I bite back the same comment I made earlier, because how—especially as someone who evidently got high a lot in college—do you not realize there is weed in every single thing on the menu at a literal cannabis-tasting lounge. She uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again the other way. She’s studiously avoiding my gaze, probably because she knows what I’m thinking.
“Is there somewhere to eat around here?” I ask. Maybe getting some food in our systems—some food without marijuana in it—would help.
“Oh!” Tyler rolls his chair back and pulls open the middle drawer of his desk. “I’ve got you covered.”
He passes each of us a buffet voucher. As in, for the strip club’s buffet.
“… Thanks,” I tell him.
“Sure thing. I always take care of my clients. You guys go ahead and grab some food. I’ll start on the paperwork and come find you when it’s time to sign on the dotted line.”
I take both vouchers and try to pass one to Eleanor, but she shakes her head. “I’m good.”
“If it helps, I eat here all the time,” Tyler says, his voice turned gentle. “They never let the food sit too long.”
Eleanor’s expression is almost pained. “I can’t right now.”
“I could sneak into the kitchen and bring you something else?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’m okay. Seriously.” She offers him a smile—not her real smile, but one that’s clearly meant to be reassuring. “I appreciate it, though.”
Eleanor moves toward the office door, and I follow close behind, completely confused by their conversation. As we’re passing through the doorway, Tyler calls out to me.
“Make sure to try the mac ’n cheese!”
I shoot him an awkward thumbs-up, which is a gesture I don’t remember doing in my entire adult life, and then keep my gaze on my own feet until we’ve made it out of the changing area and back onto the floor, where they’re blasting headache-inducing dubstep. Eleanor beelines for a table while I head to the buffet tucked in the back corner of the room.
My lips press into a flat line as I take in the spread. Skeptical as I was about dealing with an attorney who works out of a strip club, I’m twice as skeptical about eating at one. The fact that Eleanor passed is not reassuring either. But the fooddoes look pretty decent, and surely Tyler wouldn’t suggest his friend eat here if it wasn’t completely sanitary and safe.
I grab a plate and pile it precariously high with fried chicken and buffalo wings. I add a scoop of mac ’n cheese because Tyler does not strike me as the sort of person to steer you wrong about munchies, and then I make my way over to Eleanor’s table.
The club has gotten busier since we arrived, but at this hour, there are still an abundance of open spots. Eleanor has chosen one as close to the main stage as she can get. It feels vaguely like a test, like she wants to prove I’m not chill enough to be in the same room as a topless woman without ogling her like a creep. Joke is on her—all I have to do is keep my attention on Eleanor instead, and I’ll pass her little test.
For her part, Eleanor watches the dancer, mouth tipped down into a slight frown. I’m fairly certain that the phraseresting bitch faceis sexist, so I try to avoid using it. That said, I feel like it really sort of fits Eleanor perfectly. I imagine this is the face she makes whenever she’s reviewing long contracts, or standing in line at a coffee shop, or washing her hair.
Not that I’ve ever imagined her in the shower.
The point is, she looks sort of pissed. But when I take the seat across from her, she shifts her focus and smooths her expression out to something neutral. She flags down one of the women working here—it’s unclear to me whether she’s a waitress or a dancer or both—and politely asks for a couple of waters. I focus on my own plate and take a small bite of macaroni. Which is all it takes to decide the inevitable food poisoning will be worth it. Tyler was right—it’s amazing.
The next time I glance across the table, Eleanor has produceda paperback book from somewhere, and is reading. In a strip club. It’s so unexpected and cute, I cough out a laugh. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, then immediately drop back down to the page.
I go back to my food, but I’m determined to pass her Chill Test, so I watch Eleanor more than the woman onstage—who, according to my peripheral vision, is currently squeezing the pole between her thighs and hanging upside down, so I think I deserve some credit for not gawking.
I sort of assumed the strippers working in the middle of the day might be the B squad. Like, the dancers who are new and still slightly uncoordinated, or recovering from a pole-related injury, or the ones who have been doing this for so long that they have no more fucks left to give. But from what I’ve seen, through my super-casual and non-lingering glances, I’d give the girl onstage a ten out of ten.
Meanwhile, Eleanor is biting her lip while she quietly reads, and it’s… distracting. Knowing that we kissed last night is doing something to my brain. I’ll admit I’ve thought about kissing her before, years ago. I never could’ve imagined getting to do it, and then not even remembering it afterward. I’m tempted to ask her if I can see that photo stashed away in her bag, but I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be pretending it doesn’t exist. Also, looking at it again would probably only make me feel worse. It’s kind of embarrassing. Photographic evidence that my long-dormant crush on Eleanor Thompson led to me making a complete fool of myself last night.
She drags her tongue across her bottom lip, and I can’t seem to stop staring at her mouth, can’t stop thinking about her full lips crushing into mine, about all the other things she could do with—
“You do realize there are half-naked ladies here, right?” she asks without looking up.
I blink hard and drop my gaze down to my plate, stabbing my fork into my macaroni and shoveling the bite into my mouth. Once I’ve chewed and swallowed I say: “I’m familiar with the concept of a strip club, yes.”
She sets her book down, still open so she doesn’t lose her page, and leans forward to plant her elbows on the table in a way that pushes her cleavage together.
To be clear, I’d really prefer not to find anything about Eleanor attractive. Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. She’s smoking hot. It’s just the truth.
Her lips twitch into a smile. It’s another one of those calculating looks she has, the kind that makes you feel laid bare. “Then why do you keep staring at me instead of them?”
