Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I force myself to look away, leaving the club the way I came. The January cold smacks me as I step outside. I suck in the chilly air, trying to cool off my overheated body. It takes me a minute to put my game face back on.
Finally, I cross to Jack’s and open the door, spotting Tanner striding toward me. “What happened to you, man? I was gonna send out a search party.”
“Checking the car,” I mutter. “Thought I forgot to lock it.”
His arm lands on my shoulders. “Come in, already. I got you a beer. This place is sick.”
I let him pull me toward a table where my brothers are all sitting, goggle-eyed at the women dancing in various places around the room. The women are all wearing G-strings and very little else. But I don’t even see them. I’m stuck inside my head, which has become a very complicated place.
Luke Bailey is a stripper. Male entertainer. Whatever it’s called. That’s how he knew the women he recruited for his Dance-off dinner. They’re his coworkers.
What’s more shocking—the fact that Bailey takes off his clothes for money? Or that I want him to take off mine?
I settle in for a long evening of watching women shake their butts while I nurse two beers and a big secret. No, two secrets. One about Luke, and one about me.
Music. Loud Music.
Luke
In the winter, I don’t ride my motorcycle on the highway, which means I’m stuck using the bus to get to work. The worst part of my commute home from work is the last quarter mile. When I get off the bus near the student center, my muscles have already stiffened up, and the January wind bites my face.
I trudge through the two a.m. silence. When I unlock the door to the frat house, there’s a blue glow coming from the TV room. I pass three guys playing a video game. But otherwise the house is quiet as I climb two flights of stairs to reach my door. I unlock it in the dark.
My bed beckons, but first I need a shower. Without ceremony, I drop all my clothes and head into the bathroom. The hot spray of water is like a lover’s embrace. I pump a generous handful of shampoo and scrub off all the sweat and body oil until finally I feel human again.
When I turn off the shower, I hear music. Loud music.
Seriously? Keaton is blasting tunes this late at night? I’m going to choke him.
Hastily, I rub the towel all over my wet head, then tie it around my waist, ready to give him hell. But as I leave the bathroom, I freeze. That song. It’s “Promises” by Sam Smith and Calvin Harris.
A chill snakes down my spine, because this can’t be a coincidence. Mr. Classic Rock wouldn’t develop a sudden affinity for my solo song two hours after I perform to it.
Would he?
As I stand there on the landing, trying to figure out what to do, I notice that Keaton has shut the door to the stairs, yet left the door to his room ajar. I take a step toward his door, nudging it open.
It’s dark in Keaton’s room, save for the glow of his stereo system and the streetlights outside. But it’s enough to show me Keaton’s very naked body lying among the tangled sheets.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” I hiss. “With this song. Are you threatening me right now?”
He sits up partway, leaning on one muscular arm. “Do I look like a fucking threat?” He drops a hand to his hard cock and strokes it. “Get over here.”
Blood pounds in my…everything. But it’s unclear whether I’m feeling more anger or arousal. Yeah, a naked Keaton is a beautiful thing. But you do not fuck with me over my job.
I cross the room to his expensive speakers and lower the volume. “Talk,” I bark. “Why this song? Where were you tonight?”
“Where do you think? The guys walked into the wrong club for a second. And I’ve been hard ever since.”
I look down again because it’s late and I’m weak. His thick hand is wrapped around his girth. The memory of taking him in my mouth hits me like a blast of heat. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on what matters. “Who was with you?”
“Bunch of guys. They didn’t see.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Jesus.” Keaton flops onto the pillows. “Who cares, anyway? You’re like sexy Spiderman, and all the ladies were screaming for you.”
With a snort, I stalk toward the bed, looking down at him, letting my anger win. “As usual, Keaton Hayworth the third, you have no clue how the real world works. I can’t become an internet joke right before I start applying for jobs.”
Keaton sighs. “You’re mad? Of course you are. It’s your default reaction to everything.” He tucks his hands behind his head, his beautiful body on display. “Fine. Get down here and punish me for daring to think you’re hot when you dance. I guess the private performance I had planned is off?”