Fuck it.
“Yes,” I whisper. He smiles against my lips, kissing me again but harder this time. After a few moments, I break the kiss and grab his hand, pulling him up from the couch. “Come on, I need to grab my stuff.”
Pushing Hottie out of the room, I nod at Carl to let him know he doesn’t need to follow me. He raises his eyebrows but stays put, so we walk through the club, then the dark hallway, and into the locker room, where the music from the club fades to a low thrum. The second we step inside, girls who are lounging around in nothing but their stage outfits start to giggle and whistle.
Yeah, Hottie is fucking fine.
He immediately throws a hand over his eyes like a kid who has walked into the wrong bathroom.
“Oh shit, sorry,” he exclaims while the girls lounging around burst out laughing.
“Aw, look at the gentleman!” one of them teases.
“We show you ours if you show us yours,” another chimes in, throwing a towel at him.
He grins, still shielding his eyes. “Sorry, ladies. I’m off the market.”
The catcalls only get louder, the laughter ringing through the locker room. I roll my eyes, a reluctant smile on my face as I pull my wig off. “All right, all right. Cool it.” I grab my duffel from my locker, then pull on a pair of ripped jeans and a cami before slipping on a hoodie and grabbing his free hand again. Pulling him out of the locker room, I say, “You know you’re in a strip club, right? There is nothing in there you wouldn’t see on stage.”
“I didn’t watch any of them on stage,” he retorts, and I don’t know why, but it sparks something in my chest.
When the door to the locker room closes behind us, I come to a halt and smile up at him. “It’s safe to look now.” He cautiously peeks through his fingers before dropping his hand. “Off the market, huh?” I ask as I zip up my hoodie. “I told you I don’t date,” I remind him as we head toward the club’s back door.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not off the market,” he counters smoothly.
As we step out into the Vegas night, the cooler air outside hits my face, a welcome relief from the club’s heat. His bike is parked down the street, and the neon lights from the Strip get absorbed by its matte-black finish, an illusion fitting for Vegas. He pulls me along, his hand warm in mine, until we reach the bike, where two helmets wait.
“You had a second helmet ready?” I ask, crossing my arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “Were you that sure I’d come?”
He grins that same cocky smirk that makes my stomach twist in ways I wish it wouldn’t. “Nah,” he says, holding the helmet up like a peace offering. “I’m optimistic.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, but take the helmet anyway. Before I can slip it on, he steps closer, taking it from my hands again.
“Let me.” He slides it over my head, and pulls me closer to fasten the chin strap, his fingers brushing against my skin. “We need to make sure it’s tight. Ez’s head is big.”
I blink up at him, confused. “Who’s Ez?”
Whose fucking helmet do I have on my head right now?
“My brother.” He tightens the strap, then he steps back, admiring his handiwork for a second. “There.”
I still don’t knowhisname.
“Your brother lets you borrow his helmet?”
“Eh, not exactly. I’m sure he’ll live.” He winks, and as he moves to pull on his helmet, music starts up inside mine. Familiar music.
Wait… is that…
“Is this… Backstreet Boys?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up as the first few notes of“I Want It That Way”fill my ears.
Hottie glances at me through his visor, grinning as he adjusts his helmet. “Oh, yeah,” he admits innocently while strapping his chin. “My phone’s connected to my helmet, and yours to mine, so we hear each other. You know… for safety.”
I stare at him, trying to suppress a laugh. “It’sBackstreet Boys.”
He shoots me a smug grin as he climbs onto the bike. “You don’t like them?”
I fucking do, but that’s not the point.
