Screwed In Sin City

1

Josie

I'm not sure why I'm even here.

I'm not sure why I’m putting myself through this.

The last time I let my college friends rope me into something like this, I ended up having to drive every one of them home, all the way across town, because I was the only one sober and able to drive. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now.

Instead, here I am, sitting in a chair with a triple-sized margarita in one hand and a handful of college friends on both sides of me, all of who are more than ready and raring to see the half-dressed male dancers scheduled to come on stage in less than 5 minutes. Once again, I question my sanity for ever agreeing to come to see such a thing with these women in the first place.

Not to mention, we’re in Las Vegas. We are in Vegas. I've never been here before, but I'm not so naïve that I don't realize that the statement “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” actually rings true for most of the people who frequent this place.

Fortunately, I've never been one of those people who believes in doing things that require never being able to speak of them again, so not only am I out of place here, but I'm confident that Las Vegas has just as little to offer me as I have to offer it.

“Come on, Josie, lighten up,” Beth says from beside me. “It's just one night, and you're supposed to be having a good time, not looking as miserable and serious as you are.” She points down to the drink in my hand, still untouched. “Get that into you, and I guarantee we’ll be able to turn that frown upside down.”

“I told you this wasn't my scene,” I reply. I can’t lie, I know I look as uncomfortable as I feel. I'm really not sure this was a good idea.

“I swear, if you're about to suggest that you should just go back to that resort of yours, I'm not sure what I'm going to have to resort to.” The look on Beth's face is serious, enough that it doesn't match the level of Budweiser currently running through her veins.

And enough that I just nod, knowing there is no use in arguing with her, especially when the show is about to start.

Beth and I have been friends all through college, and she's been my roommate since my first year living on campus. We’d been assigned as roommates in a ridiculously small dorm room, and to this day, we like to tell people that we had no choice but to become immediate friends. The only other option would have resulted in one of us killing the other, and that would have been awkward as hell to explain seeing as we were both criminology majors. But, while we’re inseparable and there’s no question about the solidity of our friendship, there’s also no denying the fact that Beth and I are like night and day when it comes to our personalities. She is the outgoing one, and I’m the reserved one. Completely different ends of the spectrum. She has more friends and a more active social life than I've ever had in my entire existence. She also gets more attention from the male population of our college than I could ever dream of.

Don't get me wrong, Beth is beautiful. Long blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and an infectious laugh that makes you chuckle right along with her even if you don’t know why you’re doing it. She’s boisterous, fun, and smart. Everything any man would ever want.

I, on the other hand, am anything but.

Sure, I'm smart. And I'm pretty in my own way, so Beth has told me countless times. But in a muted, quiet kind of way. Not a bombshell, check-me-out kind of way like Beth.

I tend to keep to myself, and I tend to like it that way, too.

I’ve also only ever had two boyfriends in my life, and one of those doesn't count as I'd only been ten years old when we walked around the schoolyard holding hands...until Benjamin decided that Angie from the sixth grade was both cooler and more desirable to hold hands with than a shy, quiet bookworm who wasn't allowed to stay at the playground after school until dark like so many other kids were.

The other boyfriend—the most important one—was Jason, the boy I'd met in my senior year of high school, who not only introduced me to the complications of being in love, but also broke my heart a few years later when he decided that our long-distance relationship while at different colleges was too much work. But, that was only after he’d been tagged in a bunch of photos on his social media with a pretty redheaded woman he’d known from his sociology class. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that his girlfriend—that would be me—followed him on all of his social media accounts, and he just happened to have his tongue down the throat of the pretty redhead in one of those pictures.

Needless to say, that was the end of that, and I've done my best to steer clear of anyone I think might have the capability to hurt me like that again.

Right now, my silky black hair is piled up loosely on top of my head in a semi-casual knotted style, and my hazel eyes are staring widely at Beth, trying to decide if she is buzzed enough to make a scene over me trying to leave, or just sober enough to be able to confidently argue all of the valid reasons for me to stay.

