Rebel Soul

A few seconds later, an incredibly petite—both in shape and stature—woman walks into the room. Her skin is a deep golden bronze, and her platinum blonde locks hang clear to her ass. She’s decked out in a sparkly pink mini dress and sky-high matching stripper heels.

She walks right past me—as graceful as a gazelle, which in seven-inch heels is hella impressive—toward Buck and flings herself down onto his lap.

He wraps his meaty arms around her number-two-pencil-thin waist. One bear-paw hand completely covers her ass and the other wraps around her shoulder, hiding it from view. They kiss as though they’ve been separated for ages. I feel like such a voyeur watching them, but he has to have at least eighteen inches on her in height and is easily four times as wide. Honestly, I’m wondering how they even have sex—because looking at the two of them, he is the very definition of does not fit.

The two are veering toward pornographic when I clear my throat. Buck and Lesli break apart slowly, as if the loss of full-body contact will kill them.

Once Lesli is back on her feet, she tugs her dress down and straightens it before fluffing her hair and reapplying her lipstick. She obviously has practice, because she applies the vibrant shade perfectly without a mirror.

“Buck here thinks you might be a good fit,” she says, skipping over small-talk and pleasantries. “But I’ve got a few questions of my own.”

“Ask away,” I say, trying my best to not sound as weirded out as I am—which is a lot. This interview is just…weird. Like, weirder than applying for porn weird.

“Bra size?”

My eyes widen. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re as big as saucers. “Thirty-four C.”

Lesli’s gaze flicks down to my breast and she nods. “Sequins or tassels?”

What the fuck? “Uh, sequins.”

“Leather or lace?”

I laugh through my nose and shift in my seat. “Leather?”

“You sure?” she asks, her tone whip sharp. “We don’t have time for wishy-washy employees. You’re either all in and ready to commit or you can head on down the road to TGI Fridays.” You wouldn’t think a little pixie-sized woman could be so scary, but Lesli with her hands on her hips, fierce eyes, and scowling Botox’d lips is intimidating as hell. All four-foot-eight of her.

“Leather. I’m certain.” Even if I have no clue what she’s asking me, I know I prefer leather to lace. Lace is thick and hot and completely unbreathable. Oh, and scratchy, too. The only place I like lace is on curtains or a pillowcase.

“Tallest heel you can walk in?”

“Four inches.”

“I suppose that’s decent.”

She goes on to ask a few more questions—can I dance? Am I comfortable flirting a little with the patrons? Do I have any bartending experience? Do I want any?—before finally offering me employment.

Something in my gut tells me I’m missing something big, but my brain is too caught up on the pay to care. I know most waitresses survive on their tips, but Buck and Lesli appear to pay their employees quite generously.

I know I should probably be wary, but let’s be real—I was willing to do porn; waitressing should be a cakewalk in comparison. So, I readily agree, scrawl my name at the bottom of the employment agreement and agree to show up Monday night for training.

Chapter Twenty-One

West

The day passes in a blur of seemingly unending paperwork. Contracts, listings, and more. Not to mention, I am working on a few new ideas to branch Virtual Kitty out. The current focus of VK is women—what can I say? It was the brainchild of my horny, smart, and well-funded teen-self.

However, older and wiser—and even better funded—I firmly believe it is time to be a little more inclusive and open up channels for broader tastes.

Unfortunately, that means paperwork, lots of fucking paperwork, and for every contract Colton and I read through, another three appear in its place. Page after page of redundant legal-ese.

“This is mind-numbing,” Colton groans, stretching his arms over his head.

I shoot him a wry grin. “As a lawyer, isn’t mind-numbing paperwork kind of your thing?”

“Furthering my point,” he drawls, rising from his chair. “If I’m bored, that’s saying something.”

“Truth.”

“Early dinner?” he asks, checking his watch, which prompts me to glance down at mine. It’s nearly five.

“No can do. I’m taking Stacia out tonight.”

Colton sighs. “You’re still barking up that tree?”

“Woof!” I grin crookedly.

“Damn fool,” he mutters, packing his things away.

“There’s something there, man. I know it. And I’d be remiss not to explore it. Plus, Mimi Jean always said the best things are worth the battle.”

“And you think sticking your dick in her and impregnating her falls into that category?”

Visions of our romp in her bed flit through my mind—the way she lit up beneath me, the sound of her breathy moans, the way she gave as good as she got, how fucking combustible we were. Add in the fact that she’s just a down-ass-chick, and yeah, she definitely falls into that category.