Nocturnes (4 page)

Fuck. Me. She’s gotta be wearing contacts. Nobody has eyes that color. Like Baskin Robbins daiquiri ice. How did I miss those gems the first time we met? Too busy staring at her Wonder Twin Tits, I guess.

I shake my head. “Sorry. What?”

“I said, if you need a ride home, I’ll give you the number for a taxi. You don’t look like you should be driving.”

“Driving? No. Only driving I plan on doing tonight involves my cock, your pussy, and maybe your ass if you’re game.” I grin. Then I realize what I said. My stomach drops like a lemming off the Cliff of Good Sense. It crashes right along with her smile. “Shit. I’m sorry.” The little devil on my shoulder is having a field day.

The ice in her eyes gets downright glacial. “I have to go.” Lola walks away. Actually,
walk
doesn’t do her justice. It’s more of a combination glide-strut-swagger. One foot in front of the other, her bare, fucking perfect ass swaying to a lazy, swing tempo, the black angles of her G-string accentuating her curves. That gorgeous mane of hair swiping her back. I imagine curling my fingers through those silken waves, twisting until the locks bite into my fists, and pulling her head back to stare into my eyes as I fuck her from behind. Squeezing those white tits, biting nipples. Working her clit into a guitar-slamming frenzy with my knuckles. The songs I could play on her…

Shit. She’s getting away. I charge after her through the swarm of bodies. My feet are doing their best to keep me vertical, but my head has other plans. I have to stop twice on my way through the crowd to steady myself.

Christ, if I can walk away tonight with just Lola’s phone number, I swear I’ll never drink again. When she reaches the door to the dressing rooms, I yell her name. She stops and turns toward me.

“Look, Rex, I’ll probably do another set on Friday. Come back then if you want to see me naked.”

My shoulders heave as bile climbs my throat.
No. Please, no. You cannot puke right now. Get her number, then hit the john. Puke all you want there.

“It’s
Rax
. Come on, Lola. I know you were checking me out. How about you give me your number, and I’ll call you tomorrow? Or we could meet after you get off work tonight.”

Her body switches languages from Open for Business to Stay the Fuck Away. Sometimes I wish I weren’t multilingual. The latter is my least favorite dialect.

She lays a palm in the center of my chest and says, “Listen, buddy. I don’t know you. I’m working, and you’re interfering with my business. You’ve had a lot to drink. I think it’s best you head home before Duane comes looking for you.”

“Duane can suck my left nut,” I slur.

She glances over my shoulder and nods. “Great. You two enjoy yourselves.”

I turn. Fucking Duane’s wrestling his way through the crowd toward us. Shit.

When I look back, Lola’s gone. This seems like as good a time as any to hightail it to the bathroom. I duck and slink in between bodies until I get to the men’s room. Commandeering a stall, I shove two fingers down my throat and think really hard about eating maggots. The pipe tapped, puke rises and explodes into the toilet. Works every time.

As I coax the physical reminders of the night’s adventures into the bowl, I catalogue my poor choices. “You’re a dickhead, Rax,” I mumble between heaves. “A fucking dickhead who’s an expert at ruining everything good.”

I wipe my mouth and sit on the tile floor beside the toilet.

When will I learn?

I gotta pull myself together and get back to Lola. I can’t leave Nocturnes without her.

But
fuck
, I’m so wasted.

I smack the back of my head against the metal wall. It doesn’t bring the sobriety I was hoping for. Just gives me a headache.

Why did I drink so much?

Same reason you always drink so much. It makes you feel good.
My conscience snickers.

Okay, maybe just a few more minutes in here.
Puke again, wash your face, then go back to the floor. You’ve got work to do.

I look at the toilet. “You and I are going to be on very intimate terms by the time this night ends,” I say.

The fingers go down the gullet once again. When all I’m left with are dry heaves, I stand, flush, and head for the sink. Bracing myself on the countertop, I study my reflection.

It’s no wonder Lola ditched me. I look like death fucking warmed over. Bags under my eyes puff out like little water balloons. My hair is sweaty and matted to my face. Cheeks are unshaven, and my skin is clammy. The bruises from the beating Toombs gave me would give a masochist a massive, jealous hard-on. I’m sure Toombs appreciates the irony.

