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I turned and watched him walk away, passing the bandstand and the pretty lead singer. I looked around at the oblivious crowd now craning to watch the band begin. The opening riffs were brassy and loud, the bass reverberating deep in my body. I looked towards the women’s washroom. If I left my stool, I’d lose my place at the bar. Then he wouldn’t find me.
The room was filling up. The lights were dimmed a bit more. A cold flute of champagne was placed in front of me. I was alone, at a bar, contemplating removing my underwear because a hot, young man had asked me to. What if I was caught? Surely I’d be thrown out for lewd behavior. I tried to remember what panties I had on. A black thong. Simple, silky. How to squirm out of panties in public, unnoticed, wasn’t something I had learned at Girl Scouts.
I pulled the stool closer to the bar. Then, watching myself in the mirror, I did a practice run, moving my forearm and hand across my lap, while above the line of the bar my upper arm and shoulder appeared still. Good, it could work. I moved quickly, my hand under the bar gathering the front of my skirt. I slipped the other hand up my thigh, wrapping a finger through my thong and lifting my buttocks off the stool ever so slightly, hooking my heels into the base of the stool to get leverage. Just as I yanked hard, the song came to an abrupt end. I thought I was the only one to hear the rip, like a needle skipping across a record. But a man with a shaved head, who’d been standing with his back to me, turned to see what had made that sound. I froze. Oh no.
I smiled at him awkwardly and let out a nervous laugh. This man was riveting with crinkly eyes like Will’s, but his were icy blue. He had on a black suit, with a black shirt and black tie. For a man who was probably closer to fifty than thirty, he had the lithe build of a soccer player.
Leaning towards me, he said, “Got them off yet?” He took in my expression of shock with a bemused smile, then took a sip of his scotch and plopped the empty glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his wide hand. “Your panties, I mean. Are they off?” he said in a British accent.
I looked around in case anyone had heard him. But the music had started up again.
“Who are you?”
“The real question is, do you accept the Step?”
“The Step? What? You? I thought it was going to be with the other guy.”
“I can assure you, Cassie, you’re in good hands with me. Do you accept the Step?”
“What’s going to happen?” Panicking, I looked around. But no one was watching us; they were watching the band. No one cared what we were talking about either. It was as though we were invisible.
“What’s going to happen?” I asked again.
“Everything you want, nothing you don’t.”
“Is that what you’re all trained to say?” I said, with a hint of playfulness. I could do this. I could definitely do this with him. I yanked my thong again and this time the waistband cut across the tops of my thighs, leaving me in a deeply uncomfortable position.
“Do you accept the Step, Cassie? I can ask only three times,” he said patiently. His eyes traveled down to my skirt.
“Maybe if I went to the ladies’—”
He turned and summoned the bartender.
“I’ll take the bill, please, and put her champagne on it, would you?”
“Wait. Are you going?”
/> He smiled at me and pulled two twenties out of his money clip.
“Don’t go,” I said, lifting my arm from beneath the bar and placing it on his firm forearm. “I accept the Step.”
“Good girl,” he said, shoving his money clip back in his pocket.
He removed his dinner jacket and asked me to hold it in my lap. Standing beside me at the bar, he turned to the side, as if to watch the band. When he jolted my bar stool backwards a little, and my stomach took a second to catch up. He pressed himself against my back, his hot mouth next to my ear. I could feel his erection against the small of my back, where the first man had put his hand.
“Cassie, you look beautiful in that dress, but those panties need to come off, right now,” he whispered hoarsely. “Because I’m going to play with you, if that’s okay with you.”
“Here? Now?” I swallowed.
“Oh yes.”
“What if someone catches us?”
“No one will. I promise.”
My back to his chest, both of us facing the band, he slipped his right hand under my skirt and followed the crevice between my thighs to my thong. With expert ease, he dipped a finger inside me. I was wet. This was crazy. The band kicked up the tempo and the singer’s voice was like a musical instrument, her words pouring out at the exact moment that two of his fingers secured themselves around my thong’s waistband.
“Lift, my love,” he commanded, and with expert timing, he slid the damaged thong forward to my knees. I quickly shimmied it down to my ankles and let it fall discreetly to the floor. The place was dark, loud and crowded. Even if I screamed, it wouldn’t cause a commotion.
