I shake my head and close my eyes briefly before spinning around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest, and sinking my ass into the edge of the table.
“It went fine,” I hear myself say, a huge understatement by any standards. Still, it doesn’t seem right to disclose what I witnessed without the bride’s permission, let alone to a bigmouth like Mav. He’d eat it up, that’s for sure, if he could even find it within himself to believe it.
The truth is, it’ll probably be much easier to pretend I flopped than contend with any of the other complications of the truth.
The only problem, of course, with that plan of action is my ego.
Fucking hell, I don’t want to lose this bet when I really kicked its ass five ways to Sunday.
But I can’t bring myself to prove it either. It looks like Maverick might get to keep that hundred bucks he owes me after all.
“You bombed, dude. I can see it written all over your face!” he practically yells, crossing the room to slap me on the back. One more hard slap and all the confessions about what really happened in that VIP room are libel to come up like vomit—word vomit.
“I didn’t bomb,” I hedge, gritting my teeth against the urge to wring my own neck. I don’t know what is wrong with me all of a sudden or why I’m being such a pussy, but I don’t like it one bit. “But I am inexperienced in the ways of your profession, and the lack of training was obvious.”
Because I’m pretty sure making the women orgasm isn’t part of the exotic dancer’s handbook or official training video.
“I told you,” he boasts cheerfully, slamming his palm into his locker and laughing. His muscles twitch obnoxiously as he holds his arms out to his sides and proclaims, “Everyone can’t be as good as me, dude. It’s just a scientific impossibility.”
Somehow, I manage a nod, even though the tension in my neck feels like it could snap it in two.
“Well, I guess we’re even on the money, then, huh?” he says through a growing smile. “Too bad you had to double down on that shit, but I guess that’s to be expected. Jude Winslow can never resist a bet.”
He’s right. Up until now, I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had the impulse control to resist much of anything that comes with a temporary high or instant gratification.
How is it, then, that I managed to stop myself from telling him all about how good I really am at his job?
Back in my normal clothes, I stand at the window behind the DJ booth in the top office and scan the crowd of partying New Yorkers and tourists. The mood is up, the vibe is right, and Club Craze is an undeniable hit among the young and fabulous.
Rainbow-colored lights strobe the dance floor, cascading over the writhing bodies of hundreds of coeds as they experiment with heavy bodily contact.
My gaze doesn’t stay there for long, though. Instead, I’m drawn to the other side of the room, to the elevated booth where the bride-to-be and her group are congregated, sipping on drinks and falling drunkenly on top of one another while laughing. It’s a diverse group of friends, ranging from crazy to quiet, but the bride at the center of it all is the one who commands my attention.
I watch as she takes a sip of her drink before setting it down in front of her and then laughs, her head thrown back and her throat exposed, when one of the other women launches her body on top of Belle.
They shuffle a bit, eventually coming to a stop while sitting next to each other on the couch, and when they look up, I lean a little closer to the window and squint.
“Are they identical twins?” I whisper to myself as I conduct my inspection. Obviously, having been in the VIP room with them before, I thought I would have noticed, but evidently, my focus on the bride pertained to more than just dancing.
The same proportions, the same features, the same bright-lipstick-lined mouths—they are. Fucking identical twins.
Suddenly struck by a twisted curiosity as to whether I react to them both the same way physically—and if the other twin is spoken for—I shove away from the window and make my way out of the office, down the stairs, through the back hallway, and out into the chaos of a lively club.
It’s kind of messed up, I’ll admit, to be thinking of twins as exchangeable objects, but I can’t fucking help myself. I don’t know these women from Adam. All I know is that I’ve reacted to one I can’t have, and the selfish part of me is completely unwilling to let the rest of the night slip by without seeing if there’s something to be done about it—a backup plan, so to speak.