I decide to go out to the strip, to walk around and see if anything grabs my attention. I don’t have a destination in mind; I just walk. There are people everywhere, and as I continue, the crowds only seem to grow. There’re tourists with giant slushie drinks, performers, people trying to get money for pictures, or to get you to come to some event, show, or club.
I brush most of them off, trying to look confident, as if I know where I’m going, but the ones with shows and clubs do grab my attention.
“Are you looking to party tonight?” A girl in a leather bra and underwear with bright green hair hands me a flier. I politely smile and read it as I’m walking away.
“Trust me, stud, you don’t want to go there,” a deep voice with a thick southern accent warns me. A man in ripped jeans and a cowboy hat with no shirt on covers up the flier with one of his own, advertising a male strip club. “Come on over to Chaps, we’ll make sure you have a way better time.”
I suck in a breath as he shamelessly gives me an obnoxious once-over. “How did you…” I start to ask, but I don’t even know how I intended to finish that.
“I didn’t.” He shrugs. “It’s my job to bring in an audience at an all-male strip club. I’ve gotten pretty good at getting a feel for who to ask and who to avoid. But with you, it was also a bit of a hopeful suggestion,” he boldly flirts, stepping in closer.
My cheeks feel like they’re about to burst into flames. “Oh. Uh… wow. Thank you?”
“Don’t thank me, tell me you’ll see me there,” he says with a smirk. “It’s almost time for me to head over for my shift. I’m on stage tonight. Can I save you a lap dance?”
I swallow. Well, that would certainly be a step. Not sure if it would be in the right direction, but I’ve never been to a strip club, and I’ve especially never been to a male strip club.
I’m across the country. I won’t know anyone. It isn’t illegal.
I can totally do this. Be spontaneous. Embrace my sexuality.
This could be good.
I nod, biting my lip as I smile back at him. “Sounds like fun.”
12
JOHN
Somehow, I’ve gone from Chad yelling that he wanted to blow me at the craps table to watching him slam chips onto a blackjack table like he’s got any idea what he’s doing.
He doesn’t.
“These are my last twenty dollars,” Chad declares proudly, looking at the two chips in front of him.
“They’re not your last twenty dollars,” I mutter. “You’re stupid rich and you have a whole prepaid card full of money you haven’t touched yet. You just don’t know where it is since you had to pay cash for this table.”
“Oh yeah. Thanks, John. Huh.” He pats his chest, then for some unknown reason, turns to pat mine before checking his pockets—the first place he should’ve looked—before pulling it out and holding it in the air. “You hold it.”
“No,” I automatically respond, but he doesn’t listen as he shoves the card into my hand anyway.
“Great! Also, will you gamble for me?” He beams, pushing away from the table. Nothing about his behavior makes any sense to me, but once again, I seem to be incapable of saying no to him and meaning it.
We’ve been hanging out, just the two of us, since we got to the casino, and I’m trying to ignore the annoying voice in my head that keeps asking why Chad wants to spend so much time with me.
I know it doesn’t mean anything. He’s decided we’re friends, and he’s a very outgoing, happy person who likes to casually touch all his friends, not me specifically.
Last night I’d barely been buzzed, but tonight I’m probably as drunk as he is. I’d hoped the alcohol might numb some of the more inappropriate thoughts I’ve been having about Chad today, but it’s only had the opposite effect. I keep catching myself staring at the way his shirt is stretched over his muscles, or the way his smile lights up his whole face. Like it is right now.
What was he talking about again? Right. He wants me to take over for him. “Chad, I’m not?—”
The dealer is staring at us as Chad attempts to guide me into his seat.
“Fine,” I grumble as I look at the cards now in front of me, push the chip forward and tap the table to signify a hit.
I don’t know why Chad thought playing this game while drinking would be a good idea, but I guess that’s why he’s only got twenty dollars in chips left. I assumethis will be over in a couple of rounds since we’re playing at a ten-dollar table.
Chad leans into my side, and I try my best to ignore him to focus on the dealer. It’s a miracle he didn’t kick Chad out himself, but I guess if you’re just giving money to the house, there’s got to be some benefit of having a drunk guy at a table who clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.
