One
Tami
“So, did Mr. Williamson cop a feel today?”
Startled, I drop the pink paper-lined plastic tray layered with various dental tools. The mouth mirror and jacquette scaler fall off and clang on the counter. I spin around and spot Karen holding a light blue tray loaded with her hygienist tools.
“Oh my god, Karen.” I slap a hand to my sternum and press hard over my racing heart. “You scared the crap out of me.”
A pained smile stretches the corners of her mouth as she scrunches her shoulders. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I remind myself Karen has a deep-seated thirst to learn everyone’s business. I breathe deeply through my nose and exhale slowly through my lips. Then, I focus on the tray of instruments and place them in the sanitizer.
“Make more noise next time you leave your station. Shuffle your feet, cough, laugh—something. Announce your arrival, stealth ninja.”
I don’t scare easily, but my last patient has me jumpy. Good old Mr. Williamson. Hence the question Karen asked as she snuck up in private detector mode. Mr. Williamson is one of those patients. The patient or customer we have all experienced once in our career. The one we avoid or work extra hard to shorten their visit. In this office, that patient is Mr. Williamson. And I just sat through a painful thirty-minute cleaning with him inches away.
“Are you avoiding my question, Tami?”
Avoidance is the best policy when Karen asks questions, but she need not know that.
I lift my head to meet the death stare Karen burns through my skull. She squints at me with her stern mother glare that intimidates most people. And I swear she sucks the answers from my head via osmosis. I purse my lips and grind my molars, and the pain lances up my jawline to my temple.
Karen has several lovable qualities. A tender heart and an eagerness to help others. Maternal instinct courses through her, head to toe. But she has several unlovable characteristics too. The most notable of those traits? Karen is a gossip queen. The gossip queen. One worthy of a golden sash and jeweled crown. She gossips enough that everyone grows speechless in her presence.
I suppose this happens to occasional women when they become empty nesters. They fill the void with something or someone else. Karen packs her days with the dirty details of patients and celebrities. If I need the inside scoop on who dates who, Karen is the woman to ask.
“Swear I’m not avoiding.” I shuffle away from the machine and she steals my place. “I was giving my heart a minute to settle. No one would complain if you stomped out of your station. Unless you were trying to be a sneak.”
“I am sorry,” she says as sullenness lines her eyes. Her usual perky demeanor steps back for a split-second. “I’ll make a better effort. Swear it wasn’t intentional.”
“I believe you.” I lay a hand on her shoulder, give a light squeeze, and convey silent forgiveness. “Mr. Williamson was his usual self today.”
She peers up from her tray and stares at me. Silence is how Karen asks for more details. She worked on Mr. Williamson for years before It’s A Bright Day Dental hired me. I remind myself she has been in my shoes. Sat on my stool. Hovered over him with sharp implements as he did things which should have gotten him kicked out. The dentist dismisses those random touches as loneliness. That he misses his deceased wife.
I don’t discount his loneliness, but no justifiable reason permits his behavior.
“I don’t understand why doc lets him return.” Karen shakes her head. “I mean, he has to believe us, right? Or is he that ignorant? He did attend college for years to become a dentist.”
I lean against the wall and shrug. “Who knows doc’s train of thought? Guess it could be worse. At least he only touches my leg. Not any specific part. I try to be polite and shirk him off. Tell him I need to shift the chair or grab a different tool.”
Karen nods and puckers her lips with unsaid questions. “Yeah, I suppose. Guess it annoys me more than anything. I spent years in school to learn this trade. Patients should respect and treat me as a professional. I help support their health. Never expected to tackle this nonsense.”
Our profession is respectable and I understand her frustration. People choose professions for a variety of reasons. A high percentage choose careers for money. No one will ever hear salary complaints spill from my lips. Although, fellow hygienists earn more outside this office. Others select their occupation to help people. Improve or keep a patient’s health. Then, a small sliver of the population of the dental industry hygienists and doctors love teeth. Love to study and touch them. The ones giddy to transform a mouthful of crowded teeth into a perfect smile. Or those who fill in the empty slots of long-lost molars with artificial replacements.
