Chapter 2 #2
“You’ll see,” Dana repeated, a wicked gleam in her eye.
I looked around for the other teachers but they were all still over by the bar.
Alan raised a glass in my direction but made no move to join us.
The lights dimmed, and a cheer went up from the crowd.
I cheered too, even though I had no idea what I was cheering for.
Then the pumping bass of “FLEX” by Todrick Hall started to play, a couple of footlights lit up the stage, and the cheering got louder.
I found myself leaning forward in my seat, anticipation coursing through me.
And then the curtains parted, and my jaw dropped at the sight of a man dressed in a fireman’s uniform, because holy hell, even wearing pants he was gorgeous.
His face was shadowed by the brim of his helmet, but I was too busy looking at the rest of him to care.
Long blond hair flowed out from under his helmet, and the fabric of his uniform was stretched tight over thick thighs that had me itching to reach out and run a hand up and down them.
When he strutted to the front of the stage and turned his back on the audience, I was treated to the sight of a muscular ass and broad shoulders as he shimmied to the beat of the music.
Next to me, Dana elbowed me in the side.
“He’s so hot!” she said, echoing my own thoughts, and I could only nod dumbly in time to the music.
This wasn’t how I’d intended to out myself to my new colleagues, but he was hot, okay?
Also, I guessed I hadn’t been flying exactly under the radar if Dana had dragged me to the front row of a strip show where the stripper was a guy.
She hadn’t dragged Alan over here with us, had she?
Then again, Alan didn’t wear a rainbow lanyard.
Alan was still over by the bar where he was in deep conversation with a woman who was definitely approaching cougar territory. But Alan looked like the kind of guy who knew exactly what he was getting into and couldn’t be more pleased.
On stage, the stripper spun to face us, ripping off his shirt to a chorus of cheers and whistles, and moved his body in a way that made his abs ripple.
Abs didn’t do that in real life, did they?
Mine certainly didn’t. Then again, mine were protected from sight by a soft layer of belly fat, so they could be doing anything under there and I would never know.
“He looks like a cheese grater,” I said.
“Do you mean a washboard?” Dana asked.
“Yeah. That’s it. A washboard.” I was maybe drunker than I’d thought.
“If he’s a washboard, I’d rub my lacy delicates on him any day,” Dana said.
Then she stood up and cheered as the stripper gyrated closer to the end of the stage, and I wondered why we’d gotten onto dirty innuendos about washboards when he was dressed as a firefighter and all those hose jokes were right in front of us.
I blamed the blue fish. Then I drank some more of it and realized I couldn’t stay angry at it. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted in my life. I was sad when it was over.
I stared at the stripper and his abs and his ass and all the other parts of him that were large and tight and blurry at the same time. Then I remembered I was sad about my drink.
“I need new fish,” I said and got up and shuffled my way to the bar.
It took a few minutes to get my new blue fish—wasn’t there a kids’ book about that?
—and by the time I carried it carefully back to my seat, the stage was empty.
From the way Dana was wiggling in her seat in anticipation, though, the show wasn’t over yet.
I’d hadn’t even had time to sit down before Dana was leaning over and plucking my blue fish out of my hand.
I made a noise of protest, but Dana laughed and said, “Oh hush, hun, I’m doing you a favor.
You’re going to need your hands free.” And then she thrust a handful of dollar bills at me.
I took them, because what else was I going to do?
I wasn’t sure what was happening, but there had been a sexy guy and a tasty drink—or was that a tasty guy and a sexy drink?
—and now they’d both disappeared. Before I could question it, though, the music started up again.
I recognized Ginuwine’s “Pony.” Then the stripper was back, prowling across the stage like a big cat looking for its next meal.
I wouldn’t have minded being his snack. He was wearing a cowboy outfit this time, complete with assless chaps.
I stood there staring, with my fists full of dollar bills and my jaw on the floor.
Dana gave an extra loud whoop, and the guy turned toward her, and even though his face was hidden by the shadow of his Stetson, the light gleamed off his teeth as he grinned and made his way in her direction.
From the other side of the stage, a girl carrying a chair appeared.
She was dressed as a sexy angel, which didn’t really match the cowboy theme, but whatever.
She strutted forward with the chair and set it down, and meanwhile the cowboy drew closer and closer to Dana.
The crowd cheered and whooped when he held a hand out.
I cheered and whooped too, except Dana shook her head, grinned, waved a twenty, and pointed at me.
The cowboy took the twenty and held his hand down to me instead.
There was not enough blue fish in the world to make this okay.
But there was enough, it turned out, to turn off all the parts of my brain that knew how to refuse this gracefully and with any dignity intact.
Or to just refuse at all. Because before I knew it I was being pulled up onto the little stage and planted in the chair.
The music changed to the electric choral intro to Sam Smith’s “Unholy.” Then the beat dropped, and so did the stripper’s ass. Right into my lap.
The stripper was hot as hell, and the way he moved was incredible.
His spine shifted sinuously, and his hips never stopped.
I knew that I was supposed to match his energy.
Not in a sexual way—that was his job—but I was supposed to at least look like I was having fun.
I was sure that if he turned around and looked at me, all he’d see was an expression trying its hardest not to swing too hard between either awkwardness or abject terror.
It was nothing personal. It wasn’t even about the stripping part—it was because I hated this level of audience participation.
