“Nope,” I answer with a slight sway to the right that I cover up by slapping my palm against the wall while studying our man. “And what’s with this outfit? I asked for a police officer.”
“Huh? Why did you ask for a police officer?” he asks while I take in his attire, a leather biker vest with white patches slung over a plain gray t-shirt with a pair of frayed jeans that have a gaping hole at the knee.
“Well, cops are hot and have handcuffs,” I explain. “But fine, forget it. You’ll do,” I tell him with a wave of my hand. “Tessa loved the Sons of Anarchy. Not to mention you look like a time traveling Jamie Frasier from Outlander.”
“A Jamie-what-the-fuck?” he asks, looking to me and then to the living room where the rest of the ladies are gathered around, laughing and talking about disastrous first dates. None have yet to beat mine and Adam’s. We ate at a new Mexican restaurant and both ended up in the hospital with food poisoning that night. But the next morning, when Adam got released first, he went to the hospital’s gift shop and bought me a bouquet of flowers as an apology and a request for a redo first date, which I happily gave him.
“Look, you screwed up the date and the outfit, so how about you stop asking questions, get your ass into the living room and start taking your damn clothes off already,” I order him since alcohol makes me even bossier than usual. Hiring a stripper is crazy, even I can admit that. But isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for the bride-to-be?
“You want me to take my clothes off?” the eye candy asks with a cocky smirk.
“That’s what strippers do, right?” I grumble as I look him up and down. “And seriously, dude, can’t you find, like, some other career? I mean, I get that you’re supposed to be hot and, like, every woman’s fantasy, but you’re taking it a little too far. It’ll probably be impossible for a woman to forget seeing you naked.”
“I apologize?” he says slowly, making it sound like a question with his dark green eyes full of humor.
“You should be sorry,” I tell him. “Now go.”
When he turns toward the living room, I follow behind, telling him, “Just a warning, these ladies will probably get a little handsy. Your manager or handler or whatever he is said that you don’t mind.”
“I don’t?” It sounds like another question before I give his tight ass a smack to get him moving.
“Go on now! Take your clothes off. I’ll turn on the music.”
“Okay then,” he mutters. “Guess it’s time for me to get naked.”
Good thing he’s pretty, because I’m starting to think that he’s not the brightest bulb in the box.
Chapter Two
Roman
* * *
Charlotte is even more stunning up close than she is from afar. I wasn’t prepared for that, and I was completely caught off guard by her playful, drunk rhetoric and confusing line of questions.
Which is how I somehow find myself in the center of the room with five women watching me like hungry hawks while sipping their drinks from brightly colored and thick, dick-shaped straws. It’s a little intimidating, to be honest, which is not something I’m used to feeling. I’m the president of the Savage Kings of Myrtle Beach, the second biggest chapter next to the Emerald Isle originals. Some would say I’m one of the most powerful men in South Carolina, right behind the governor. I keep order in a party city full of chaos by staying cool-headed and making hard decisions.
Never before have I had to figure out how to seductively take my clothes off for an audience. Usually I just shuck them as quick as possible to get naked for either a woman or a shower.
“So, ah, what are we celebrating tonight, ladies?” I ask the women with my hands on my hips as they stare unblinking at me.
“Wedding,” the one with shoulder-length red hair speaks up and says. “What I mean is I’m getting married in two weeks!” she adds with a grin and holds out her left hand to show off the huge rock on her finger.
Ah, so this is a bachelorette party. A bachelorette weekend. My gaze lands briefly on Charlotte, who is staying the furthest away, leaning her shoulder against the side door I came in through. She brought her friends down to the beach during her anniversary week to celebrate one of them getting hitched. That can’t be easy for her, a reminder of the husband she lost…
“Congrats,” I look back at the redhead and tell her as I walk over and start lowering each of the windows. I have to do something to keep the sound of their loud music down for Ernie’s sake before he makes good on his promise to call the cops. A round with the local PD while I’m mostly naked is not what I need tonight since the Kings are already on the chief’s shit list. He gives us hell as often as possible, because he knows we have more respect in this town than him and his entire department.
As an afterthought, I pull down the shades too, because I’m about to do something I don’t want the old man or anyone else to ever see.
Sure, I could’ve set the record straight as soon as Charlotte made it clear that she thought I was a stripper. But I didn’t because, well, fuck…because I don’t think I can refuse that woman anything.
Now I know why Adam was so adamant about not leaving her and not breaking her heart by telling her about his baby mama and kid.
Not that he ever got the chance to come clean…
I made it home from Afghanistan in one piece with only a few nightmares that occasionally make it hard to get a full night’s sleep. About six months later, Adam came back in a casket. He was in a helicopter that crashed, killing everyone on board and leaving behind not only a widow but a son by another woman, both of which I’ve taken responsibility for and keep an eye on from time to time for him.
“Whatcha waiting for, honey?” the oldest, middle-aged woman of the group asks when she goes over and turns up the radio, making me wince because…Ernie. “Are you gonna give us a show or what, hot stuff?”
“Yeah, take it off, big daddy,” another lady adds, putting her on my shit list for the d-word nickname. I won’t be giving her a lap dance.
Holy shit. I’m about to give these women lap dances!
Well, I may not have been in this position before, but I’ve had plenty of strippers dance for me. How hard could it be?
After playing with her phone a moment, the middle-aged woman makes the stereotypical male stripper song ‘It’s Raining Men’ begin playing on the stereo. Without any further prompting, I get to it, pulling off my black, leather cut first. Folding it, I walk over and hang it on the back of one of the chairs at the dining room table because it’s a sacred piece of fabric, not one to be ripped or torn off for entertainment purposes.
And thank fuck I’m wearing a new pair of very snug, bright blue Under Armor boxer-briefs without any holes in them yet. Not that I knew anyone would be seeing them tonight, but plans change. I’m rolling with it. Besides, I’ve got a huge package that I’m not ashamed of sharing with a few women.
One thing I am worried about is getting too…excited during this charade.
While I try to come up with a few ideas of non-sexy topics to focus on, I reach behind my back to yank my t-shirt over my head, and…the women erupt like they’ve never seen a chest before.