Don’t React
Lex
Juliana’s voice is breathy, as usual. Getting her on a call is a mission on a good day, let alone nailing her down for an hour. In the background, her kids scream, and her husband’s sharp voice cuts through, warning them to “calm the fuck down.”
“How did you meet this guy again?” She asks, adding, “He’s hot if you’re into that huge, terrifying thing.”
We’ve been at this for a while. At some point, I sent her his Instagram account, which she promptly requested to follow before going to the team account to view photos. We’ve covered this already, but I would venture to say she struggles to envision me working at a bar. I laugh and start again.
“Remember how I used to live in Costa Rica? When I came back, I was broke, jobless, and desperate. I sent my resume everywhere and took my first offer—a job at GT’s, a dive bar in my hometown.”
“Yeah, no. I got that part. I just, what kind of bar was this place?”
“It was just a regular ass dive bar in my hometown. My uncle was friends with the owner. I think that’s why I got the job, despite being the oldest person employed there.”
There is a pause while she does some mental math.
“Oldest? You were, what, ancient—thirty?”
I snort. “Twenty-eight. But thanks for that. This should give you a clear idea of the bar. Everyone else working there was under twenty-two, and the patrons were even younger. You are focusing on the wrong part of this situation, though. The bar is not relevant. The guy is the point.”
“Right. The guy. I am trying to perfect my mental image of this whole thing. You, working in a bar. When was the last time you went to a damn bar, Lex?” Her tone is incredulous.
I fight back a groan - it’s been an hour. She’s one of my most ‘grown-up’ friends. I want her advice. However, she is stuck on this years-old version of me, who was struggling to pay rent, put food on the table, and was a little lost. She clears her throat, covers the phone, and sternly tells her kids they don’t want her to “get off this phone because they’ll be sorry.” Then, she returns to our conversation.
“Sorry, they are wild today. Have I mentioned lately not to have this many kids? Normal people do not do this to themselves. It’s not manageable or reasonable.”
This brings a genuine smile to my face.
“Jules, you start every conversation like this. Consider it noted—no kids for me. Ever.”
“That is not what I said! You know what, never mind. So you, bar hater extraordinaire, worked in a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. You met a hockey player who you weren’t interested in. Then this week, you run into him downtown, and… what? What is the big deal? The world isn’t that small.”
My cat crawls onto the bed, circling several times before laying down, purring loudly. I run a hand over her velvety body. Juliana’s asking what the big deal is, and I don’t have a good answer. I wouldn’t still be thinking about it if it were anyone else. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Adrian fucking Liberty.
She sighs, “I need to go. We can continue this later. These kids are borderline feral, and I think Aleks might kill me if I don’t help wrangle them before dinner. Plus—I’ll see you in a few weeks! I love you!”
The line goes dead before I can respond. I roll to my side and pull my cat into me, scratching under her chin. My upcoming trip to visit Juliana had completely slipped my mind, and I’m nothing short of elated over it. I’m daydreaming about palm trees and warm weather when my phone lights up with a text message from Rosie.
A few hours later, I smudge out the liner around my eyes. I haven’t gotten ready for the bar in years and already profoundly regret agreeing to go out tonight, but Juliana’s teasing was in my head when Rosie called to ask. Since I met her, Rosie called at least every other week, practically begging.
“Come on, Lex. Please. You never come out. You’ve been in my city for years and have never come out. Please.” She’d whined over the phone earlier.
I wish I could have seen her face when I said okay. Like a teenager, she squealed, letting me know she expected me at her house early to get ready. So, here I am. She shot down my outfit choice immediately, letting me know this isn’t a business event.
“When was the last time you got some? That thing will seal over if you don’t use it, ya know?” She teases.
“I use it plenty. I have zero patience for boys dressed up as men.”
When I moved back to the country, I set a lofty goal, which I’m close to. However, men are a distraction I can’t afford.
“Vibrators don’t count.”
She sighs and laughs as she skips to her sizeable walk-in closet inside this massive downtown condo. I’ve never asked her how she can afford this place, although I doubt she works. I guess I’ve always assumed she comes from family money. Taking a sip of my drink, I watch as she throws tiny squares of fabric onto the bed.
Those cannot be dresses.
“Rosie, what am I looking at here?” I ask, “Those aren’t dresses.”
Her voice is high and almost childlike when she replies, “Of course they are! Not a business meeting.” She reiterates.
I’m going to need to be a lot less lucid for this. I finish my drink in one gulp. It takes only a few moments for its warmth to wash over me, my fingertips tingling most deliciously. Emboldened, I step up to the side of her bed and sort through the options.
“What are you wearing?” I ask.
She pulls out a shimmery gold… thing… It looks about the size of a dish towel. The straps seem as if a stiff breeze would snap them. I tilt my chin and glance between her and the “dress.”
