Page 11 of Watch Me

I’m choked with arousal, gripped with a wild desperation that’s about to tip over into a loss of control, and I realize with certainty that I need to get out of here right away. I take a long slug of my beer, as much as I can drink in one sip, and then throw another bill from my wallet on the table and walk quickly out of the club. I give a curt nod to the bouncers on my way out the door—just another lonely man leaving the strip club with a boner.

In the car, I fumble with my phone, half-write and then delete a text to David about going to the club, and then look up the number of a woman I fooled around with a few months ago. I crave a mouth, a hole, but I know I’m not thinking straight, and I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret. So, out of desperation, I unzip my pants and start jerking myself off right there in the dark parking lot.

In my mind’s eye, the girl leans her ass off the edge of the stage, lowering herself down to a man’s mouth—a stranger’s mouth. She doesn’t care. Then I picture the velvet-smooth feel of her under my tongue, feel her shiver and squeeze as I slip my tongue over her clit and against her opening. With a violent shudder, I blow my load into my hand and fall back against the car seat, panting.

* * *

I’m at home in bed when I get a text message from Tate.

“Hey dad. My friend Zoë needs a place to stay in the city so I told her she could live here. She’ll be downstairs but you’ll probably see her around.”

I have to read the message twice before it registers.

He’s moving a girl in here?

And it isn’t even a question—he’s just letting me know.

By text.

There’s certainly plenty of space. Tate and I never cross paths as it is. He could move four people in here and I probably wouldn’t even notice.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that Tate’s the son and I’m the father. This is my house. And this is a serious step to take with a girl I haven’t even met. A girl I only even know exists because I heard her muffled giggle in the hallway a couple of nights ago.

I wonder what Rebecca would do in this situation. She was always the strict parent. I’m pretty sure she just wouldn’t allow it. Am I being taken advantage of?

I’m not up for a fight, though, and can’t see my way through to taking a stand on this. He’s twenty-three, and isn’t this what I wanted to offer him? Independence?

“Moving in?” I reply. “That sounds serious.”

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Most people would be asleep, but Tate, of course, is in the middle of his day. His response comes immediately, dripping with defensiveness.

“You said I could do what I wanted in this space,” he writes. “I thought that was the whole point. It’s hardly any of your business whether it’s serious or not.”

The tone stings. So unnecessarily reactive.

“That’s fine, son,” I reply, backing down before I ever stood up.

At least if she’s living in my house, I’ll finally get to meet her.

ZOË

TATE HONKS WHEN he pulls up, which seems unnecessarily aggressive. I’m standing on the curb waiting for him. I give one of the bouncers, who’s standing beside me, a shrug before getting into the car.

“How much money did you make tonight?” is the first thing he asks me, as soon as I settle into the leather passenger seat and click my seatbelt into place.

“Why?” I kick my bag into the footwell and turn to face him, thinking, hello would be nice. He looks cute with messy hair and a sleeveless white shirt showing off the unearned bulk of his arms, but he’s got a hard set to his mouth.

“Just wondering,” he says as he pulls into traffic. “Isn’t that the whole point of being a stripper? To make lots of money?”

I’d resolved to tell Tate tonight about the lap dances—maybe not about Nick, I don’t think we’re ready for that—but to tell him the truth about what really happens at work night after night. Where the money really comes from.

But right away, I can tell that Tate’s in a mood where he won’t be receptive to this kind of conversation. He’s turning the music up, tapping his hand on the steering wheel, and watching the traffic with an intensity that practically makes him twitch with tension.

This is how he acts around his friends. This is the version of Tate that’s ready to shotgun a beer and then crush the can against his head. The version of Tate who hates my job the most. I don’t know how to tell this version of Tate what I need to, but I can’t keep putting it off. It’s not the right time, but it’s never been the right time. And he deserves to know.

“Well, I did actually want to talk about work—” I start, but Tate cuts me off.

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