Rina leads us to a booth at the back of the room just as the lights dim, and a beautiful woman struts on stage, moving seductively to “Gorilla” by Bruno Mars. The heavy beat pulses through the room. It’s not the soft rock stereotype I was expecting. It’s actually kinda classy.
I’ve watched women dance before, heck, I’ve even taken a few pole dancing lessons myself. But there’s something about the way she moves up there that is utterly mesmerizing. She moves in time with the beat perfectly, her lithe limbs wrapping around the pole as she executes a series of spins that have every eye in the room trained on her and only her. The main lights are dimmed; just a muted spotlight follows her as she moves. The black lace bodysuit she’s wearing is little more than a series of straps that cover her in the important places. She doesn’t take it off, doesn’t even show a nipple, but she still has every man in here rapt with attention. The dancer executes a dizzying spin from the top of the pole just as the last strains of the song sound out. The silence lasts a second before there’s a ripple of applause and a flurry of dollars get thrown onto the stage. She’s gone by the time the lights come back up, but the electric vibe hangs around in the air as the next dancer takes the stage. This one is good too, but she doesn’t hold everyone’s attention in quite the same way. Conversation starts up again, the room buzzing with excitement after the show we were all treated to.
“Have you ever considered stripping?” One of Rina’s stripper friends, Heaven, asks as she tops up my shot glass again. I've already had four shots of tequila, and I’m feeling comfortably numb.
“You’d make a killing with those tits.”
“Leave her alone.” Rina giggles. “She’s out to mend a broken heart, not to look for a job.”
“Who would be stupid enough to break your heart, pretty girl?” Heaven asks, and I’m sure she’s flirting with me.
“My boyfriend told me he ‘needed space’ because work was busy, and he didn’t have time for me, blah blah blah,” I tell her, making sure to emphasize the words with finger quotes. “Guess he forgot to remove me from his Facebook because a week later I get a notification that he’s in a relationship. And it wasn’t with me,” I mutter, throwing back another shot.
“He did not,” Heaven gasps in shock, and her eyebrows quirk into her hairline.
“Mmmhmm,” I confirm, refilling all of our glasses. “So, of course, he was cheating on me. I did a little digging around and found his Tinder account. He was on it the whole time we were together.” Stopping to throw back yet another shot, I find Heaven staring at me with rapt attention, waiting for the rest of the story.
“Show her what you did.” Rina giggles from next to me. I pull out my phone and scroll through the pictures, looking for the screenshot of Scott’s profile page.
“I guessed his password and made a few changes.” Shrugging, I pass the phone over for Heaven to see. She reads for a few seconds before she bursts into a loud hoot of laughter.
“Oh girl, you are a badass!” she says, wiping a tear of laughter from under her eye. “Scott Judd.” She reads what’s on the screen. “Thirty-four-years-old, but he’ll tell you he’s twenty-nine. Mama’s boy with a receding hairline. Didn’t lose his virginity until he was twenty-three, and it shows.”
I can’t help but laugh along with the others, even though the pain of being cheated on is still fresh. He had me fooled. I thought he was one of the good guys; all my friends thought he was one of the good guys too. When I found out what he’d done, I closed down, retreated into myself. There are only so many hits a person can take before they become permanently dented.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Rina says, pulling me out of those depressing thoughts of Scott and the shit he pulled. I’m so grateful she’s here for me, that she pushed me to do this tonight. I needed a break away from the wallowing I’ve been doing the last few weeks.
“To Lucy!” Heaven shouts, standing from her seat and raising her shot glass in the air in a salute. “You know what they say—if you can’t get over him, find a new one to get under instead!”
My eyes immediately fly over to the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hot guy guarding the door. A few more of these drinks and I might start thinking Heaven is onto something with that toast.
***
“Oh my God,” I groan as a sharp shaft of sunlight stabs me in the eye when I try to prise a lid open.
I must be dead.
Nobody can feel this awful and still be alive. It’s not possible.
Dropping my head back to the mound of pillows, I try to yank the duvet over me to block out the offensive light. I can’t get the blanket to move, so I roll over expecting to find my cat weighing it down.
What I actually find is a broad, tattooed, very naked male laying right next to me.
My body freezes in place as my still imbibed brain struggles to catch up to what it’s seeing.
What the fuck did I do?
Memories of last night slam into me.
Tequila.
All the tequila.
Rina talking me into going to the strip club she works at. Fuzzy Holes. I stifle a groan at the memory of my attempts to flirt with the hot guy working the door. The guy who looked suspiciously similar to the one in my bed right now.
After that there was more tequila and lots of laughter. Dancing. The one thing I don’t remember is leaving with someone.
Jesus. How drunk was I? I shift out of bed, moving as gently as possible to avoid waking my unexpected guest. I slide down to the floor before getting onto all fours and crawling my way across the room.
I’m going to kill Rina for letting me get into this situation. Let’s go for a quiet drink, my ass.
I’m a successful, thirty-year-old woman. How the fuck has my life turned into this shit show?
Once I’ve made it to the bathroom and locked myself inside, I finally take a deep breath.
It's fine. I can do this. I brought a guy home, so what?
People do this all the time.
I’ve never had a one-night stand and never judged anyone who has, but my lack of control last night scares me. I’ve never gotten blackout drunk before, and it’s not a good feeling.
Turning on the shower, I leave it to warm up while I brush away the stale alcohol taste from my mouth. That’s when I get a good look at myself.
“Oh sweet Jesus!” Not only did I wake up feeling like death, I look like it too. My wavy brown hair is a wild mess of knots and tangles, and what’s left of last night’s mascara is halfway down my cheeks. My deep brown eyes are dull and bloodshot. I’m a hot mess.
Is that fucking beard burn on my face?
Once my teeth are clean and my mouth feels a little less like something died in it, I step under the hot spray, letting the water massage the tension from my neck. It probably isn’t sensible for me to leave a stranger asleep in my bed, but I’m too hungover to care. Grabbing a loofah, I soap it up and scrub away my mistakes. That’s when I notice the ache between my legs. The tender spots on my breasts. The marks on my thighs that look a lot like finger impressions.
The truth that I’ve been avoiding since I woke up hits me.
I had sex last night. With a stranger. A guy whose name I’m not sure I even remember.