“What the actual fuck is this?” I laugh. “Rosie, this is not a dress. This is a tea towel.”
“Gotta show off my money makers!” She giggles, wiggling her ass and tits back and forth.
She strips down to a lacy thong. I’ve never noticed her tits before, sitting high on her chest and unnaturally round.
They’re fake—they gotta be fake.
My hand moves before I can stop myself; my face must show intrigue, shock, and slight jealousy.
“You like! They’re still pretty new.” She exclaims, looking down at them. “You can touch them, they feel… different.”
She pushes her chest out toward my hand. I gently squeeze the left one. They’re not exactly hard, but they don’t feel like my full natural boobs. I switch to the right, then place both hands on each breast. Her nipples harden under my touch.
Damn, these are nice.
I look up at her face, her eyes hooded slightly, her lips parted. My heart rate kicks up, and heat builds in between my thighs. Withdrawing my hands, I clear my throat.
How many drinks have I had?
“They’re great, babe. How was the surgery? I can’t even see any scars.” I inquire, trying to bring us back to getting ready and girl chat and push us away from being turned on by my hands on her body.
Her eyes open, and her playful expression returns to her face. She shifts and shows me a small scar on the outer side of her breast—a lot smaller than I expected. She tells me all the details about the procedure. The pain was minimal, and it took a few months for the scars to fade and for them to fall to a more natural area of her chest—laughable, as they are still nearly in her collarbones—and the cost.
“I should do this. They seem great. My thirties are impacting me,” I laugh. “I don’t know if you have ever told me what you do for work. How do you afford all this?”
She has returned to her closet, pulling out too many options for me. Without turning to face me, she responds, “I’m an escort, silly.”
My eyes widen. I turn back to the dresses.
Don’t react. Don’t react.
The silence stretches between us. I am trying so hard not to react that I create awkward tension, which is a reaction in itself.
“Is that a problem for you, Lex?”
I take a slow breath. Is it? No. Not a problem. Just a shock.
Honesty is the best policy, right?
“No, Rosie. It’s not a problem. Am I fucking shocked? Yeah. How long?”
We turn to face each other. She is still more or less naked. This feels so weird. Talking to my escort friend about her job while her new tits are on full display. I remind myself to keep my eyes on her face.
“Since I was in college. I knew I didn’t want to leave college swimming in debt. I heard about a website that connected women with sugar daddies, and I went for it. It worked out so much better than I had expected. I graduated with six figures in my savings account and a degree I’ve never used. Well, I mean, it helps me when I am with someone well-educated who wants a woman who can carry a conversation.” She laughs at that last omission.
Six figures. She was in school for two years. I can’t even be mad or judgmental; I’m still paying off the debt for the degree I never finished. At that point, my face has to reflect my shock and awe at that point cause she tackles me onto her bed. We land on top of the dresses, giggling.
“You want a job, Lex? Get that chedddaaarrrr!” She squeals.
“Fuck, I’m considering it. That is insane!”
She pushes off the bed, noting my empty drink, and skips to the kitchen to replenish. I sort through the dresses, pulling out the only two black options she selected. I head to the opposite wall. Mirrors cover it. I really examine her room. It makes sense knowing how she uses the room. Her bed is a California King. A mirror is on the ceiling above, and the wall to the left is entirely mirrored. Men would love this. The ability to see her from all angles. Egotistical. I can’t deny it is sexy as fuck. When she returns, I hold the dresses up before my body—still wearing my baggy jeans and a fitted tank top. She sets the drinks on her dresser.
“You cannot possibly pick like this!” Her hands move to my jeans, quickly undoing the buttons and tugging them down.
Confidence aside, the action makes my thighs clench with nerves. She is younger, and her body is perfect—it always has been. Mine is decidedly not. I lean toward the dresser, grab my drink, and chug half down. She must sense my self-consciousness.
“Lex, you’re fucking gorgeous. And it’s me! Don’t be shy. We both have tits, blah blah.” Her tone is encouraging and warm before turning incredulous. “but what the fuck are these undies!?”
I am in my tank top and undies. I gaze into the mirror. The skin-toned cotton thong isn’t that bad?
“What’s wrong with them?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she moves to the top drawer of her dresser, opens it, and rifles through the options. I spot a few vibrators, handcuffs, and what looks like a ball gag. I smirk. Nice. She pulls out something black and stringy. It’s not even worth arguing. She won’t take no for an answer. Plus, I feel great thanks to the French 75s she’s been serving up. Champagne always goes straight to my head.
I step out of my cotton underwear, commenting, “You can’t keep these. They are comfortable, and I want them back.”
She motions in an x over her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die… since no one is getting laid in those fucking things.”
