Page 25 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

The DJ announces the next dancer and first beat of Rihanna’s Red Lipstick pounds through the speakers at the same time the lights find London at the back of the stage.

Every dip and sway of her hips is mesmerizing, slow and seductive.

I glance back toward the men who are riveted by her as she makes her way to the pole. When she jumps up onto the steel rod, she reminds me of a ballerina, sliding gracefully down, twirling, until she reaches the floor.

The chair across from me skitters back, startling my muscles and a young guy, college-aged, I’d guess, plops down beside me, leaning into the table.

At his closeness, I glance around the room, looking for Ripley.

“I’d love to see you up on that stage,” he shouts above the music, flashing me a smile.

Ugh, cheesy. It’s almost painful watching the guy try to flirt, and all I can do is shake my head.

“What’s your name?”

“Not interested.” I’m not trying to be bitchy, just heeding the words of the girls in back, but the scowl on his face tells me I’ve bruised his pride. “I have a boyfriend.” The words sound so strange, considering Ripley isn’t even close to being my boyfriend.

“Got it.” His sharp tone slices through the awkward stare between us, and when he stands up from the chair and walks off, I exhale a breath of relief. Well, that was easy.

I’ll have to use that line more often.

As I sit studying London’s moves, I don’t notice someone’s slipped behind me, until his voice in my ear jerks me out of my trance.

“What’s that?” I kick my head to the side, noticing the proximity of his lips to my cheek.

He’s big, like Ripley, but more of a pretty boy with long lashes and baby-smooth skin. He lacks the raw masculinity that Ripley wears like his own brand of virility. A club guy for sure, one I could totally see dancing in some pop music video. “I asked for your ID, babe,” he says, and his embroidered shirt tells me he’s one of the bouncers.

Shit. “I um … I don’t have one. I’m here with someone.”

“I don’t care who the fuck you’re here with, princess. I need some ID.”

“I don’t have one on me. It’s in my car.”

“Well then, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m here with—”

“I told you, I don’t give a fuck who you’re here with. You have to be twenty-one to be in this club. End of story.”

“Please,” I plead, not wanting to draw any attention, or more specifically, not wanting to draw Ripley’s attention. “I’m just waiting for—”

“You wanna stay?”

“Yes. I’m watching London.” I nod toward the stage, where London is dry humping the pole with her back to me.

“You know London?”

“Yes,” I tell him, feeling a twinge of hope that he’ll leave me alone. He’s already made a scene, and a quick glance around shows a few of the men have taken notice with their eyes glued to my table.

“Well, tell you what?” He leans in closer to my ear until I can feel his breath diffusing across my neck. “You meet me in the hallway and suck me good? I’ll let you stay.”

I pinch my eyes to a frown and lean away from him, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”

At that, his palm wraps around my arm, his fingers searing my skin as he yanks me to a stand, knocking the chair back. Digging my heels into the floor, I pull against him, trying to get my arm loose. I hear him tell another bouncer I’m under age, and the guy gives him a nod, stepping back into line.

“Fucking let me go!” I twist my arm to no avail, regretting the decision to come out here. “Let me go!”

The bouncer drags me through the crowd, down a hallway where the elevator sits at the other end beside the exit sign.