Page 12 of The Biker and the Baker
When I turn back around with the beers clutched between my fingers, Onyx is still there, scowling. "What did you mean by that?" he asks of my earlier comeback.
"It means you're a fatphobic ass who worships at the feet of skinny bitches." I move close, all up in his face. "But newsflash, I'm a fucking catch. You have no idea what you're missing out on. Also, that pick-up line was corny AF. "
With that, I bump his shoulder with mine and move around him, leaving him there.
By the time I get back to our section, the girls are already having fun without me, dancing all over each other as a disco version of Flo-Rida’sRight Roundblasts through the speakers. They descend on me for the beers, cheering and gyrating.
I’m laughing. “Is there something in the air? Because y’all are acting wild and you haven’t even had booze yet.”
“That’s because we paid a hundred and twenty bucks each to get in here, so hell if we’re not gonna make sure it was worth it,” Lissa yells in my ear.
And that’s what we do, we dance our asses off song after song after song. This, of course, attracts two strippers to our section, and we dig deeper into our pockets and buy a lap dance for Lissa, who’s having the time of her life.
When a hostess comes over with four flutes and a bottle of champagne nestled in an ice bucket, I’m wholly confused.
“We didn’t order this,” I tell her, afraid we’d end up having to clean the toilets later to pay for champagne we didn’t ask for.
“Courtesy of Mr. Granger.” She’s all smiles as she pops the bottle for us. “He said to tell you that you’re free to add whatever you want to his tab.”
Calvin. He’s here. It makes sense that he would be in a place like this.
The hostess then whips out a stack of cash and shoves it at me. “He also said to remind you that you’re in a strip club and the dancers are here to get paid.”
I take the thick stack from her and flip through with my thumb. “These are all fives and tens. Can we get them changed to singles?”
The hostess gives me a dirty look, just short of an eye roll. “Cookie’s Crème doesn’t do singles. Fives are the lowest.”
Holy shit. I’m in the wrong damn profession. These dancers must make a killing.
Turning to the girls, I squeal, “We’ve got money to blow, bitches!”
“Calvin?” Mira mouths.
“Yep.”
“Did he say we could use his tab as well? Because I’m all for putting that douchebag dirt-deep in debt.”
I laugh and wave the stack again. “Come on, gals. Let’s go prove that bouncer wrong.”
We scurry out of the section and up to the nearest stage, and then we have a blast letting it rain on the dancers. Gulping champagne and shout-singing in each other’s faces like twenty-year-olds.
At some point, when I’m teetering somewhere between fun drunk and stupid drunk, I feel a hard presence behind me and know it’s Calvin. I don’t even get the chance to turn around fully when his tongue is in my mouth. Right there in the middle of a strip club with tens and fives floating in the air, he ravishes me.
It’s usually like this with Calvin. We’re all physical and no substance. He’s a shameless player and I’ve no business kissing him.
“Are you stalking me or something?” I ask when he finally detaches his lips from mine.
His signature playboy smirk emerges. “You know I don’t have to, P. You’re the magnet to my steel.”
Crap. Shit. Garbage. “We’re not doing this again, Cal.”
He raises a brow, the smug, smug bastard. “There’s no fighting it. You know it. We make magic every time we come together.”
He grips my hips and pulls me against him, letting me feel his want for me, urging my hips to move in slow rotation against his. Now we’re dancing—or dry-humping—in the middle of the club.
Not again, Pia. Stop letting him suck you in. Stop giving yourself to him.Stop leading him on.
Pushing against my weakness, I pull away from him and turn without meeting his eyes. “I need to use the restroom.”