I pull her tiny panties into place. I’ll give it to her. They are much sexier and not even a little trashy looking. They border on elegance. As I remove my tank top, she offers no comment. Instead, she throws the matching bra at me. I guess her new tits put her closer in size to me. The bra fit. Barely. Bending forward will absolutely have my breasts spilling out over the top. I make a mental note to stay upright as much as possible tonight.
“Damn, girl!” She comments, looking me up and down. “See, told you. That body is banging!”
I take my reflection in. Despite lacking exercise, my coffee and Vyvanse-fueled life has resulted in a more slender physique than when I was younger. I started getting tattooed in my late teens to hide the softness of my curves. I knew abs would never happen, so I figured the bright colors and patterns might hide me. Since then, I’ve covered most of my body. My legs, stomach, ass, back, hands, and neck. Only my breasts stayed clear and unmarked. They were always my best asset, anyway.
I consider the two dresses, but I am not entirely confident they will fit.
“Are you dead set on black? This blue one would look so good,” Rosie suggests.
“I clash with everything, Rose. Need to stay neutral.” I respond—the downside of picking a full pallet of colors to cover my skin.
She doesn’t argue, for once. Instead, she plucks one dress from my hand and tosses it to the bed.
“That one first!”
I nod and look at the remaining dress. Locating a delicate zipper on the side, I undo it and step into it. The material is silky and cool against my skin.
When did I get so warm?
Somewhere between feeling up my friend and her removing my panties, I would guess. I sense her hands on the side, closing the zipper.
“It’s perfect!” She chirps.
Perfect is a stretch. It is incredibly short. I haven’t worn anything this short since working at the bar. I only did it at that time to earn more tips. I run my hands over my stomach, looking in the mirror and considering that Rosie and I aren’t that dissimilar. She uses her body to earn money. I did the same back then. Sure, I wasn’t going as far as having sex with people for money, but really, it’s comparable.
She pulls the gold dress over her head while I watch her, deciding I am incredibly inspired by her. She chose to do something most women are too scared to do.
“Rosie, you are so fucking cool.”
She turns to face me, looking surprised. A slow smile grows across her beautiful face.
“YOU are so fucking cool! Now, finish your drink. Let’s go!” She responds, pulling me into a quick hug.
Grabbing my drink off the dresser and looking over the bottles of perfumes on display. She has many scents, Baccarat Rouge, Louboutin, Le Labo. High-end scents. I’m smelling one I’ve never heard of when I spot a bottle tucked into the back.
“You have this cheap drugstore one in this lineup of designer perfumes?” I ask, reaching for it. Removing the cap, the sweet vanilla cookie scent fills my senses. “I used to wear this exclusively.”
“I know! You introduced me to it, and there is nothing like it. It’s my go-to date perfume because men cannot resist it. I swear it is one of those pheromone perfumes you see online.” She laughs, taking it from my hand and spraying it on her neck and wrists.
She hands the blue bottle back, and I spray it on myself—on my neck, wrists, and thighs. I have always loved the idea of my thighs smelling like cookies. We glance at the mirror one last time, finish our drinks, put on heels inappropriate for a bar, and leave. As she locks up, I think, tonight, I’m going to be more like Rosie.
Rosie skips past the line and up to the bouncer. His face lights up when he sees her. He leans forward, kisses her cheek, and then steps aside to let us pass. The line behind us groans. She grabs my hand and pulls me behind her. With my other hand, I gently tug the hem of the dress down.
I feel naked.
We head straight to the bar, the music loud and full of deep bass. Recognition shines on the bartender’s face when he sees her. She leans across the bar, whispering in his ear. He smiles broadly, nodding and looking toward me. I smile and survey the bar. It’s massive and packed. Club, this is a club. Not a bar. Looking back at Rosie and the bartender, I notice that in her current position, her dress has ridden up, and her ass and a bit of her tiny panties are visible. I stand behind her, seeing several sets of eyes trained on her. She is a walking billboard.
She straightens beside me, handing me a drink. I take a sip, and it tastes like a hangover; it’s so sugary. Too easy to drink. She leads us to a booth, and we slide in. She sips her drink while her eyes scan the room. I can’t help but smile.
Bending toward her to avoid yelling, I say, “You look like an animal on the hunt.”
She meets my eyes and smirks deviously. “I am.”
That kind of night.
We talk about the club and some men she’s already marked as having good potential for the evening—she is magnetic. Next to her, I’ve never felt more visible than I do right now. Men at the bar get their friends’ attention and point towards us.
I am about to comment on it when she says, “People are fixated on you!”
I huff at that suggestion, replying, “It’s you, babe. They’re looking at you.”
She shakes her head slightly, setting her drink down.
“No way. I come here all the time. I never get this kind of attention. It’s you, that dress, those tattoos.”
My cheeks flush a little. I am used to being stared at because of my tattoos. I never feel like it’s with desire, but there’s no denying the looks our little booth attracts. The words ‘fresh meat’ come to mind. We finish our drinks and decide to dance a little. I could use a way to burn off some of the alcohol in my system.
