“Rex!” She says his name like a warning. If I could laugh, I would, but I end up grunting instead.
“Give me the phone,” she demands, and I hear him grumble, but then her soft voice fills the line. “Wing, you okay?”
“I’m good. You okay?”
“Fine, are you drinking lots of fluids? Want me to get you some medicine?” she offers sweetly.
“You’re not taking him anything. He could get you sick!” Rex snaps.
“I’m fine, Lucy, just a stomach bug.” It’s harder to lie to her for some reason. Probably because she’s so nice and actually seems to care if I’m dying.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you go so you can get home. Rex said you were probably driving. Call me if you need anything. We’ll check up on you later.”
“I’m going home and then going to bed,” I tell her.
“Don’t forget to drink water, you need to stay hydrated. We can have some Gatorade or soup delivered.”
“Ugh, not now.” I wince.
“Okay, water than, and rest. Call back if you need anything, Wing, okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, then say a quick, “Bye,” before hanging up and tossing my phone on the seat next to me.
My hand stings as I grip the steering wheel. It’s strange how that pain from the cut is almost welcome while I would do just about anything not to feel like such shit anymore.
MAXINE
I try to convince myself to turn around before parking in the lot the next block over but fail to do it. I validate my choice to come here with things I don’t know to be true but believe them to be. It’s early, so the chance of him or any of the late-night employees being here is slim. It’s my opportunity to get into the club and take a good look around, check out the staff, and see how the place is run.
I keep my face lowered as I walk toward the club. There isn’t a doorman, but it’s only three in the afternoon, so not exactly prime time for the venue. When I haul the door open, the slow sultry rhythm of the music thumps through the long, dark hall. There’s a coat check window that doesn’t look to be in service, with a crappy black and silver chair stationed in the doorway, blocking entrance to the room.
I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my light jacket, pulling it tight around my waist. Acting as if I’ve done this a million times, I head deeper into the club. Nobody even looks up as I find a seat at a small table off to the side, not too close to the main stage.
The desire to look around weighs on me, but I force myself to look at the girl on stage, who’s moving her body to the slow tempo of the music. She’s supposed to be the reason I’m here. Her eyes are downcast as she watches her hand move along the skin of her stomach before she reaches a little lower and slips her fingers under the small triangle of florescent pink fabric covering her crotch.
A spark of something warms me. I glance up at her face, seeing if it’s attraction. It would make things so much easier if I wanted a woman, but the feeling slips away as I stare at her. My eyes are drawn lower again to her searching fingers. She’s now trailing her long blue nails up over her stomach, past her tits, and to her mouth, where she slips the same fingers that were in her costume into her mouth before closing her eyes as if she’s savoring the taste.
It’s bold, and while I can admit it’s sexy, I have no desire to lick her fingers or put my head between her legs, but I can imagine myself being her, touching myself and taking pleasure from my own body, and the warmth returns. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable that I’m slightly turned on. Some days, I feel like I’m battling my own treacherous body. I feel dirty and ashamed when I get turned on. The few times I’ve tried to indulge with a man have been total fucking failures, which is probably why I’m thinking about getting myself off while watching someone else emulate jacking off.
I ignore my body and the throb of my clit when I squeeze my thighs tightly together. Shutting down the thoughts are much easier when the show progresses to her crawling across the stage and putting her ass in the face of the men sitting right up against the front row.
I risk taking my first look around, seeing a few waitresses in lingerie and super skimpy bathing suits, plus a burly man behind the bar serving drinks.
My mark isn’t anywhere in sight, so why do I feel slightly disappointed when that was the plan? Unintentionally, I catch a waitress’s eye as I’m allowing my gaze to roam around. She gives me a little head nod of acknowledgement before finishing up at her table then walking over to mine on heels that make my feet hurt just from looking at them.
“Hey, honey, what can I get ya?” She seems wholly unfazed to be serving a woman, so maybe my presence here isn’t as shocking as I would have thought. In truth, I am pretty oblivious to shit like this. I’ve spent the past five years completely avoiding my sexuality and stunting anything related to it.
“Bourbon and cream soda.”
She turns her head and yells over to the bartender. “Hey, Rooster, we got cream soda?” I try hard not to squirm as I feel eyes in the club shift to me.
“No, we got Vernors,” he hollers back, as if ginger ale and cream soda are the same.
The girl looks back at me with a lift of her eyebrow. “Sorry about that, honey, you want something else?”
“Vernors is fine.” I hate all the attention she brought to me, and I want her to leave. I would agree to piss and bourbon at this point.
I get approached a few more times from dancers asking if I’m interested in a private show, but for the most part, I’m left to myself so I can sip my drink—which actually isn’t too bad—and watch the club.
