyone cheers but Nate and me. I know we’d both be happier if the other wasn’t there. Ah well. When in Vegas, ignore the douches, let the good times roll, and always carry a spare set of panties in your purse, just in case. That’s what Mom used to tell me.

Mom was fun.

T
he Palace Veil
is a little outside of the Strip, in a rundown looking part of the city. Neon lights flicker all around the outside, a squat one story with thumping music bleeding out into the night. Pictures of over-bleached and over-glossed young women, topless with black bars to cover the most essential bits, line the exterior.

The driver parks and lets us out. I have to stifle a groan as Tyler leaps towards the door, enthusiastic as a kid in a candy store made out of breasts.

“Most men like seeing naked women, you know,” Julia says, giving me a smug smile as we walk toward the building. “Unless you’re Data.”

“What about my data?” I ask.

“Data, the humorless, literal android from
Star Trek: Next Generation
.” She rolls her eyes. “You make my nerd heart sad, young Padawan.”

“Is that also from
Star Trek
?” I ask.

She bursts out laughing. I’m going to stop asking questions.

We finally enter the club, the fog machine hazing the room to a degree where I can’t even see the grimy floors or terrible cracked walls. Almost. It smells like Febreze and sweat in here—not the world’s most hygienic combination.

At least Mike’s having a good time. I think he’s happier now that Stacy is here, actually. They’re making out with enthusiasm over by the bar, and I turn my eyes away. Sometimes I think I’d like to find some flaw with Stacy, or more so, with their relationship. Something to point at, something that statistics tell me means it’s never going to work out.

I’m a shitty fucking person, to quietly wish I could see some way for my best friends to be miserable.

I turn away from the others, trying to get a handle on my own thoughts. I want them to be happy. I know how much they need each other. But I can’t help thinking that it doesn’t matter how much love you start out with. Sooner or later, it all turns to shit. I know from experience.

Even after all this time, Phoebe will pop into my head unexpectedly. Sometimes the memories will be of the break up, her moving out of the condo, all the yelling that went on that incredibly shitty weekend when it finally ended. Sometimes I’ll remember making love, or taking an afternoon walk through Millennium Park, my arm around her waist. Those are the moments that sting the worst, even more than the break up.

There’s someone at my side. Someone with curly hair and, I have to admit, fantastic cleavage on display.

“Here,” Julia says, shoving something into my hand. “Drink up.”

“What is it?” I ask, making a face. I prefer a neat scotch when I can get one, and this is tall and ice cold.

“An iced tea, all the way from the wilds of Long Island,” she answers. That’s not really my drink. When I try putting it down, she grabs my wrist. “Think about it. You’re holding a potent cocktail of oblivion. One might even call it a magic potion. Drink it, and the night goes by much faster. Pretty soon you wake up, and it’s tomorrow.”

She has a point.

“I’d say I get a lot hotter as well, but let’s face it. I’m smoking already.”

Yes, she definitely has a point. About the night going faster, not about . . . never mind.

I toast her, and swallow as much of the drink as I can in one gulp. It tastes like turpentine, but it’s effective. I give it a minute . . . and instantly, the world hazes at the edges of my vision. I’m feeling all right. At least, better than I was before.

Hmm. This could be the beginning of a very fruitful partnership. Me and Long Island. Not really a man’s drink, but I won’t hand over my testosterone card just yet.

“Look at you!” Julia coos, patting me on the arm. I close my eyes; all this would be a little better without her condescension. “Shots?” she asks me. She wiggles her eyebrows.

Hmm. She already has a distinctly tequila smell about her.

“Sure you haven’t had enough already?” I ask. She sticks out her tongue. Mature.

“Vegas is for making questionable decisions. That and accruing huge amounts of gambling debt. But I think we should stick with one vice at a time.” We walk back to the bar. “What’s your pleasure? I’m thinking some rum by way of Malibu.”

I can handle only so many chick drinks in one evening. I take a Macallan instead, sipping it calmly. I’m in control, where I like to be. The booze starts a fire in my belly, and I can finally feel my shoulders relaxing, just a fraction. I don’t want to get too drunk. I don’t like to get too out of control. Ever.

The thumping sound from the speakers vibrates through me now, seeming to pulse in my bones. More dry ice smoke puffs over the stage, and some tall, well-endowed figures strut out, wearing high heels and not much else.

Tyler and Mike are standing at the edge of the stage. To my surprise, the girls are all crowded around as well, waving fistfuls of dollar bills. They seem more into this than the men are. The strippers come forward one at a time, dancing to some terrible house music. I watch one of them go into graceful splits. They’re athletic, of course. One of them manages to turn herself upside down on the pole and take her top off at the same time, all the while in four inch heels. Impressive.

“Come on,” Julia says. She appears almost instantaneously at my side, always when I least expect her. “You haven’t given them any money yet. Don’t be a holdout.” She drags me over to the stage.

Sighing, I take a ten out of my pocket and toss it. The girl dancing up there crawls on her hands and knees, picks it up, puts it between her teeth, and then reaches for me, a smile playing on her face. I take a step out of the way. She pouts and moves on. Looking for someone to ask for a private dance session, no doubt.

I’ve had lap dances before, and I don’t know how any man actually enjoys them. You get turned on by a woman you can’t touch and leave feeling more frustrated than you were before.