Where do I land in the mix? Not one of the tooth enthusiasts. They are an anomaly. A rare breed. The second category is more my style; to help people. In college, I spoke with my professor regarding my future. It was then that I found my niche.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Karen snaps me back into focus and I return my attention to her.
“No plans yet. Same old, same old. Might check the city events page online. Should be lots to do. What about you?”
Karen juts out her lower lip for a split-second. Her eyes drop to her hands, then meet mine. “Not sure. The twins are settling in their new apartment. They packed up and left home so fast.” She shakes her head and sighs.
Karen loves motherhood more than wifehood. And she misses her boys. A lot. Anyone paying attention noticed her mood shift when she spoke of them.
“Why don’t you ask if they need help. Sweeten the deal and order pizza. They have to miss you, and free dinners.”
“I don’t want to be one of those helicopter parents, though.” Her eyes drill deep in my soul. The crinkles at the corners of her eyes hint at concern. She fears scaring the boys away further.
I reach out, clasp her dainty wrist and give a gentle squeeze. “Don’t act overeager and I’m sure everything will be fine. Explain how overwhelming it was the last time you moved. Offer to unpack or clean and in return feed them dinner. They’ll jump on board for free dinner and cleaning help.”
Karen beams for the first time since startling me. Those boys are her breath. Her reason for living. She would stop a meteor collision to save them. On occasion, Karen reminds me of my mom and the obstacles she overcame for me. A larger-than-life woman that handled several roles. I pray I can fill her shoes one day.
Karen rests a hand over mine and taps a few times. “Thanks for the advice, Tami. I needed to hear that. I’ve wanted to reach out, but didn’t want to nag. Never thought to offer free food.”
“You’re welcome. Happy to help.” With one last squeeze, I release her arm and hitch a thumb over my shoulder. “Need to clean my station. I’m ready to call it a day and start the weekend.”
With that, Karen springs into action and bolts in the opposite direction. “Me too. Thanks again. You’re the best!” Her voice fades as she enters her station, but not her enthusiasm.
Deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth.
I mumble, “No, Karen, thank you. For not prying more than usual today.” Whatever saint graced me with a less-than-noisy Karen, I will pray to them tonight. And tomorrow.
Lemon-scented sanitizer perfumes the air as I wipe my workstation. With each spritz and wipe, I advance toward the three-day weekend. Long weekends are one of several job perks. Most dental offices work four days a week. Long weekends grant time to recoup from the tedious, poor-postured, body-aching work. Hunching over people strains my back and neck. Ask my massage therapist.
I collect my purse from the employee lounge and head for the exit. Before the door closes, I wave goodbye to Karen and the receptionist. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, the California sun warms my skin. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and absorb the golden rays.
God, I love this state.
Thank goodness all the patients are long gone. If I met Mr. Williamson in the parking lot, it would be a painful nightmare. I toss my purse across the truck bench seat, crank the ignition, and hum at the body-rattling engine roar. This weekend will be great. After I check for cars, I throw the truck in gear and drive off to my little slice of paradise.
Two
Max
After ten minutes of driving circles around the parking lot, I locate a fucking parking space. Nic told me this place is fucking busy. Understatement of the century. But Nic refused to shut his pretty-boy mouth. Said this bar is one of the best in Los Angeles. I trust his judgment, but only I decide if this place is worth my time or money. If the number of cars and lack of parking are any indication, this place has promise.
I cut the engine, step out of the car and open my text history with Nic. I type a quick message of my arrival. Before I lock the screen, my phone chirps with his response. His message says to meet him near the entrance.
Hundreds of men and women line the wall near the entrance of The Sophisticate. Everyone dressed to the nines and eager to gain entry. I weave through the crowd and scan faces until I spot Nic close to the front. Thank fuck. My patience not worth the test of an hour-long wait in line.
I zigzag between patrons and survey the crowd as I catch up with Nic. Several women garner my attention and twitch my groin. The probability of warm sheets and sweaty sex tonight is high. And I capture a mental photograph of women who toss smiles my way.
“Hey, bro!” Nic slaps my shoulder when I approach.
“What’s up, brother. This place is a fucking madhouse. But the fine ass women make up for the madness.”
