Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Jackson
D aphne slips onto the bar with ease. She stretches her arms and legs, taking up as much space as possible.
Something about it feels different.
Personal.
At least, now, the angle is in my favor. The bar comes to my mid-stomach. Which means no one can see my slacks struggling to contain the situation.
I stop fighting my attraction.
I let go.
Yes, I want her. I don't have to deny that.
I just have to refrain from acting on it.
The acceptance eases the tension in my shoulders. Which makes it easier to do this right.
As her friend and wingman.
The bartender gets closer this time. She straddles Daphne's thighs as she rolls Daphne's shorts low enough to reveal her belly button.
She places the glass in her belly button.
Daphne looks to me as if to say this is more fun than you expected, huh?
I think. I'm not exactly at peak observational skill at this point. There's not enough blood in my brain.
"Men usually like to watch this." She picks up a bottle and pours liquid into the shot glass. "And I like the angle too. A little ménage à trois without all the complications."
"We would never want complications," Daphne says. There's something off about her voice. Nerves. Or flirting. I can't tell anymore.
"Or maybe you two are into that kinda thing." The bartender winks.
Daphne tries to shrug, but from her position, she can't quite do it. So she just laughs. "Whenever you're ready, baby." She shifts into her role. Still nervous but excited.
That must be what she's like when she fucks.
Eager to learn, grow, explore.
People are who they are. In the bedroom too. It's not always one-to-one. Sometimes, the shy girl isn't shy when she takes off her clothes. Sometimes, the shy girl is an attention-seeking freak.
But there's always a relationship between those things.
The shy girl who fears attention everywhere or the shy girl who finally gives into her desire for eyeballs on her skin.
And Daphne, with all that enthusiasm in her eyes—
She's the same here. I can tell.
I let the thought dissolve as the bartender slides off Daphne's legs.
She motions all you . "Hands behind you."
I'm not used to taking orders. Not in this context anyway. Still, I place my hands behind my back.
"Now, all mouth. But since your lady says you're generous, you're probably used to that." The bartender winks.
Fun.
That's all this is.
For a quick moment, I take in the sight of Daphne's long body stretched over the surface. The messy hair, the bare shoulders, the long line of her stomach, the undone button of her shorts, and those legs—
They're too fucking sexy. I want them on my palms, wrapped around my waist, pressed against my cheeks.
This is a taste.
Not even a taste.
And it's happening. Here goes nothing.
I lean down, bringing my mouth to her torso. I wrap my lips around the glass, then suck just enough to hold it there.
In one swift motion, I rise and slam the shot back.
The drink is even worse than I imagined. Like rubbing alcohol and artificial flavoring. But knowing it's on Daphne's lips sends more blood south.
I swallow hard, and I ditch the glass.
The bartender claps. "Let me know when you're ready for the next round."
"Later." Daphne reaches for my hand. When I offer it, she pulls herself up and slides off the bar. "We've got dinner plans. We're here for a bachelor party."
"We're here when you need us." She winks.
Daphne pulls two twenties from her pocket and presses them into the bartender's palm.
She beams. "Thanks, hon. Hope you two have a fun night. If you're looking for someplace with a little more action—" She also brandishes a business card and presses it into Daphne's hand.
Only this one isn't for a nightclub.
It's a sex club.
Daphne shows it to me. "Too fun for you?"
I should say yes, of course , but I don't. I say, "Is that a challenge?"
"Not yet." She smiles. "But maybe later."
"It is your turn."
She nods I know . "We don't have time. We have to get to dinner."
That's true.
"But that will give me awhile to think of the perfect dare."
That is, if my brother doesn't beat her to it.
Our dinner reservation at the steakhouse at the Paris is only a few casinos away, but the scorching heat makes the trip feel slow.
It's too loud for real conversation. Not that I know what to say. My thoughts refuse to get in line. They keep screaming take off Daphne's clothes, now .
I barely see the MGM Grand, Coke World, the M&M building. I barely notice a thing until a guy in an all-black rash guard shoves a postcard into my hands.
No, this isn't a postcard. It's an advertisement for an escort. One with a picture. A tan blonde with fake breasts in a bright pink thong, her nipples just covered by clip-art stars.
Do I look like a guy who goes for this kind of thing, or do these assholes hand everyone cheap R-rated trading cards?
Daphne shares none of my irritation. She studies the image with pure intellectual curiosity. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind. Is this some sort of prototypical sex worker? Do these lightly censored images get the best results? What would make someone call the number on one of these cards?
Her eyes flit to mine. Her curiosity turns to me.
She's asking herself if I'd call the number, pay for sex, spend a night with an escort, go for this sort of woman.
