19. Interlude 5
Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have
We storm off stage as one big group. I’m tucked under Cohen’s arm, and behind me, Dutch is whooping and hauling his brother with us.
“Number one, babyyyyyyy!” Cohen cheers. He temporarily removes his arm from around me, and from somewhere, someone hands him a bottle of champagne. He opens it violently, sending a spray of fizz all over us. Even Dallas can’t fight off a laugh. We’re all celebrating tonight.
We have officially made it.
So, yeah, of course we’re celebrating. Technically, only Dutch is of legal drinking age, but as we leave the venue by the back doors and stumble together into the limo waiting for us, there’s no way we’re letting that stop us, just like there was no way that the promoter who owns the Kitty Kat Club was turning us away when we showed up at his club ready to party.
Not when our faces are also splashed across billboards all over Calder.
Plus, this place was Lou’s suggestion because apparently this guy is a pal of his.
He shakes Cohen’s hand and introduces himself as Bruce Cooper.
His hand looks equal parts doughy and sweaty, and I’m not interested in touching it.
But before I can dart past him, he grabs my wrist.
Unlike Cohen, I don’t get a handshake. The guy lifts my fingers to his lips and kisses them like I’m some kind of princess. Thanks to the music pumping out of the club, no one can hear me gag.
I do, however, catch Dallas’s eye, and he mimes being sick back at me. Dutch, too, has his lip curled in disgust, enough that he grabs my other arm and steps into my place in front of doughy old Bruce.
“Lou said you’d have a private booth and bottle service for us?
” Dutch is doing his best scary-man impression.
People see a big Black man and make assumptions.
Dutch usually hates it because he is, in fact, a teddy bear.
Occasionally though, if it wards off creepers, he’ll lean into it.
Judging by the slight tremor in Bruce’s voice when he replies, it works.
Next thing we know, we’re being escorted by Bruce and one of the club’s security guards up some stairs, past a series of tables.
Some are curtained off, so it’s unclear if anyone’s using them.
Others are filled with groups of people, their tables littered with expensive-looking liquor bottles.
We even pass one where a girl is draped across the table with two men and one woman seated around her, dripping what looks to be vodka over her skin.
My eyes linger on the sight of it and a new flame of heat burns low in my core. It’s rude to stare, Grams would tell me, but when Bruce settles us in at the table next to them, I can’t help it. Nor can Cohen, it seems, who slides into the booth beside me.
We both watch as the two men glide their hands up the woman’s long, tanned legs. Meanwhile, at the head of the table, the other woman wraps the table girl’s long sandy curls around her fist and uses her grip to pull her into a passionate kiss.
All the while, my skin feels hot. Too hot. I’m turned on and jealous. I’m not even really sure who I’m jealous of. Do I want to be the girl at the table or one of the other three? I also worry I’m witnessing something wrong and all too right. One of the men notices me staring and winks.
That’s enough for Cohen.
“Ugh”—he tugs me close to his side—“Ignore them, babe, that’s so…
” His voice dies out, but his features scream disapproval.
Which is confirmed when he spins me back to face the table in front of us, where Dallas sits with his head hung forward.
All the post-show happiness is gone. Dutch watches me with the same irritated face he had when talking to Bruce.
Ever oblivious, Cohen can’t help but spout whatever’s in his head at any given moment. “So glad you’re not like that, babe.”
He goes to kiss my head, but his comment rankles, and I pull away.
“Like what, Cohen?” I hear myself ask. The heat in my gut curdles when he answers, “I don’t know, just like…that. Like her.”
The pauses between his words are punctuated by cries of ecstasy from the other table. The girl is clearly having a great time. With three people doting on her, I’m not surprised.
My own desire has now been totally soured, and in its place is frustration. I shove my boyfriend away. “Like her how? Seriously, Co, explain it to me?”
My voice is getting louder. I’m not sure why his comments annoy me so much, but they do. The problem is that when it comes to Cohen, my bad attitude is contagious.
“Like the kind of girl who fucks around. It’s slutty,” he says, caustic and cutting and flung out at me like he sees my dark desires written on my skin. I hate that word, and he knows it. It’s a word men throw around to shame women for having the audacity to like and want sex.
I shove him against the high back of our booth.
“You’re so fucking judgemental, Co!”
“She’s letting three different people practically fuck her in the middle of a nightclub,” he hisses, “Tell me that’s not slutty behaviour?”
“Slutty behaviour! What are you? Her dad?”
“No, but there’s no way I’d let you do something like that!”
His face turns beet red even in the dark. His nostrils flare, and for a second I wonder if he’s picturing it. Then my brain catches up, processing what he just said.
“LET ME?! You wouldn’t LET me?!” I shove all the way out of the booth now, so I’m standing, and if I could learn to shoot daggers out of my eyeballs, I would be firing them right at Cohen Brady right now.
A feeling that only intensifies when he tries to shrug off my anger.
”What is your problem, Rainy? Why are you so mad about this?
” His head swivels to Dax and Dutch as if waiting for them to back him up.
Dallas is wide-eyed, looking between Cohen and me like we’re equally terrifying.
Dutch says nothing, though his lips are a thin, hard line.
These two are used to seeing us argue. And unlike Cohen, they are capable of shutting the hell up.
“Is that what you want, Rainy, for me to treat you like some whore? Fuck you on this table in front of our best friends?!” He’s shouting now.
I blush and break our stare. If Cohen sees what I want in my eyes, this fight will devolve into something way worse. Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a server. She’s brought us a couple of bottles of liquor and some mixers.
“From Mr. Cooper. It’s on the house.”
I don’t wait for her to remove the items from the tray; I stand and grab one of the bottles. It’s already open, so I swig straight from it. Lucky guess; its vodka and the good stuff, too. Not the kind we used to steal from the Mac’s Milk around the corner from McDonald Park.
“Fuck you, Cohen. Dutch, let’s dance.”
I tilt the bottle toward my best friend, who lets me pour a shot directly into his open mouth before he stands and joins me. “Lead the way, Rainy-bear.”
I hear Cohen grunt to Dax, “Your brother’s a real dick sometimes,” as we walk away from them.
I almost invite Dallas to join us too, but I already know he won’t. He won’t leave Cohen alone. And deep down, I do appreciate that, because I know he’ll let my boyfriend bitch until he gets over himself.
I spend the rest of my night dancing with Dutch.
My predictions are right, and every time I glance back to our booth, Cohen and Dallas sit with their heads together.
But when three or four songs go by, and they haven’t made a single move to join us on the floor, I get annoyed.
And the more annoyed I get, the more shots I demand Dutch bring me.
And the more shots I take, the drunker I get.
And the drunker I get, the more I like it.
It’s warm, blissful and makes it easy to forget my fight with Cohen and the burning wish I had to trade places with the table girl.
Sometimes, when Dutch’s hands trace my body, even if his touch is innocent, I wish it wasn’t. I wish he had more hands.
That’s the last thought I remember. Everything else goes black.
End Interlude