We make our way to the center of the dance floor. The bar I worked in did not play this kind of music. I recognize none of the songs and take Rosie’s lead on how to move to the music. She sways her hips back and forth, running her hands through her long, blonde hair. The crowd creates a type of circle around us. Her hands land on my shoulders, and I place mine on her hips. We twirl and sway, moving closer together until we straddle each other’s legs, grinding.
She oozes sexuality. One more drink, and I might pay her for sex. I chuckle at the thought, my head fuzzy from the drinks. I close my eyes and drift away. Rosie moves away slightly, dropping my hands; I turn my back to her and feel her arms wrap around my waist. No, not her hands; these hands are large. My back hits a broad chest, and a masculine scent fills my nose. I lean my head back and continue to sway. Reminding myself to be more like Rosie. The warmth of the stranger is delicious. When was the last time I had a man’s arms around my body?
Too long, I decide.
I spin around, aware of his body pressing into mine. His spicy, distinctly masculine cologne invades my senses. My hands slide up his shoulders, and I notice the muscles beneath his shirt. His hands flex on my waist, and I drape my arms around his neck, opening my eyes. He’s tall, taller than me, anyway. Dirty blonde hair pokes out of a baseball cap. His eyes are bright blue. He is gorgeous. My eyes fall to his chest, and a gold cross necklace is barely visible under his Henley shirt. Heat pools in my stomach.
He leans in and speaks directly into my ear, “Can I get you a drink?”
His warm breath heats my already hot skin, and sweat builds up my lower back. I lean around him and spot Rosie dancing and singing with another guy—his head nuzzles into her neck, and a mop of dark hair shields his face, but I can see he’s also tall, lean, and muscular. I return my focus to the stranger and nod. He takes my hand and moves us through the crowd, creating a shield with his body. I can’t deny how much I love the safe, protected feeling I get from this simple action. He leads me to the opposite end of the club, leaning over the bar to order for us. I scrunch my nose slightly. I’ve always hated it when men assume they know what I want.
Let it go, Lex.
I’m unable to mask my shock when he hands me the same drink Rosie had ordered when we arrived.
He must have noticed my surprise because he leans in and says, “I saw you and your friend walk in; I saw what she ordered.”
The beautiful stranger is perceptive.
I smile sweetly and cheer him in thanks. We walk to a booth and slide in. He holds out his hand and introduces himself as Nate. I decide on the spot to introduce myself as Alex, wanting to be someone else tonight. We make small talk as I sip my drink. His beer sits primarily untouched. The more we talk, the closer he leans.
God, he smells good.
His intense stare travels down my body, and he murmurs, his voice deepening, “I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu… These tattoos, this dress. Alex, you are incredibly sexy.”
As if that comment was the invitation I was waiting for, I push the rest of the way forward, my lips meeting his. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer—so close that I’m almost on his lap. My arms naturally wrap around his neck. His other arm pulls me further onto him. My back is now to the club, putting us at eye level. Getting lost in him, the sounds of the club drift away. He feels so good. His tongue caresses mine, his kisses deep, igniting a fire inside me. Rosie was right. Sex toys aren’t the same. I’ve missed men.
His hand moves to my breast, thumb circling over my nipple through the thin fabric. I groan into his mouth. Tilting my head back to give him access, his mouth moves to my neck, and I can’t stop the breathy gasp that releases from my throat. I could have been in a nightclub or my condo. I’m so lost in his heat that I can’t tell the difference. I grind myself into him, desperate to get closer, and I feel the hard length of his cock in his pants. I shift myself back and forth slightly, needing to make him feel as good as I do at this moment. A low growl works its way up his chest and into my mouth, making me whimper.
I’ve decided to ask him to leave with me when something slams on the table behind us. I jump and pull back slightly without turning around. The heat in my veins turns to a sharp jolt of embarrassment—I just dry-humped a stranger in public. His eyes lift to the person behind me, and I hear someone laugh.
“Get a room, Crawford.” A low voice teases.
There’s a hint of recognition in the voice, but the club is too loud to be sure. A low laugh escapes Nate’s throat. I slide back into the seat next to him, adjusting my dress and swiping my finger across my swollen bottom lip. I reach for my drink before looking up. I first see the woman. She is taller and curvier than me and wears much more conservative bar clothing. Her pleasant smile suggests she’s bored and probably judging me—I can’t blame her; I would judge myself, too, if the tables were turned. I smile sheepishly.
Then I feel it.
A prickle of awareness up my spine. A weight in the air, pressing in. I shift my eyes to the tall man standing next to her. The second our eyes meet, the smile drops from his face, and my stomach twists. His expression hardens into a sharp, straight line.
Adrian Liberty doesn’t just look unimpressed—he looks ready to burn this place to the ground.