“Me?” I raise my eyebrows. “Want to paint me a picture? Because now I’m all ears.” My curiosity has peaked tenfold.
“I want to put on the ultimate male revue. I want it to be more burlesque and less hokey—”
“You think I’m hokey?”
“Not you, and not my show, but I’ve seen some and...” He makes asheeshface. “I also want to put it on several times a night in the middle of a high-energy dance club.”
“You definitely have a vision.”
“Pyrotechnics and everything, baby.” He smiles shamelessly.
“Sounds explosive.”
“It will be.”
“Well, when you’re ready to openCulture: Las Vegas Strip”— I spread my hands over my head like I’m seeing it in lights — “you let me know.”
“Go ahead and poke fun, kid. But I fucking love that name!”
I laugh some more. All this conversation needs is a straightjacket and a padded room, and it will be officially crazy.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I bust his chops. “You’ll be able to get away with that hat way better in Vegas than you do here.” I rush out of the room as Daniel chucks some papers at me. “Missed! Gotta be faster than that, old man!”
“Get to fucking work, wiseass!”
* * *
After tonight’s show,Divan, Logan, Shayne, and I make our way into one of the VIP rooms. It’s some high-profile socialite’s birthday, and she is celebrating at Culture with fifty of her closest friends. The medium-sized room is packed with women, and we are seriously outnumbered.
“I think we need to call in some reinforcements,” Divan mutters, noticing the male to female ratio.
“I think you’re right,” I agree as we make our way farther inside. I am not fifteen steps in when I’m ambushed by someone jumping into my arms.
“Whoa!” She wraps her arms and legs around me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.
So, remember my first private dance and it being with one of the coolest girls on the planet? Yeah, that was Demi, and she is presently glued to me right now.
“Hey sexy,” she exclaims as she slides down my body. She’s barely five-foot-two, has this long, shiny black hair, and these crystal blue eyes that look right through you.
“Hey yourself. What are you doing up here? I didn’t know you hung out with the paparazzo’s favorite socialite?”
“I don’t, but one of my friends does. So, I’m a guest by association.”
“That’s cool.” I smile as more of my co-workers inhabit the room. The flood of people has the energy soaring and the alcohol flowing. Kanye’s “Stronger” blasts through the speakers, and the beat infects me. I hop up on the glossy white table in the middle of the room and proceed to do what I get paid to do. Cause a scene.
Women crowd around me, feeding off my vigor as Kanye raps about being faster and stronger. Of course, just spectating isn’t enough for Demi. She and one of her friends quickly join me, sandwiching me on top of the table. Demi is awesome all the way around. She’s entertaining, lively, and every time we’re together, we have way too much fun. I don’t know what it is about her, but we have this connection. It’s been evident since the first night we met. We just click.
Demi, Sarah — whose name I learned while dancing on the table — and I proceed to dance and drink the night away; they are above and beyond touchy-feely with me. It almost feels like they’re trying to lure me. And as many times as Demi and I have hung out, she’s never acted like this. Like she wants to do more than just dance.
Divan and Logan have been tracking me all night. Throwing looks every chance they get, insinuating something. I must be dense, because I have no idea what they’re hinting at.
Around two a.m., Demi and her friend have me cornered. There’s mischief sparking in both of their eyes, and maybe something more.
“Jack?” Demi whispers in my ear. “Why did you turn me down?”
“What are you talking about? Turn you down?”
“You refused my request.”