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“Actually, yeah. His name’s Martin — my dad hired him when Dazzlers first got running. He played records out in the floor area, but when we got a speaker system, my dad kept finding new places for him to work in the casino, just because he couldn’t bear to get rid of Screamin’ Martin.”
I flinched at the reminder of Tate’s father. I’d been doing so good at blithely ignoring Tate’s seedy origins. I mean, in fairness, my family tree isn’t exactly a grand oak, but at least we weren’t rotten to the core.
But it’s a story about his dad doing something nice, my mind, desperate to forgive Tate, countered. He was making sure a guy kept his job.
The more pragmatic side of my brain shot back with, Yeah, probably so Screamin’ Martin could come gamble and drink away the day. That was a familiar enough tale.
All I wanted was to get out of my head, to stop weighing rights and wrongs for one solitary fucking second and just… exist.
“You wanna dance?” I asked Tate out of nowhere.
“Hell yeah.”
I slid out of the booth, Tate following close behind me. I could feel his body behind mine, the heat emanating off him. Together, we made our way to the center of the floor, where tables and chairs were being shifted away to make room for hundreds of bodies. With a little twinge of regret, I mentally apologized to the other waitresses for not helping them strike the seating areas. Guess I’d have to make it up to them some other time.
A set of hands was on my waist, and they spun me around — it was Tate, and he was so close to me I thought my skin might catch fire.
He pressed into the small of my back, pulling me closer, as people filtered in around us, taking up every square foot of the dance floor. I put my arms around his neck, hoping that he couldn’t feel my chest rising and falling with abandon. There were a mere few inches of space between us, and I knew that one isolated tilt of my body would bring us together.
Tate bent down to my ear, and whispered, “You’re a gorgeous dancer.”
“Thanks,” I stammered, taken aback by his mouth so close to mine. “You’re not bad yourself.”
“I do all right,” he said, coyly modest.
His face pulled away, and I found his eyes once more. They were searching my features, moving away from my mouth and then back again, as if he were actively trying to think about something other than kissing me. Or maybe I’m projecting, because that’s exactly what was racing through my mind — don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him, you’d be a traitor.
Yeah, maybe, but what’s so damn good about loyalty to the cause? Isn’t it human to throw practical concerns to the wind and focus on our carnal desires?
Just for one night, I wanted to be bad.
And Tate was looking at me like I was a meal to devour.
The beat thumped through us, moving our bodies in a rhythm, drawing them closer and closer.
His chin shifted down, and I could feel the kiss coming with the force of a waterfall, inevitable and powerful.
“Hey, dude,” a voice other than Tate’s said, mere inches from my face. “’Sup?”
Tate’s eyes squinted then rolled upwards, obviously brimming with frustration. With great reluctance, he tore his stare from mine and looked to the side.
“What?” Tate snarled.
Next to us were a group of hammered guys, each more stereotypical than the next. They all wore too-tight collared shirts with large collars, watches so heavy they could knock out a grown man if used right, and pants that showed off their unimpressive bulges. The one talking seemed to be the de facto leader of the pack, with slicked-back hair and uncomfortably white teeth.
The guy held up his hands. To Tate, he said, “Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Just wanted to let you know the escorts were here.”
Uh, what?!
“I’m sorry, did you just say escorts?” I bellowed, my voice rising precipitously.
“Get lost,” Tate hissed at his apparent friends, but the damage was already done.
Escorts rang in my ears as the other man shrugged.
“Okay, bro, whatever you say.”
The group meandered off, and a few feet away from the dance floor — even through the red haze covering my eyes — I could see them pairing off with a gaggle of distinctly Botoxed girls. No, that was just my rage talking. The girls were beautiful. It was Tate I was really mad at.
“What the fuck was that?” I said, whirling around on my dance partner.
“Kiki, you don’t understand—”
“Like hell I don’t! I grew up here too, remember? And even if I didn’t, that was pretty damn clear. Your buddy got you escorts. So why are we dancing when you’re supposed to be plowing some high-end pussy? I got distracted for a second, with the dancing and the conversation and all the bright lights, but you’re exactly who I thought you were — a player. A pimp.”