The door opens and closes as guys come in and go out. I just stand there. Staring at myself. Frozen.

I wish Toombs were here.

What are you talking about? He fucked you over, man. You don’t need that asshole in your social life anymore.

Nope. I don’t.

I twist the knob and cup my hands under the stream of cold water. Splashing my face a couple of times and rinsing out my mouth, I file the unpleasant memories from the last week under “not worth my time” and slam the drawer shut.

The door opens, and Lordy, Lordy, guess who’s here? Duane.

He struts up to me and flashes a grin. His front gold tooth sparkles. All I can think of is Mr. Clean.
Ding!

“Here to scrub the toilets?” I say.

Fucker cracks me with a punch I probably could have dodged if I were sober. My body spins with the impact, and I fly face first into the locked door of the nearest stall.

“What the hell, man?” the guy inside yells.

“Mother. Fuck.” I cradle my jaw. Here’s the pain I was looking for earlier. At least it sobers me up a little.

“I told you I’d remove your ass if you got outta line again, pretty boy. That shit you pulled with Lola bought you some sky miles on Fly Your Ass Home Airlines.” Dude comes at me, meaty paws poised to grab me by the shoulders and have his way with me. I duck awkwardly and stumble out of his reach. The two guys using the hand dryers dart out the door.

Holding up my mitts, I say, “Okay, man, I’m going. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I just gotta tell Lola something, and I’m out.”

He stomps toward me. “You ain’t doing nothing but takin’ your sorry ass out of here. Management don’t like guys touching the merchandise, and you broke protocol twice tonight.”

I scramble to the door. “But it’s Mardi Gras.”

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s your motherfucking execution day. You don’t touch the goods. Now, we can do this the easy way or the Duane way.” His hulking shadow descends over me. The weight of it holds me in place.

I know when I’m outgunned. Duane’s arms are packing dual M-16s to my meager .38s. I’m still drunk as fuck, which puts me at even more of a disadvantage. But despite the odds stacked against me, I kinda want to throw down with this asshole. With so much tequila in my system, I have built-in painkillers on standby. I spit a mouthful of blood on the floor.

I commit.

Then Jillian’s warning to behave rears its spiky battle-axe of a head and jabs a hole in my inflated bravado. I blow out my breath long and hard. Shit.

“Okay, man. I’ll go.”

“You want me to hold your hand as I walk you to the door?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I work my sore jaw and lead the way out.

As I pass the tables in the VIP room, Duane on my heels like a horny dog looking for a hump, I scan for Lola once more. No sign of her. I sigh.

No phone number, no date, no chance.

Fuck. When I walked into this club earlier, I had nothing, and I’m leaving with even less. With no one to hang out with, the only place left to go is my temporary digs on Chartres Street. I give Nocturnes a wistful last glance.

Back to hell it is.

Side B: “Highway to Hell”

It’s too bad that Rex guy was so drunk. I might have actually enjoyed giving him a lap dance if he’d been sober. I can’t for the life of me remember him from Jacksonville, though I rarely recall customers outside of my regulars. He was hotter than most of my clients but a little too full of himself.

Take a number, buddy.

My black lace and spandex outfit switched out for a plush white number, I descend the dark, hidden stairs from Nocturnes into the bright lights of Hell. This place is actually called Heaven by its patrons and Charlie, the owner of Nocturnes. Only the “stock” call it Hell.

To an outsider, it probably does look like heaven. Everything here is white—the carpet, the furniture, walls, décor. The main room of Hell features a king-sized bed in the center, the posts at each corner outfitted with white leather straps and cuffs.

Twenty-eight naked male attendants with perfect bodies adorn the room—seven on each wall. They’re all about the same height. No tattoos, piercings, or other marks on them, just like the girls who call this place home. Each one strokes his erection. Faces slack, they center their attention on the empty bed.

Tacked to the walls behind the men are various implements traditionally used in BDSM play. Whips, cats-o’-nine tails, floggers, collars, chastity belts, cock rings, assorted gags, suspension cuffs, rope, blindfolds, nipple clamps, paddles, hoods—you name it. Everything a Dom needs within an arm’s reach. All of it white.