Right now, I decide to go find Tyler. This is his version of Heaven. If he’s not careful, he’ll spend his life savings in this place.

“Are you sure you’ve got a pulse?” Julia asks, doggedly pursuing me.

“Is there a reason you’re asking?” I growl.

She gives a dismissive wave. “She was hot.”

“Are you an expert judge of other women’s hotness?” I mutter.

“Romance expert, darling. Of course I am,” she says, actually nudging me with her hip. Then she starts laughing, tilting her head back. Apparently too many shots will do that to you. “Besides, no red-blooded heterosexual man can contain himself when a woman is humping a pole in time to some Sia club music. It’s common knowledge.”

“Any woman?” I say, arching my brow. If there’s one woman I doubt I’d ever have an erotic fascination with, it’s an overly sparkly romantic. “Prove it. Why don’t you dance?”

“What?” Even in the flashing lights of the club, I think I see her pale a little. Excellent.

“You heard me.” I lean in and speak into her ear. “Or are you afraid to put your own theory to the test?”

“One thing I was always good at in science lab.” She juts out her chin and pushes out her chest. Which, I have to admit, is pretty noticeable. “Experimenting. How else would I have ever sewn a fetal pig’s head onto a frog’s body?”

“You’re kidding, right?” I think that disgusting Long Island iced tea is rippling in my stomach.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She tosses her hair and runs over to the stage. I have to admit it; Julia has a way with people. She waves one of the strippers over and manages to convince her to lean down for a conversation.

I must be widely grinning, because Mike shows up at my elbow one second later.

“What did you do?” he asks. No joking here. He follows this by a quick punch in the shoulder. “Seriously, man. What’s she doing?”

“You’ll see,” I tell him, feeling smug. Julia Stevens will fall on her face in front of everyone, then stop her incessant chirping and preening. It’s the beginning of a good night.

Once the song ends, one of the strippers grabs a microphone.

“Let’s give it up for a lady just passing through town, Juliet Sayonara,” she says. All the bachelorette girls go wild. Julia takes to the stage, a little flushed. She’s wearing a purple top, with a spangled black skirt and high heels that she’s clearly a little unsteady in. She strikes a pose against the pole, and the music starts. It’s some kind of slower, sultrier anthem, with a pulsing bass beat. This is going to be so embarrassing—

And then she starts to move, sliding down the pole slowly. The movement is languid, sensual. She arches her back as she sinks lower, spreads her legs.

Christ.
She gets up and spins, her hair whipping and spilling across her back. She looks over her shoulder and winks at the crowd. All the women eat it up, screaming for her, shouting “Sayonara!” at the top of their voices. Then Julia looks into my eyes.

Just like that, I’m helpless. Frozen. There’s a smoldering heat in her gaze, something carnal, something primal. With one look, she could order me on my knees and I’d do it, whatever she wanted.

She spins about to face the front of the club. Then she swings around the pole, going lower and lower until she’s practically lying on the floor. Where the hell did she learn to do this? Her skin glows softly beneath the lights, a delicate sheen of sweat visible from her exertion. She crawls over to one man standing by the stage. He stands there, gaping, with money in his hand. Licking her lips, she reaches out and pulls at his tie, loosening it. She grabs the dollar bills and stands slowly, pulling herself up inch by inch, her breasts pushed out, her skin flushed. Her lips are parted, her eyes lidded; it’s the look of a woman on the brink of an orgasm.

And suddenly, I’ve got a hard-on. I grunt and grab onto the back of a chair. Julia slides one strap of her dress off her shoulder, revealing an expanse of beautiful, creamy skin. She grabs the pole and twirls around it again, moving her body in rhythm and time to the music. Slowly pulsing, like she’s actually fucking the song.

I tighten my grip on the chair’s back so hard I think I might actually snap the goddamn thing.

She’s more limber than I thought. Way more fucking limber. She stretches a leg up as high as she can, so that her heel is almost level with her head. It’s not perfectly graceful—her leg shudders for a moment, stretching to its limit—but she finishes flawlessly. I catch a flash of her ass as she grabs her shoe, spins around the pole again, and lowers her leg.

The song ends. She’s breathing heavy, and her eyes are dazzling. They’re electric, pure fire, and as the applause explodes around her, she locks her gaze with mine and doesn’t look away. She’s challenging me. Daring me. And something possessive, something primitive, flames in my blood.

I need to fuck this woman. Now. And I think she wants me just as bad. Was I saying something before, about her being annoying? Overly sparkly? Fuck that asshole. Fuck him and send him right the fuck home. He had no idea.

I push through the crowd, hurry over to the stage and help her down.

“Great job!” people say around us, but all I know is Julia’s hand finding mine. Her eyes tilt up the hazy, wanton expression is still there. She needs me. Her body is pressed up against me, her tits popping out of her low cut top. We walk away, finding a dark corner, a place no one can see. There, I snake an arm around her waist, press her against me. Julia gasps, feeling my hard-on through my jeans.

“I think someone lost the bet,” she whispers, her lips just—just—grazing mine.

“Fuck the bet. Where can we go?” I grunt. In the confusion of the crowd, no one’s gotten to us yet. My hands move along her bare arms, the touch of her skin electricity. I want to feel every inch of her naked body, want to hear her moan my name. I need her alone.

“Is there a closet around here?” she mutters. Her lips part, waiting for me to kiss her. And I will. Everywhere.

First, we find the fucking closet.