Chapter 14 #2
Moving into the rhythm, I let Glitter take over. The music pulses through me, but the usual high I get from performing is still absent. I dance anyway, swaying my hips and sliding my hands down my body, hoping the moves will distract him from whatever conversation he’s trying to have.
“Sparkle.” He tries to talk to me again, but I keep moving.
This is a private dance, so I should be on his lap, but that is dangerous territory.
He watches me intently, his hands resting on his thighs, and there’s tension in him that looks ready to rip. His eyes follow my every move, but I can tell he’s not focused on the dance—his eyes never leave my face.
I want to spin around and give him my back, but before I can take another step, his hands are on me, firm but not forceful, gripping my waist. He pulls me onto his lap, and the sudden shift sends a shock through my body like a live wire.
His scent floods my senses—warm leather, amber, a hint of tobacco and weed clinging to him.
It’s so intoxicating that I forget where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing.
I shift on his lap, feeling every inch of him beneath me, the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers of fabric between us.
“Can you stop that shit and talk to me?” he asks lowly, seriously, back to pleading.
For a second, I think about pushing him away, about getting up and fucking leaving. Instead, I settle in his lap, my legs on either side of him, his hands steadying me. It feels almost too natural, too easy.
I watch as he struggles—really struggles—to keep his eyes on mine and not on my tits, which are practically in his face. It’s kind of funny how he keeps darting his gaze up like he’s trying to be respectful, but I can see the effort. He’s trying, and for some reason, that makes me soften.
“What happened?” His voice catches me off guard. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… vulnerable. “What did I do? Did I… hurt you?”
The question lingers, heavy and uncomfortable. It wasn’t him. I was into it. Into him. It’s not his fault he triggered something buried deep. I can’t tell him that. I won’t. He deserves something, though. I’m not so cold-hearted as to let him think he crossed a line.
“No. You didn’t do anything,” I say, quieter than I intended. “It was probably a bad trip.”
“A bad trip?” His brow furrows, suspicion all over his face. “From weed?”
“Seems like it.” I shrug. “Sorry.”
He studies me, his gaze too sharp, like he’s trying to pick apart my thoughts. Like he knows I’m lying.
God, I’m so done with human lie detectors for one day.
His fingers flex on my hips, but he doesn’t push. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says slowly. “I hope you know I’d never do anything you don’t want.”
“You didn’t do anything that wasn’t consensual. But I learned my lesson. I won’t be smoking weed for a while.”
I have no idea how long that will last, though, if I can’t use alcohol as a crutch.
He leans back, his hands still resting on my hips, his touch steady, grounding. “Deal.”
I blink. “What?”
“Let’s turn the weed down a little,” he says casually, but the way he’s watching me isn’t casual at all.
My defenses snap up. “Why would you do that?”
Isn’t this guy always at least a little high?
His eyes stay locked on mine. “Because I figured… I’d rather be in the moment with you.”
“The moment is more enjoyable when you’re high.” I try to cling to the distance I’ve built between us, but it’s slipping. His thumbs start tracing small circles on my hips, drawing me in piece by piece.
It was hard enough to keep him at a distance when I was drunk, but this? This is torture.
He leans in, close enough that his breath skims my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Lately, you’re the only thing I want to be high on.”
Fuck. My pulse stutters, a nervous laugh escaping before I can stop it. He’s getting too close, too real.
“My freakout didn’t scare you off?”
“Baby, if anything, it made me want you more.” He groans. “I was so damn close.”
Right, this is about fucking.
It’s just sex.
I can do sex. Hell, I did that for years. My mushed feelings are because of everything that happened today. Not him.
It’s not him.
A reluctant smile edges onto my lips, and I’m trying to keep it cool, keep him at arm’s length, but it’s hard when his eyes are pinning me in place like this. “What if I’m a pillow princess?”
“I love a pillow princess.” He grins, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Keep your eyes on me and take it. I’ll handle the rest.”
Shit. Heat flares through me, but I swallow it, forcing myself to think. To remember why I’m supposed to keep my distance. Why I shouldn’t let him in, but the way his hands are now moving slowly up my thighs, is making it harder to hold onto the reasons.
“When are you done here?”
“After your dance,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Am I really making an exception for him? Again?
“Well, consider your dance done.” His grip tightens, barely enough to pull me closer, to keep me grounded in his orbit. “You gonna take me home with you, Sparkle?”
I should say no. I should tell him to leave and walk away before it gets messy again. However, the thought of being alone tonight, of facing the empty silence, the cold, is unbearable. And honestly, he’s better than some random body to get through the night.
It’s just sex, I remind myself.
“If you’re asking nicely.” I bite my lip, my hand resting on his chest.
In one swift motion, he grabs my chin, pulling me into a kiss.
His lips are soft, but there’s an urgency in the way he nips at my bottom lip like he’s asking for more than I’m ready to give.
“Please, baby,” he whispers against my mouth roughly, desperately.
“Please take me home.” For the first time tonight, I feel something other than anguish.
And God help me, I want to say yes. “Yes? No? Maybe so?” he murmurs the words against my lips, waiting, holding me on the edge.
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 know his name.
“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’s Backstreet 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.
“Why the hell are you listening to that?”
His grin widens. “They’re my favorite.” Then, without missing a beat, he yells dramatically along with the music, “Tell me why-y!”
I can’t help it, I laugh. The reality of this hot, tattooed, and pierced bad boy jamming to Backstreet Boys is ridiculous.
Hottie helps me onto the bike behind him, and it’s easy. I slip onto the seat just like last time, my hands naturally finding their way to his waist. For some reason, being on the back of his bike feels safer, more comfortable than driving in a car.
Probably because there are no memories attached to it.
I press myself closer to him, my arms wrapped around his solid torso as the engine roars to life, and then we’re off.
The wind whips through the small gap in the helmet, and the city blurs around us, but all I can hear is him singing along to the music at the top of his lungs.
It’s absurd. And yet, it makes something heavy inside me lift a little.
“Why Backstreet Boys?” I ask over the hum of the engine and the blaring music.
He chuckles, his voice crackling through the helmet. “Started it to annoy my brother. Backfired. Now I’m into it.”
“Your brother… Ez?” I press, holding on tighter as we speed through the city.
“Yep. I’ve got four brothers.” Then, after a moment, he asks, “What about you? Got any siblings?”
The question hits harder than I expect, and I freeze, the memory of Rosalee flashing through my mind. The smile, the laughter, the glitter gone like a snapped string in the dark.
“No,” I answer softly, the weight of the word sinking into me as I hold on tighter. “I don’t.”
Not anymore.