I look down the center of the stage and find the girl who said no earlier. She’s sipping a drink that might be gin, or vodka, or hell, water for all I know. Her gay BFF is having way too much fun as she sits there stoically. Steve is gay, and it’s pretty apparent when he does his act since it’s to the YMCA tune. So I’m pretty sure her BFF’s got his eye on him.

But that girl. She is blank. Like no expression.

I feel a little surge of adrenaline just thinking of her refusal. Not many people tell me no. And it’s been a long while since I heard that word from a girl in the crowd after an invite to come on stage.

So she’s my target when Chandler gives the cue for us to go find our last pick of the night. We go in order. First Steve, who can’t pick a dude even if he wanted to because this is a ladies’ night kinda gig. He hits up a cougar, like he always does.

Bill goes for grannies. He likes to make them blush and he gets a kick out of sticking their hands down his pants.

I head right to suit girl. She sees me coming and shakes her head no, but I’m in control. That last girl might’ve got a kiss in, but I am in control. I dance around her table, flirting with all the other girls as they stuff their dollars into my pockets, trying to cop a feel. One girl manages to get her hand inside the waistband of my jeans, but I grab it and rub it up against my lower stomach so she doesn’t get far.

I weave back and forth in the middle of the audience, playing with ten or twelve women before the spotlight finally lands on me. And then I run straight towards suit girl who is too busy checking her watch to notice until I jump up, my boots clanking down on the bottom rung on either side of her bar stool, and grab her hair.

She looks up at me in shock, her mouth open, her eyes wide, and her head tilted up.

I am instantly hard.

“What are you doing?” she squeals.

“Yeah,” the gay BFF screams. “Woohoo! Get him, Tiffy!”

I laugh at her name and then lean down into her ear as my hips gyrate back and forth, brushing against her thighs. “Tiffy,” I growl in a gruff voice. “I’d have pegged you for a Jane or a Ruth. Something serious and boring.”

“Get off me,” she growls back.

“I’m not on you, sweetheart.” And I’m not. I’m still standing on those chair rungs, hovering. But I let go of her head and point to my abs. “You wanna lick me?” I laugh.

“I do!” another girl says, jumping up and down with a fistful of dollars off to her right. “I do!”

“Come on, Tiffy. Lick me. Everyone wants to lick these abs. Just open your mouth a little wider and I’ll crash these rock-hard muscles into that sweet wet tongue.”

Her BFF plants her hand on my hip, and she turns her head away from me to yell at him. I take her other hand and place it over the length of my cock. She gasps, tries to pull away, but I am focused on her now. Winning her over. Getting her attention. And hopefully meeting her after the show for some fun because she’s damn cute.

Plus… I’m getting hard under her touch, reluctant as it is.

She freezes when she realizes what’s happening, so I grip her hand tighter, forcing her to squeeze me. “Fuck, yeah, Tiffy. You feel good. Where you staying tonight? Here?”

She swallows hard, still holding onto my cock, even though I’ve eased up on her hand. Then she nods.

“What room, sweetheart? I’ll drop by later.”

“Penthouse Three!” the BFF screams. “Penthouse Three!”

I laugh at him as I lean down and breathe into Tiffy’s ear. She shivers and her shoulder automatically comes up to push me away. But her hand is still on my cock. “Jesus, you better answer the door, because I like the way that feels.”

Then I jump up, my boots finding the top rung of her stool, grab her head, and smash her face into my cock. Her hot breath beats against the soft denim of my pants, and just when I think my dick can’t get any harder, it grows for her.

Her eyes dart up to mine and I see so many things. Vulnerability first. Then surprise. Then fear. She pushes me back and I jump off, letting all the other girls around me get their share as they fill my pockets with money.

I give a wink and she looks away—ashamed, or embarrassed, or both.

But I know she’ll answer the door.

They always answer the door.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Once the show is over, we spend the next hour flirting with anyone who approaches. Not all approach. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean, we charge money for that shit, so not everyone cares to shell out thirty-five dollars for a photoshoot with male entertainers.

So by the time I get out of there, take a shower, pull on some jeans and a t-shirt and get an elevator up to penthouse three, it’s pushing midnight.

I hesitate ready to knock. She didn’t look like a party girl. She looked professional, I recall that much, in that cream-colored suit and a low-cut button-down blouse that was the color of tangerines. It was fluttering a little from the fans above her head that keep the room at a manageable temperature. She had on a gold locket too. Maybe not the kind that opens up and has a picture in it, but it was a heart shape. Her hair was long. I could tell even though it was pulled back in some sort of fancy updo because there were a few long tendrils spiraling down her neck and dragging across her shoulder when I leaned into her. She smelled fresh. Not like heavy perfume. Almost sweet. Like the resort gardens at night when the air is cool.

A nice girl, maybe.

What if she’s asleep?

But then her determined look and firm no the first time I approached her comes back to me. She gave in a little at the end but I bet it was only because there was no easy way out. I bulldozed over her.

So she’s not a pushover. She’s probably more of a conformist.

I knock. What do I have to lose?

The door opens after only a few seconds and then she’s peering back at me. Her eyes are green. I didn’t remember that. Maybe because I wasn’t looking so much at her eyes downstairs. Tendrils of hair are still dragging along her neck and her blouse is still flirting with me from the air-conditioning vents above the door.

“Hey,” I say in my sexy voice, one arm leaning against the doorjamb, nonchalant-like.

“Hey,” she says in her sweet one.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be up.”

“And miss an opportunity to get to know the infamous Mr. Fletcher Novak?” She chuckles. “Not a chance in hell I’d miss that.”

Hmmm. “OK.” I chuckle back, but it comes off as nerves. Why does she make me nervous? “So…”

“So what did you have in mind tonight?” She bats her eyelashes like she’s flirting with me.

Is this the same girl? I squint at her. Yeah. That’s her. Same suit. Same hair. But her new attitude? It’s throwing me. “Ummm, well, we could go have a bite to eat?”

Bite to eat, Fletcher? What the fuck are you talking about? This is a booty call, not a date.

“I already ate. I typically do that at dinner time.” She smiles all flirty-like again.

“Oh. OK. Well, we have different ideas about dinnertime, I guess. I work late, so you know”—Why am I defending myself?—“I eat late too.”

“What do you usually do when you knock on a patron’s door after the show?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Well, you know, I don’t really do this often.”

“No? So I’m special?”

“I picked you out of a crowd of hundreds of screaming women. So yeah, Tiffy.” I use her name and it catches her off-guard. She looks surprised that I remembered. “You’re special.”

“It might’ve been because I was sitting in the front center table. Maybe I was just the first girl you saw?”

Oh, I get it. She is insecure. She wants me to make her think this might lead to more than just a one-night fuck. But I can tell by her body language she wants to fuck me just as much as I want to fuck her. She just wants me to work for it.