The truth is that I know she would have an explanation or answer for any excuse I could think of. We'd come all the way from Ohio, where we just spent the last four years slaving away to obtain our criminal justice degrees. We'd done it—all five of us that had made the trip—and were now sitting in the front row at the Excalibur in the heart of Las Vegas, waiting for chiseled, muscled, gorgeous men to make their way out onto the stage and help us celebrate our educational successes by letting off a little steam and having one last raucous good time before real life gets in the way and we all end up going our separate ways, to jobs and internships and paths that won't necessarily allow us all to be as active in each other's lives as we've become so accustomed to over the last few years.

I've never been a party girl, and Beth and our other friends know it, but there’s no way I could turn down spending one last weekend with the girls who have been so much like family to me during my college years.

So, here I am, doing my best to try to plaster a convincing smile on my face and pretend that I'm having at least some semblance of a good time.

In Las Vegas. On the Strip, no less.

I'd like to think I'm doing pretty good for a

woman who's not really a fan of crowds, or too many people in general, or loud, obnoxious behavior, but perhaps that would be a lie, too, even to myself.

Unfortunately, I don't have a chance to contemplate further as suddenly the lights in the overpopulated room go out, save for the bright single flood light pointed directly at the middle of the stage.

Every intoxicated, horny woman in the place loses their minds, screaming and whistling as the first few notes of loud, up-tempo dance music begin to blast through the room. It's so loud that I can feel the vibration of the bass reverberating through my fingertips, and the liquid in the glass still perched between my fingers quivers with each beat.

If I’d had any chance of getting out of the room and making it back to the resort where I could hide away in the safety of silence and solitude, that opportunity was long gone.

Whether I like it or not, I’m about to attend a very exclusive, very raunchy, and very sexy party in a fancy casino on the Las Vegas Strip.

With one solid swallow, I down half of the margarita in my hand, squinting my eyes as I realize how strong the drink really is.

Good, because I know I’m damn well going to need it.

2

Derek

Even though I know that there is no good reason for me to be here, about to go on stage and do what I do unabashedly, I still can't seem to shake the slight flutter of nervousness that washes through me at the thought of going on that stage and being in that limelight.

I love it.

Part of me lives for it.

There's nothing more fun than letting myself be taken over by the rhythmic beat of the dance music, the hype, and energy and enthusiasm of the mostly female crowd as they drink and dance and let themselves be taken over by it, too. And I don’t care if that’s a good reason or not.

Like I said, I live for it. There's only one other thing in this world that makes me feel more alive and brings me more pleasure and happiness, but I keep that part of my life separate from this one.

Right now, I'm just me, Derek Christian. Dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, and more tattoos and taut muscles than you can count. I’m not being cocky or prickish about it; I’m just stating a fact. I work hard on my body—six days in the gym each week isn’t for the faint of heart—so that the ladies can appreciate what they’ve paid for.

Let’s be honest, they don’t give a rat’s ass that I’m college educated, that I’m a good guy, or that I have people depending on me.

Those rowdy, raucous ladies out there in the audience just want to hoot and holler while I roll my hips and let them eye-fuck me while I dance.

And I’m cool with that. Because I’m quite a fan of eye-fucking the ladies myself.

I’m an even bigger fan of actually fucking them, too, as most guys are whether they actually go through with it on every whim or not, but that’s not what tonight is about.

“Let’s do this,” a voice says behind me.

I glance back and see Chance, donning the same low-slung jeans, tight white t-shirt, and black leather belt as I am. He’s been with the Thunder And Lightning group longer than I have, and he’s got the dance moves, cockiness, and devout following to prove it. The difference between him and I is that he’s let the attention go to his head. We both might live for the show, but unlike me, he doesn’t have anything but the show. No family he keeps in contact with, no life to go back to when he’s not on stage.

Life is the show, and the show is life.

I'm not like that.