It would have been just as bad if he’d been a magician.
Actually, that might have been worse. I hated magicians.
But I tried to smile and move my shoulders in a way that suggested I also knew what rhythm was, and “Unholy” was only a short song, right?
The stripper straightened up and then ripped his chaps right off, leaving him wearing only a red G-string and his Stetson.
My brain didn’t know what to do with all that hot, shining muscle in front of me, so I started to tuck dollar bills into the elastic band of his G-string as intently as a little kid shoving shapes into one of those colorful block puzzles.
And maybe we would have made it to the end of the song just fine like that, except the stripper decided to straddle me.
He put one hand on my shoulder while his ass gyrated over my lap, then gave me a sexy grin as he lifted his other hand to tip his cowboy hat back.
We both froze.
Holy shit.
It was John Wilder.
It was obvious he hadn’t recognized me before, and his smile vanished as quickly as his rhythm, but he recovered quickly enough. He tugged his hat forward again and kept moving while I avoided eye contact and held out my fistful of dollars like they were an apology bouquet.
The song ended, and he snatched the dollars and stood up. He didn’t even shake his ass at the crowd before hightailing it backstage.
I climbed shakily to my feet and hurried back into the cheering crowd, my face hot.
My brother Dallas had given me a bunch of advice on how to deal with the worst parent of the year, but somehow that had never covered what to do if you accidentally paid them for a lap dance.
There probably wasn’t any advice for that scenario, except for drinking so much I could forget it ever happened.
I was going to need all the blue fish in the world.
It had been so long since I’d been out drinking that my body had forgotten how to cope.
I thought I was still hungover by the time Monday morning rolled around and I stood under the pathetic trickle of water that was all that came out of the showerhead in my motel bathroom, however much I tried to adjust it.
I couldn’t wait to be out of here and into my new house.
Dana might have thought it was crazy to buy a place the second I got to town, but with the way everything was going, a place in Goose Run might be all I’d ever be able to afford, and I wanted to grab it before I was priced out of the housing market entirely.
Also, it wasn’t so bad here. Well, at least it wasn’t too far away from a bunch of better places. Same thing, right?
I was looking forward to a proper kitchen in my new house as well, so that I didn’t need to go to the gas station on my way to work to get something to eat.
The young guy in the coffee kiosk gave off a hostile vibe.
At first I’d thought it was because I was an outsider, but then I realized he was like that with everyone.
And the coffee and pastries honestly weren’t even decent enough to put up with his attitude but, like with everything else in Goose Run, my options were limited.
I arrived at school with a stale pastry and a burnt coffee and shuffled into the teachers’ lounge. I sat down in one of the worn old chairs and let out a long breath.
“Oh, Avery,” Alan said, “is that coffee from the gas station?” He shook his head. “Rookie error, my friend. Rookie error.”
Meanwhile he was fiddling with the coffee machine, trying to get anything at all out of it, so things were pretty thirsty up there on his high horse. I took a slurp of my coffee, pretending it tasted better than it actually was.
“You look tired,” Dana said, glancing up from her laptop.
“Just a headache,” I said, because that seemed less pathetic than admitting I was still hungover from Friday night.
“Oh no,” she said and hummed in sympathy. “I’ve got some Tylenol in my purse if you need it.”
“I already took some,” I said. “But thanks.”
The first cars were pulling into the parking lot outside, so I stood up and slung my bag back over my shoulder, then hurried to my classroom to open it up.
I almost hoped John Wilder was late today so I’d have an excuse not to engage.
I’d admit, I’d spent more time than was healthy over the weekend worrying that the guy was secretly a raging homophobe and would turn up at school ranting about someone “like me” teaching his kid.
Given that he hadn’t hesitated to give me a lap dance, I didn’t think it was likely, but that hadn’t stopped me lying there and staring into the dark last night, pondering the possible end of my teaching career before it had even begun.
Get it together, Avery, whispered a voice that sounded a lot like my older brother. You’re a professional. You’ve got this.
The phantom voice was oddly comforting. I was a professional, and if I handled it right, there was no reason this had to go south. We could just pretend Friday night had never happened. I mean, he could hardly out me without outing himself, right?
The kids trickled into class in dribs and drabs and got settled. Five minutes before the start of class, the door opened and Gracie came in, followed by her silent father.
He crouched down and gave her a hug before she skipped over to her cubby and stashed her backpack. He and I eyed each other warily, like a couple of dogs deciding whether to sniff each other’s butts.
I did my best not to think about his butt and how fantastic it had looked in that thong.
John Wilder was almost vibrating with tension.
He looked like one wrong move would have him snapping like an elastic band, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy.
If this was awkward for me, how much worse must it be for him?
He was probably worried I’d embarrass him in front of his kid—like I’d ever do something like that.
“Good morning,” I said breezily, plastering on a smile like this man’s ass hadn’t been up close and personal with my junk and I didn’t know he had a small crescent-shaped scar just above his left butt cheek.
I could see the moment he realized I wasn’t going to mention Friday night, and his relief was palpable. He gave me a slight nod and said, “Gracie’s snacks don’t need the refrigerator today.” And then he shot out the door like a scalded cat.
Okay then.
Situation handled. Now I just had to make sure I never saw John Wilder’s naked ass again—and really, how hard could that be?