I guess if I’m going to take advice fromanyone about guys, it’d be from Emily; God knows she’s been withenough of them.
“What are you doing about BC?” she asks.
I glance up at her, “I started the shot lastweek.”
She nods, “Good. And him?”
“What about him?”
“Is he clean? Does he get tested?”
“Oh, yes. The club makes him do it everythree months. You’d think he’s a porn star or something.”
“He’s close enough.”
I glare at her through my mirroredsunglasses, “You’re as bad as Jill sometimes.”
“I believe she referred to them as hookers,”Emily retorts.
I clench my jaw and Emily knows she justroyally pissed me off.
“Well, anyway,” she changes the subjectquickly, “I’m glad you’re being responsible.”
“Thanks mom,” I ridicule.
I walk up to the entrance of Culture. Lorenzois working the door like usual. He smiles when he sees me. UsuallyI wait outside for Ryan, have a cigarette and hang out with Lorenzowhile he checks IDs. It’s sort of become a ritual.
“Hey chicka,” he says with a grin as heshines a light on someone’s license. He’s dressed in his usual getup, black button up shirt, black pants and a derby hat. And everytime I see him I hear the lyrics toStill Not a Playerin myhead.
“Hey Lorenzo,” I step in front of the velvetrope and look up at him unsurely.
“Got something on your mind, girliegirl?”
I bite my lip, “I think I’m going to goinside tonight.”
Lorenzo raises his eyebrows surprised, thennods and unhooks the rope. I step past him with a smallappreciative smile and walk through the front door.
“Why does she get to just walk right in?!” Ihear someone in line yell, all pissed off.
“She’s VIP hoe,” Lorenzo snaps back. Then hisvoice travels up behind me, “Shelly, no cover!”
I look at Shelly; she’s the door girlcollecting money. She’s a short little thing with curly black hairthat looks like it’s been doused in Soul Glow. She smiles and Icatch the glint of a gold tooth on her left incisor. I smile backtimidly, and then with a deep breath, step through the two blackdrapes behind her.
Culture is one big sprawling room packed withpeople. It’s a dark space with white and blue strobe lights dancingon the ceiling. The music is deafening, the DJ pumping out a dancemix ofDied in Your Arms Tonightthrough the speakers. Thereare half naked men walking around everywhere in tight, little,metallic blue shorts. Some are dancing with women; some arecarrying trays of drinks; others are suspended overhead, spinning,twirling and flipping from aerial ribbon like Cirque du Soleil.Okay.I definitely wasn’t expecting artistic entertainment.But it adds a bit of taste to the risqué environment. Reallythough, I didn’t know what to expect. The strip show was so muchraunchier. This just feels like a New York City nightclub with someextra edge.
I make my way to the back of the room,bobbing and weaving through the dense mass of people. It’s mostlywomen, but there are some men too. I look for Ryan, but I don’t seehim anywhere. Suddenly, someone grabs my hand and spins me around.It’s a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man dressed in metallic blueSpeedos who I don’t recognize at all. He slips his arm around mywaist and begins to move against my body. Paralyzed by momentarysurprise, I allow him to touch me, then as nicely as possible pushhim away. That just felt weird. He lets go of me respectfully, butthere is still a glint of persistence in his eyes.
“Do you know where I can find Ryan Pierce?” Iyell to him over the music.
“Who?” he asks.
“Ryan Pierce!”
“You mean Jack?”
Oh God.
Yes. Yes, Jack the goddamn Stripper.