Page 29 of Watch Me

I don’t want to have dinner with a stranger. I don’t want to meet one of Nick’s friends. I want Nick to myself. I want to know where we’re going after last night. I want to consummate this obsessive longing for him—somehow. Without touching.

But apparently Nick having things on his terms means keeping me at arm’s length, panting at the door like a dog who wants in. And since I’ve already accepted the dinner invitation, I feel obliged. So I smile at him gaily, as if just being in his presence isn’t physically painful. As if dinner sounds lovely.

* * *

As it turns out, Nick’s friend David is fun to spend time with. I remember him from the club the moment I see him—wavy, dark red hair, wide grin, and a teasing look in his eyes like he’s letting you in on a joke. He’s the one who handed me the money for Nick’s lap dance and called him Nicky.

I can see now that lighthearted jabbing is at the heart of the two men’s friendship, and it delights me to see Nick’s playful side come out in David’s company.

“We met in grade school,” Nick tells me with a fond smile.

The food is eaten, plates pushed to the side, and we’re sitting around the table with full glasses of a Spanish red wine that David brought. I’m on my second glass, and the rich, velvety liquid is making me feel warm and loose in a way I don’t often allow myself to feel. I rarely drink, with the demands of my schedule, and it’s going right to my head in the most pleasant way.

“David was the worst-looking kid,” Nick continues with a laugh, and David opens his mouth in mock outrage and swings a hand across the table as if to hit him. Nick leans back, his eyes dancing with delight, and I can’t help but smile. “This scrawny kid with a big shock of bright red hair and giant teeth. Even at that age I think I felt sorry for you that you were never going to get laid.”

“Well, I showed you,” David retorts. “Not,” he adds, turning to me, “that Nicky ever had trouble with the girls—obviously.”

He holds a hand out towards Nick as if submitting evidence, but I certainly don’t need it. Not only is it easy to tell that Nick has been good-looking his entire life, but I also know exactly what a younger version of him would have looked like—Tate.

Nick rolls his eyes and reaches for the wine bottle, topping us all up.

“What was Nick like when he was younger?” I ask, immediately regretting the question. A blush steals up my cheek as the implication occurs to me: that Nick is old now—so much older than me.

Except that… he is.

David chuckles. “Oh, he was always the same ornery bastard. When he was younger, he had less self-control, maybe. Twenty years ago, Nick would have been all over you.”

He lays a hand on my back, right between my shoulder blades, and smiles at me with a look that makes my pulse race.

The warmth of his hand is disarming, the innocent touch electrifying, and I’m surprised by how nice it feels to make eye contact with him and the sizzle of heat his smile gives me. I blink and cast a glance at Nick, almost guiltily, but there’s no sign he disapproves of this affection from David. If anything, he looks pleased.

“Zoë's used to men being all over her,” he says in a low voice. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug. I’m not sure if it’s criticism or praise. It’s clear that he’s referring to my job, and I’m keenly aware of how much my work is judged—hats off to Tate for that one—but nothing in Nick’s expression or tone seems mocking or derogatory.

“I have no doubt about that,” says David. His fingers move in a small circle, massaging the base of my cervical spine.

Is it just me, or has the energy in the room taken a turn? I don’t know if it’s the constant, low-grade arousal I feel whenever I’m around Nick that’s hijacking my senses, but I detect an undercurrent of innuendo. David exhales and slides his hand over my shoulder, and when I look back at Nick, the expression on his face seems to confirm it.

There’s heat in his eyes—a coiled ferocity in how he watches me that I take as a clue to the puzzle.

Is this one of the “games” he has in mind? He can’t touch me, but someone else can?

When I arrived in the city this past winter, I thought I knew everything I needed to know about sex. I had all the basics covered and knew better than to tell anyone the twisted things I thought of in my head. But the Paradise Lounge taught me that the basics of sex are just that—basic. Most people are having the same twisted thoughts I am, and whole industries have cropped up to indulge them. It’s part of what keeps me hooked on the work. Not just the dancing, but the undercurrent of desire, the secret longings, the yearning call to pleasure. Six months ago, I would have taken this conversation at face value and left it at that, but my job has taught me to pick up on the subtler nuance of the interaction.

That’s why I make a split-second decision and turn back to David with my best come-hither, Salomé eyes, letting my gaze drop momentarily to his mouth and then hitting him with a slow, teasing smile. And sure enough, he picks up the cue immediately, his blue eyes softening, the corner of his wide mouth lifting.

I’m not imagining it. There’s a vibe.

David is a sexy guy. Beefy like Nick, if not as muscular, but imposing nonetheless in his breadth and height. His easy confidence is inviting, promising fun and no hang-ups. Plus, I like him. He’s nice, and he’s funny. If Nick is trying to create some kind of scene, then the idea of any kind of play with David intrigues me.

Why not? I spent five months with Tate having no sex, only to turn my attention to someone who’s vowed not to touch me. I’m ironically celibate for a stripper.

Nick leans back in his chair, Mister Casual, and takes a sip of his wine. “David, you never did get a lap dance from Zoë at the Paradise Lounge, did you?”

“No,” says David, without taking his eyes off of me. “I didn’t.”

Aha.

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