“Wait until we’re inside. This place is insane, in the best way. If you think women out here are hot, wait and see who they let in. Selective. Very selective.” He emphasizes the tail end.
“Then why the fuck are we still standing here?” I narrow my gaze and raise my brows in question.
He shakes his head, then faces away from me. “Right. Let’s go.”
We slither through the crowd near the front doors and enter a shorter line. A rush of excitement heats my skin as the line lessens one by one. As each person approaches the bouncer—a beefy, tall man, possibly ex-military—they receive the ultimate stare down. Grown men shrivel under his scrutiny. After the patron passes his visual assessment, he asks for identification. Even those more than old enough to enter. Once he approves that inspection, he asks a question. Your answer determines your fate of entry.
This place isn’t just high class. They test you to prove your worth. Prove to the owner, and his scary henchmen, you are notable enough to be in their presence.
What the fuck question validates a person’s worth?
Nic and I inch closer to the velvet rope and I swear the bouncer asks a man his profession. Is that the secret question? Is that what grants access to The Sophisticate?
My palms dampen as I question whether or not I will make it inside. Not as if my career doesn’t hold significance. But I am no fucking doctor, attorney or CEO.
As we approach the bouncer, he hooks the thick velvet rope to a gold post and prepares for his next inspection. He surveys Nic head to toe, then mimics the action with me. After his visual violation, he extends a hand and says “ID” for the millionth time. Nic and I hand over our licenses as the bouncer’s jaw tics from the five second wait. The length of time he studies each license concerns me.
What the hell takes this long? Not the math to determine my age.
A grunt echoes in his throat. Followed by a smirk as he hands us back our licenses. He zeroes in on Nic. “What’s your profession?”
Nic doesn’t need his peacock feathers fluffed further, but his spine straightens as he thrusts his chest forward. “Male model.” Confidence bleeds from his pores and he sparkles under the minuscule limelight.
“And you?” The bouncer hones in on me.
“Nutritionist/dietician coach and a CrossFit trainer.”
I have no desire to fluff and pretty myself like Nic. He loves the spotlight and cameras on him. Loves when people ogle or request photos of or with him. My body is far from mediocre—my ass hits the gym several days a week—but I dial back my vanity compared to Nic.
The bouncer eyes us again before he reaches over, unhooks the rope, and permits entry. “Thank you, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”
We nod and step past the rope as the cacophony of well-wishers roars in the background. Mr. Intimidation’s inspection was an intense start to the evening, but thank fuck it is behind us. Bring on the hype of The Sophisticate.
My shoes clack the walnut floor as we venture down a lengthy corridor. Pale cream, rustic browns and a bold red decorate the space. Oil and water paintings, as well as charcoal and pencil drawings, stare back at us through glass and wood. The art varies from world-renowned classics to new original pieces. Past the artwork, we near a colossal wooden archway with intricate embellishments.
As we step through, the venue morphs into a nightclub and bar. The Sophisticate doesn’t resemble other bars and nightclubs. The walls a cream, natural stone and the surface uneven. Two separate bars run the length of the room—on opposite sides—the wood top a glossy black. Liquor bottles rest on glass shelves. Between the two bars are small, round tables that add to the motif. Three oxblood leather chairs tuck under each table with a candle at the heart for subtle illumination. Soft jazz floats in the air and I question if the music is live or recorded.
The Sophisticate has soft lighting with an amber glow throughout. At the far end of the room, I spot two bouncers more intimidating than the doorman.
I tap Nic on the bicep. “What’s back there?” I point past the men to a black stairwell that disappears below the floor.
“Not sure, man.” He studies the men and shrugs. “People went down the stairs last time I was here. Think you have to be invited, though.”
I grunt my obvious displeasure. Another rope to pass. What valuable secrets lie beneath us? Do those secrets warrant another quiz for passage? Lay them on me. If they want a background check, I will grant them permission.
Two men guard the stairs. Whatever lies at the end of those stairs is worth more than the bar.
Nic leads us to the bar and I survey the room. Determined, I search for anyone who will grant me access into the best part of this establishment.
We slide out stools and sit as the bartender approaches. A man clad in a long-sleeve white button-down, black vest, black slacks, and a black bow tie with a polished smile.