Something like that.
But there's no judgment in her expression. There almost never is. That's a remarkable trait. How the hell does she do it?
She raises a brow interesting , slips the postcard into her back pocket, and continues our trek to the Paris.
Finally, we pass the fake hot air balloon and move into the casino.
Ah, sweet air-conditioning.
So much for linen keeping me cool. Not that I can fault the fabric. With her right here, I'm not sure anything could keep me cool.
As we move through the carpeted casino, she removes the flyer from her pocket. "Do you know where we're going?"
This is another place my coworker liked. It was hard to find, but I remember where it's hiding. "Yeah."
"You lead then." She holds up the flyer. "There's a lot to consider here."
"Is there?"
I take her hand.
She follows me through the casino, past rows of slot machines and blackjack tables. "Is this your type?"
"For sale?"
She laughs. "That's darker than I meant it." She studies the escort's tan skin. "She's got that California meets Las Vegas thing going."
"Throw that away."
"No way. It's a keepsake." She slides it into her purse. "And an interesting study. Why do men find thin blondes with huge breasts attractive?"
"Porn," I say.
She raises a brow. "You watch porn?"
Not a smart subject. "I've watched it."
"But you don't watch it now." She shoots me that same coy expression. Really, you expect me to believe that?
She's not wrong, exactly. She's just not right either. I like the tease in her eyes. I like it too much. I try to find some way to respond without saying how about we make a video together , but I can't. I want her too much.
Thankfully, she saves me from my dirty thoughts. Daphne stops and looks me in the eyes. "It is my turn."
In the game. It is. Is she daring me to pick truth? Sort of. I nod. "It is."
"Jackson, truth or dare."
I don't know if this is bait, but I take it anyway. "Truth."
"What sort of aids do you use to masturbate?" Her tone is as clinical as her language.
Thank fuck. Even with the detached words, I still hear Daphne Webb wants to think about your dick .
I need to respond with the same clinical demeanor. As if this is only about the game. As if I'm not saying I really want you to know about my dick .
"You mean, when I'm not on the phone with my ex?" I try to keep it light.
It doesn't work. The shift in subject sends interest back into her eyes. "That isn't masturbation."
"I'm touching myself."
"For her," she says. "With her help. If one person comes with the aid of another, that's sex."
"What if they don't come?"
"Because they were interrupted?" she asks. "Or because the intent wasn't orgasm?"
"Either."
"Depends," she says. "If you have to ask, it's probably sex."
That's a better definition than mine. It would have kept me from having phone sex with my ex for months.
How can I even suggest it's not sex? Sex is right there in the title.
It's not as intimate as other things, but it's a relationship all the same.
Now, when I'm really on my own—
That's a harder question to answer.
I don't masturbate often. It's not a lack of interest in sex. Quite the opposite.
The more I want it, the more I delay.
Some things are better when you wait. With sex—
Waiting is half the fun. Most of it even.
Still. I'm not a monk. I do enjoy solo sessions from time to time.
"Usually, I replay memories," I answer honestly, with as little embellishment as possible. "Sometimes, I imagine a scenario. Occasionally, I use an old picture or clip. One an ex gave me permission to keep."
"Doesn't that bother your new girlfriend?" she asks.
"I don't do it if I have a new girlfriend."
"But you replay memories of exes?" she asks.
"Of course. Don't you?"
"No," she says. "But it's not your turn yet. You didn't answer the entire question."
I answered most of it. But she's right. We agreed to these rules. I will honor them. "I use lube. Or lotion if lube isn't handy. That's it."
"Never porn?"
"Not in a long time," I say.
"Because you prefer the emotional connection to the homemade videos?"
That's one way to put it.
"I didn't have a good experience with porn," I say. "A friend introduced me to it too early. It was too much." Too aggressive, too obvious, too fake. It didn't make sense to my young brain. "I always associated it with that feeling."
"You've never tried to find something you like?" she asks.
"A few times." When I was in high school. Then college. Once I had my first set of homemade pictures, I didn't want to find the professional thing. "Why? Do you have a video to send me?"
Her cheeks flush. "Do I seem that obsessed?"
"Yes."
"I'm not. I just, uh, I've watched a fair amount. For studies. There's a really wide range. I like the stuff marketed as 'for women,' usually. It's a little more emotional, more subtle."
"There's something left for your imagination."
She nods. "There's mystery." She turns the corner and comes to the fake French bistro.
And there's Zack and Laurel waiting outside.
"It's your turn," she says.
"We'll pick up when they leave," I say.
She offers her hand.
I shake.
Then, I face the metaphorical music. I join my brother and sister at the front.