Molly, Hell’s “madam” for all intents and purposes, strides in from one of the side doors and twirls her upraised finger in a circle. My cue to hold out my arms, spread my legs, and prepare to be searched. The TSA have nothing on Molly. She inspects every “angel” before we’re allowed to interact with our clients. Rico calls it “quality assurance.” We angels must be perfect in every way. This means no cuts, bruises—hell, we can’t even exhibit traces of acne. If we don’t pass inspection, we don’t work.

I try to keep still while Molly slides my thong aside, pops my boobs from the plush bra, and runs her fingers over every inch of skin. Sometimes I wonder if the inspection isn’t more of a violation than the acts we take part in down here. Seemingly satisfied, she nods and opens the door for three laughing men. She exits the dungeon as they file in.

When they spot me, one says, “Ah, Lola.” He rakes his gaze from my head to my unpainted toenails and invades my personal space with a kiss on my cheek. Smells like cigars and expensive cologne.

This must be John. “Sir.” I hold my breath, lower my eyes, and smile like a good little submissive, even though I’m much more Dominant in my personal life. Switch, they call me. I’d probably take offense at that label if I
had
a personal life.

John cups my chin, drawing my attention to his face. He looks about fifty. A bald spot peeks from the top of his gray crown. A bit out of shape. Pudgy. Can’t wait to see what’s under the clothes. Most likely a tired cock with a nasty bend and saggy balls. Bleh.

“And you’re even lovelier in person than I expected.” He smacks my cheek harder than necessary, and I hold my flinch at bay. Shrugging out of his jacket, he turns to his friends. “Dan and Travis will be joining us tonight.”

The other two guys take off their coats and loosen their ties. They’re probably both in their thirties. At least they’re decent looking. I won’t have to fantasize I’m fucking Chris Hemsworth like I did last time. I glance at John. Well, maybe with him I will.

“You have a cameraman?” he asks.

I start to say I didn’t know I was supposed to have one, but Rico’s words from my “orientation” pop into my head: “The customer isn’t only right. He’s
God
. Never question God. Just let His will be done.”

“My apologies, Sir. He must be running late. I’ll go and get him.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Do hurry, Lola. We gotta finish before midnight or Jesus might not forgive our carnal sins in time for Ash Wednesday.” John chuckles at his stupid joke.

I bow and open the door Molly exited through. No one in sight. I call her name, but there’s no answer. Great.

Unsure of what to do, I take the stairs back up to Nocturnes. The secret passage dumps me into an unused closet behind the kitchen. I peek through a crack in the door. Coast is clear.

Kristina will be able to help me. I zip through the sardine-packed bodies toward the dressing room. On the way, I notice she’s onstage, and it looks like she’s just warming up. Damn it. Plan B.

Duane? I scan the crowd for the burly bouncer, but no sign of him. A waitress? Bartender? There’s got to be at least
one
person free in this godforsaken place…

A commotion breaks out in the far corner of the main floor. Arms and fists swing. Loud, drunken voices curse, and a collective gasp rises from nearly every mouth in the place. Attention is riveted toward a couple tables inhabited by frat boys who seem to be engaging in a turf war with a group of horny tourists. A mosh pit opens on that side of the room. Most of the house rushes over to enjoy the fight.

I check my watch. Ten thirty. If I don’t get back down there with a cameraman in the next minute, I can kiss my house in the Garden District goodbye.

“Shit.”

“I love the entertainment here.” A warm body eases beside me, and I look up. Rex grins down at me with a mischievous spark in his eye. “Top notch.”

“Yeah, it’s classy.” I scan the room again in search of Duane and find him wading through the sea of bodies toward the disruption. Lovely. He’ll be busy sorting those guys out for more time than I have to spare.

“Hey, you changed clothes.” Rex points at my boobs. “You look good in white.”

No shit, Sherlock. I look good in everything.

I desperately pick through faces once more for someone—
anyone
who’s familiar with Hell. The few people who fit the job description are up to their eyeballs in work. I have exactly thirty seconds to make a decision.

Rex’s cocky expression settles into something softer. “Sorry if I came off as rude earlier, but I—”

“You ever shoot video before?” God, what the hell am I doing asking this stranger to help me? If Rico finds out, he’ll have my head, mount it to the wall in his office, and probably shove his dick in my cold, dead mouth every free minute he gets. I cringe.