“What can I get you gentlemen this evening?”
“Gin and tonic, please,” Nic orders.
“Scotch, neat. Thank you.”
The man retrieves appropriate glassware and pours our respective drinks, then places them on a red cocktail napkin. We sit in silence a moment, sip our drinks and sweep the crowd.
The Sophisticate is unparallel to similar establishments. The men and women that line the bars and occupy the plush chairs aren’t just anyone. These people are handpicked. They exude affluence and elegance and a sense of superiority. In The Sophisticate, you won’t find drunks or people high out of their fucking mind.
I empty my glass and the bartender replaces it without question. Nic rotates on his stool and takes in the room again. His eyes dart from one place to the next over and over.
“So, man. What do you think?”
“Much better than The Well. Don’t think I’ll look at bars the same again.”
“Now you know why I wanted to bring your ass here. Whole different caliber of people. You won’t want to go anywhere else.”
We shoot the shit as we sip our drinks. Nic and I hang out often—once or twice a week. Our usual routine involves random bars or strip clubs in the Los Angeles area. Nic joined a photographer at The Sophisticate last week. Since then, he won’t shut up. Like a little bitch, he blathers on over this, that, and the other.
But now I comprehend the attraction.
If I hook up tonight, I will meet a new caliber of woman. Women here aren’t bimbos in search of a good time. These women are classy and modest and respectable. My typical plan of attack may require a makeover.
“Gentlemen.” A middle-aged man approaches us in a pristine tailored suit and extends a hand my way. “Name’s Rocco. How’s your evening so far?” He shakes my hand, then Nic’s.
“Great, thank you. I’m Max and this is my friend, Nic.”
“Good to meet you both. Welcome to The Sophisticate. I don’t recall meeting either of you before.”
Nic jerks his chin toward me. “It’s his first time and my second. This place is amazing. You’ve done a fantastic job.”
Rocco slides his hands in his pockets as he smiles wide. “Thank you. I appreciate compliments. This place is my lifeblood. A longtime dream of mine.”
“Well, it’s amazing.”
Nic fans out his peacock feathers again. Always on stage, ready to flaunt himself at whoever pays him attention.
Rocco’s eyes dart between the two of us as a v bunches his brow line. “I like you two. And because I like you, I have a proposition to make you gentlemen.”
Intrigue surges inside me. When I glance to Nic, he mirrors a virgin getting off the first time. The urge to slap and shake him makes my hand twitchy. He needs to man up. Fucking pansy.
“What would that be?” Fascinated as hell, I restrain my curiosity better than my counterpart.
“We have an exclusive section within the club. A little more…” He pauses a moment and chooses his next words with precision. “A little more intimate. A little more of a visual display.” The description methodical and selective.
Rocco’s evasion has me clueless. Wild guess? The exclusive section is an artsy extension. Maybe that is what is down the stairwell. Once I consider this, I accept his proposal.
“I’m interested,” I voice, but don’t speak for Nic.
“I’m in, sir.”
Did the word sir just slip from Nic’s fucking pansy mouth? I internally cry-laugh at his idiocy. Ready to call him a pussy on a moment’s notice. But I bite my tongue and stash it for later. He never uses common courtesies. Ever.
Rocco steps back, removes his hands from his pockets, and gestures us to follow. Nic and I gape at each other, slide off our stools and amble behind Rocco. With each step forward, we shorten the distance between us and the bouncers guarding the stairwell. Electricity hums in my veins as new energy courses throughout my body. An unmatched exhilaration.
I lean toward Nic and mumble close to his ear. “What do you think is down there, man?”
He runs a hand over his shaved, dark brown scalp, down his face and stops at his chin. “I haven’t the slightest, brother. Whatever it is, must be fucking worth it. If they only have one guy at the door, two has to mean a whole hell of a lot.”
Rocco stops inches from the two men. When we reach them, authority rings loud as Rocco speaks.
