Two

Dim lights, pulsing music and the light squeak of metal on metal greeted him. Rope lights lined the main stage in a runway, and then bloomed out to a wider circle where a gleaming pole stood waiting for action. It drew the eye, as it should, to the center stage. He scanned the room until two cages at each corner answered the creaking question.

A pair of blondes in thigh high white boots and glowing pink body paint writhed in their respective bird keeps. His eyebrow rose as the one on the left, slid her leg through a strap and twirled upside down. Her tits definitely didn’t move.

Lou steered him toward a table and flagged down a pretty black girl. Purple paint this time, he noticed with a grin, swirled down her arms and legs. A bikini in a matching shade covered the high points. Strategic triangles teased as she leaned down to serve. He blew bangs out of his eyes, grinning at her until she smiled back.

Tim sat down. “Round of whatever’s on draft with whiskey chasers.”

“You got it.” Her voice was as smooth as her chocolaty skin. Her eyes drifted down to his lap then back up, heat replaced the friendly smile.

Richie shifted in his seat. Goddamn, he liked a bold woman. A blonde strolled onto the runway. Her nurse’s uniform and platform heels were enjoyable enough, but her exaggerated bump and grind with a side of Marilyn Monroe meets Nurse Ratchet just wasn’t enough to hold his interest. Lou and Tim’s eyes were glued to the stage. “I’m going to walk around.” Tim waved him away without a word.

He had to admit, it was a nice change of pace to get out of the studio, not to mention the tiny apartment he’d been sharing with Snake and a few other session guitarists. He played until his fingers were numb in the studio, and then hit the bars to make enough money to stay in the damn city. He sure as shit hoped Jon knew what he was doing with this album.

He tapped out a Marb, settling at the bar with another beer as he lit up. The little waitress in purple looked like a good end to the night if this Rosie chick was a bust. As if the entire room was suddenly put on a dimmer switch, the lights slowly lowered. The pouty nurse was ushered off the stage in a flurry of dollar bills and pink skin.

The room went near black and silent, even the obnoxious catcalls of patrons eased as the click of heels cut the dark in a steady staccato. The runway lights flickered to life like flame, bouncing off wicked shoes with a stiletto heel tall enough to make a man beg. Even in her silhouette, she took over the room. Something large and bulky swung from her hand as she stopped, turned around, and a swing of hair ruffled on a sudden breeze.

Richie lifted his cigarette only to realize it had burned away to ash. He dropped it into the ashtray and twisted on his barstool. Part of him knew that it was a well aimed fan and some intelligent staging that had his hormones crackling, but he just didn’t fucking care. She had presence—in spades.

Brass and Joe Cocker’s raspy voice blasted out of every speaker. He couldn’t stop the smile. Helluva song to try and pull off. She lifted a long, lithe arm. The dim shadows took on the shape of a hat. Her hips swayed. The low wattage from the rope lights glowed off the edges of her hips and shoulders leaving the rest of her hidden.

One foot cocked out to the side, tapping to the song. The heavy column of material ruined the perfect line of leg and heel. Disappointment and interest warred. C’mon darlin’, blow my mind.

She rolled the hat down her arm and onto her head, ending in a quick flick of neck and hair. Swiping a finger along the brim of the hat, Joe spoke of getting rid of her dress and the spotlight flared.

“Fuck.” He slid off the barstool, rapping his elbow on the bar. An echoing sentiment rumbled from the crowd.

Chaps hugged her thighs and rode the line of her hips, leaving the singularly most perfect ass he’d ever seen, on full display. A copper shimmer dusted the rounded curves of each cheek, up to a jet black bikini triangle that teased more than covered. Her hips twitched and the sweet wiggle of two handfuls of ass made his mouth water.

He rubbed his elbow and whistled low and slow. No slim little anorexic thing here. No, she was curves and gold dust.

The buckle of the chaps glinted under a riot of curls that teased dark and light in so many shades he couldn’t name them all. He couldn’t even see the back of her, just handfuls and handfuls of dancing curls. His cock twitched when the woman looked over her shoulder. The brim of a velvet smooth cowboy hat shadowed her face, just the glossy line of lips showed through.

She sauntered her way to the other end of the stage, the spotlight slowly moving with her. With each sway of her hips, his breathing stopped. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and the lush curve of her breast lifted and swayed in reaction. The slow roll of her body undulated out to a snap of heel in the air until the heel clicked on the seat of a chair.

The woman turned, her face tipped low, but the curve of her smile gleamed bright in the white hot light. She jerked the belt at her tiny waist, scraping her teeth over her full lower lip before releasing the catch with silver tipped nails. Her head dropped back, the long line of her neck dissolved into copper shoulders and the stream of hair that made his mouth water. God, what would it feel like to have all that hair slithering over his skin?

Her breasts pushed at the boundaries of the tiny triangles of black material. He stared, wanting to see the tight tips of her nipples under the material, but she was smooth as her skin. The dusting of copper glimmered as she cupped her breasts. She spilled out around her hands, leaning forward and that wicked smile returned. The little buckle dangled as the chaps opened and fell around her hips. Fingers smoothed down her ribs, then to her belly as she widened her stance.

God, he wanted to see those legs. The sinewy muscles bunched and tightened. He just knew they would wrap around his hips perfectly.

She gripped the shiny chaps that were neither leather nor material, doing a slow grind with her fists tight to her thighs. She finally looked out into the crowd. With a flick of her wrists, snaps tore and she flung the chaps out along the runway.

His eyes followed the long line of her calves to thighs and the little ties at her hips. His eyes tracked up her waist and over the generous breasts, he caught her smile and the curve of her jaw and hoped the groan he let free wasn’t as loud as it sounded. Sudden pinpricks of anxiety shredded his lungs, ruining the quicksilver lust that throbbed. The curve of her cheek came into focus. That heart shape was just like…

No.

Eyes, the bastard color of ocean and sky, were rimmed in black. They flattened him against the bar.

No fucking way.