“Please. Are you aware of this den of depravity we’ve seated ourselves in? It was destined to happen.” I flick the tiny red straw peering out of her drink. “Watch the master.”
I give a little wave to the derelict in training and turn my face just enough for him to see my not-so good side. You can practically see his budding hard-on already rising to take a peek of me itself. Then, in a moment, his demeanor shifts. His eyes, though glossy with intoxication, round out with a slight look of horror. His brows narrow at me a moment as if to get a better look before he gives a slight wave and heads deeper into the establishment. But, it’s that brief look of pity he offers as he glances back that knifes me just as much as it amuses me—my face had sobered him up, pulled him out of his alcohol-laden sexual stupor just enough for him to realize he didn’t want any part of this action.
Caila leans in hard, her violently straight vanilla hair falls over her face in pieces like twin curtains. I keep meaning to try that middle part. It looks so sultry on her, but then, sultry is her business.
“Would you stop with that barbaric pit maneuver of yours?” she hisses before checking her phone for the tenth time.
“What you call a ‘pit maneuver,’ I call effective communication skills.”
“Look, I don’t have time to debate your questionable communication skills. I need to haul my ass to work.” She smirks at the idea before pulling my hand across the table. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why she’s smirking. Caila averages $800 to a $1000 on a bad night. She’s not merely a seasoned pro at the pole, she’s teaching future stripper hopefuls, and hausfraus alike how to shimmy and shake with the best of them at an hourly rate that could be better spent toward designer shoes. She gives my hand a tug in an effort to gain my full attention. “Would you please stop?”
“No,” I flatline without even the intention of bothering to ask what it is she’d like for me to cease because, well, I already know.
“Stop using your face as a weapon, honey.” Her voice sweetens. Her faux party lashes bat up at me like trembling butterfly wings. “There are more effective ways to ditch the unwanted assholes of the world. Just please stop using your pretty face.” She leans in, her lids are hooded and pleading in a quasi-sexual manner. Caila can’t help it. She’s been hardwired at an early age to do just about everything in a quasi-sexual manner. It’s just a side effect of growing up bombshell. “God gave you a finger that adequately communicates exactly what you wanted to say to that frat brat, and far more effectively might I add. Go ahead and try it next time.” She averts her eyes. “Never mind next time. What you need is a good fuck—tonight.”
“Ugh,” I grunt, scooting my seat back in an effort to remove myself from the conversation. “I’m positive I don’t need that, and would you please mind laying off the expletives? You’re burning a hole in my skull.” I press my hands to my ears a moment to exemplify the fact.
She averts her eyes once again. “Speaking of holes in your body—you’ve got a couple that haven’t properly been filled in quite some time.” She pulls her purse off the chair and secures it to her shoulder. “How’s that for communication?” She leans in and offers a quick peck to my cheek. “Oh, come on, Cass. You only hate that it didn’t come out of your mouth first. And you can loosen up on that country bumpkin routine of yours.” She gives that sisterly wink that doubles as a lube job because she knows her words are going to hurt. “We’re not in Tennessee anymore, sweet stuff. Do yourself a favor.” Caila reaches over and roughs up my hair with that pathetic I’m-secretly-sorry-for-you look in her eye. “I’m serious. You need to get laid. I promise—all that stress you carry around will melt right off. Pick a good-lookin’ one, would you? Someone who really knows the meaning of Summa Cum Loud.”
I’d laugh, or cry, but lately, her orgasmic delusions of grandeur on my part have been a serious pattern in our conversations.
The 12 Deadly Sins hop on stage, and the crowd loses their ever-loving shit, as Caila would say. I spot my roommate, Piper, and our good friend, Daisy, whooping it up on the dance floor before the music even starts. The lead singer of the band, Blake, is somehow related to Piper, so she’s screaming the loudest right about now. Blake is a cutie—heck, most of the boys at WB qualify as something way too scrumptiously delicious to ever pass up, but I haven’t exactly made a smooth line for a single inebriated one of them.