“Chad. Pete. I’ll be inviting Nic and Max into P.I. tonight.” Rocco faces us then continues. “Gentlemen, there are rules you must follow while in P.I. First and foremost, don’t touch the ladies. Any of them. What happens outside my walls isn’t my business. Inside my walls though… Second. If you are told to leave, you will never be allowed to return. To P.I. or The Sophisticate. Lastly. Be gentlemen. If you present yourself as such, you’ll be offered a membership. Do either of you have any questions before I step away?”
Nic stands stock-still with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. I swear to god he is an idiot at the worst times.
After the full rundown, only one question comes to mind. “I have just one. What is P.I.?”
A megawatt smile stretches Rocco’s face. “It’s your new Private Infatuation.”
***
Our shoes tap against wood as we descend a dimly lit stairwell. At the bottom, Nic and I enter an extensive hall and trek forward. Ahead, I discern the faint glow of lights. A slow bass vibration echoes through my bones and I shiver. The lights and music beckon me. Shine brighter and thump harder with each step forward. I spot the silhouette of another bouncer.
Jesus, is this place Fort fucking Knox?
As we approach the bouncer, he shuffles to the side and permits us to enter. “Welcome, gentlemen. I assume Rocco relayed the P.I. rules?”
His sharp words more a statement than a question.
“Yes, he did.”
“Have a good evening.” Then, he resumes his post.
This place is better guarded than any other nightclub. Insane. Before I voice as much, I amble toward the flashing lights and music. In a blink, I puzzle out why P.I. has bouncers in every nook and cranny.
P.I., or Private Infatuation as Rocco calls it, isn’t an upscale nightclub. Although, I am certain the majority of their business occurs during the hours of sundown to sunup. P.I. is so much more than a nightclub. This place is the sweetest version of heaven on planet Earth.
Nic and I drift over to a vacant table near the bar. The seat is barely warm when a tight body with blonde hair walks up and introduces herself as Nina.
“What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”
Drink orders placed, I ogle Nina’s plump ass as she walks to the bar. The only fabric on her skin is a skimpy, red lace thong. The material barely forms a triangle at the junction of her thighs. I fixate on her a moment as she leans on a charcoal blacktop bar. A moment later, I lose my shit.
Behind the bar, the female bartender appears to be in the same wardrobe. She shakes a drink and her voluptuous tits bounce. I face forward and glance at Nic, struck speechless.
“Bro, I don’t know what we did to deserve this, but I never want to fucking leave.”
Nic opens his mouth to respond, but gets interrupted by the boom of a man’s voice over the music.
“Good evening, gentlemen. And let’s not forget the few ladies in the room. Thank you for joining us in P.I. tonight. Hope you are enjoying your evening. Up next… everyone’s favorite sweetheart.” A cluster of men near the longest section of stage applaud. A wolf whistle cracks the air behind me. “The sweetest thing you’ll see all night. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Candy.”
The lights extinguish and the club is blanketed in darkness. Only small lights over the bar illuminate the club. A buzz filters through the air and captivates the audience. A deep bass pierces the silence and vibrates the ground before it resonates in my groin. The seductive melody lilts around us, a single, soft light highlights the center of an H-shaped stage. As a deep chord strikes, a thin, muscular calf with an olive complexion peeks out from a black curtain.
As the song picks up tempo, Candy steps into full view.
Most strippers I have watched wore stilettos with four-plus-inch heels. Some of the spiked accessories vinyl, others leather. They range in color; some bright and thigh-high.
But Candy is in a league all her own.
Feet bare as she glides across the stage and torques her body. Toenails painted a hot pink that pops against her exotic skin. Mesmerized, I unabashedly scan every inch of her body—toe to top.
Without question, her physique is irresistible. Toned calves. Muscular yet feminine quads. Abdominals that women and men envied. A killer rack, perfect for her body type. A heart-shaped face with voluptuous lips, the perfect nose, and eyes that charm snakes. She wears a wig with curls that brush her mid-back in layers of cotton candy pink, blue, and purple.
Body clad in leather, small triangles cover her magnificent tits and the apex of her thighs. The material matches the color on her toes as if planned. Black straps wrap around her torso and cage her like a wild animal. But the way she glides across the stage says otherwise.
Candy dances like no woman I have seen. Her muscle definition and overall flexibility indicates she takes care of herself. And is aware of every line and curve and uses them to her advantage.
She floats from one side of the stage to the other. Body fluid with the music and addictive as hell. Her back bows as fingertips roll down her abdomen in a physical siren’s call. Every bend at the waist, the way her ass pops out… Jesus, my cock twitches like a prepubescent boy. The pole presses between her shoulder blades center stage as her hands slide up and grip the post. Her body sways as she bends her knees, dips lower and spreads her legs wide.
And when she rises to full height, somehow, the pieces covering her tits have loosened. Her bare breasts exposed for every horny man—and woman—in the room.
No one makes a sound. Everyone as equally lost in the visual display. My hand slides under the table and squeezes my dick through my pants before readjusting myself and shifting in my seat. My cock more ramrod and hard than ever.
I have fucked my share of women, and I am not shy to admit facts. That said, no other woman has gotten my dick this hard. Has made me hungryenough to consume every inch of her. And I haven’t touched her.
Fuck.
As if the gods hear my inner turmoil, the delicious torture shifts. Tantalizes me further. Before I register what has happened, Candy stands nude before the audience. Not a lick of fabric to conceal her delicious skin. Her body stuns me thoughtless for a moment.
Gorgeous skin, not one hair follicle visible. Her hands skim from the swell of her breasts, down her abdomen and land between her legs. After a clench of her thighs, she removes her hands and continues her routine across the stage.
Earlier, I was wrong. When I thought I was the hardest I had ever been. When I thought I had never been more turned on. I had been mistaken. Because right now. In this exact moment. There is a high, embarrassing chance I may blow my load. Without so much as a hand or finger on my cock.
I have no clue who this woman is—this sweet little piece called Candy—but I hunger for more of her. The way she calls out to me feels surreal. The urge to have her skin under my fingers, to trace her perfect toned body, to memorize the heat between her legs, and experience the tightness of her core as I plunge into her…
Fuck. One song will never be enough. Candy is pure magnificence.
And then, as if unable to handle the torture further, the stage light cuts out. Candy disappears from view. The room blanketed in absolute silence before it erupts in loud whistles, hollers, and applause.
How many of these people have seen Candy dance more than just tonight?
I feel bereft. Jealous. Envy spikes my bloodstream as I take in the crowd. Why have I just found Candy? How have they seen her more?
My pulse pounds behind my ears as my skin heats and my blood pressure rises. I scan the room with narrowed eyes, ready to pounce. And it surprises me that my reaction is one of ownership. As if Candy already belongs to me.
She should belong to me.
As if someone hears my tempered thoughts, a hand taps my shoulder. I turn and see Rocco behind me with bright eyes and a broad smile.
“Gentlemen.” He nods to me then Nic, who I forgot was there. “How are you enjoying your time in P.I.?”
My mind fumbles to best express how I am a changed man. Addicted seems acceptable. But I don’t want to sound like a pussy after one dance. No need to worry about that, though. Nic fluffs his tail feathers and speaks up before I open my mouth.
“Rocco. Thank you, again, for the invitation. I’m speechless. This place is amazing. You really know what you’re doing, man. I haven’t seen a place like this.”
Nic prattles word vomit like he wants to suck Rocco’s dick. I shake my head at Nic, but he doesn’t notice.
“Glad to hear you’re enjoying it.” A genuine smile lights his face. “I’d like to extend a new invitation to you both. If you’re interested in returning to P.I.—and let’s be honest, who wouldn’t be—we can set you up with our exclusive membership. Thoughts?”
Exclusive membership? He has my full, undivided attention.
P.I. is the perfect combination of heaven and temptation. Hell… I watched one woman dance across the stage, take off her clothes (if you can even deem what she was wearing as clothing), and seduce me in a way I never knew existed. All within five minutes. If given the chance to see more of Candy… what is there to think about?
“Where do I sign up?” My brain to mouth function is on hiatus. And I don’t give a fuck.
Rocco’s throaty laugh at my knee-jerk reaction garners the attention of others. “Candy sweetened the deal, huh?”
“I never thought I had a sweet tooth, but it appears I do.”
“If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, we’ll get you taken care of.”
And within minutes, I have a new addiction with endless access.
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