Page 158 of Overcast

The strobe lightsof purple and blue clash against each other, and the bodies packed on the main floor of Dougie’s. Sipping on my tequila, I patiently sit at the bar and watch Bianca, nicknamed Bunni, swing around a pole in a neon green thong. Her blonde hair seductively tumbles down her spine, and from here, if I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t study Stormi’s body like I do at every waking moment, I’d say the woman I fucked upstairs in my cabin two days ago was dancing to Bandz A Make Her Dance by Juicy J.

Bianca is a tad taller, her face a little rounder and their body shape similar except Stormi doesn’t have a tramp stamp on her back, and Bianca’s hips aren’t as curvy. It causes me to buy another tequila shot and send another glare at the woman behind the bar who won’t stop asking me if I wish to see the VIP.

I do. Just not with her.

I’ve already made my request from one of the bouncers that I want Bianca in my secluded room that I’ve rented for an hour with no disturbances. I won’t need said hour, more like ten minutes, but that’s the going rate for some alone time with any stripper here.

My shot glass is quickly filled with zero words from the forty-year-old woman who believes she can still swing a twenty-year-old cock. There are plenty of those around here for her to choose from, just not me because I’m thirty-two and not interested in any brunettes at this time.

Downing my drink in one swallow, I throw a ten-dollar bill on the bartop and slide off my barstool just to run into another body.

Honey-brown eyes and red hair, a woman grins ear to ear at me but doesn’t move.

Instead, she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and apparently is waiting for me to say something.

“Can I help you?” I finally ask as the song overheard is close to ending. Which means Bianca will be summoned to my room with hopes of making a shitload of money for sucking and riding my dick. She’ll be doing things, just not in the capacity she’s planning.

“Yeah,” the woman quips. “You can buy me a drink.”

“I won’t be buying you a drink, but I can give you a tip—” I bump into her frame to get her to move and say, “—don’t take shit from strangers, dumbass.”

I hear her scoff, scandalized that I wasn’t desperate enough to wait for her to pretend to be drunk so that she won’t feel so bad if we fucked.

Striding through the crowded space, I make my way down a dark hall, watching the numbers on the doors increase. I create room for an older man and another redhead with barely anything on to squeeze through to get back to the main floor, more than likely done with their “session”.

Opening up room number six, the space is small with only a plush red couch and coffee table with a bucket of ice, two flutes, and a bottle of champagne. It’s fitting because I can finally celebrate catching the woman that was supposed to be caught all along.

Dance (A$$) by Big Sean starts up next as I take a seat, inwardly cringing at the thought of how often these couches are cleaned and how much cum is on this fabric.

Knowing that I have about another minute, I pull out my phone and text Bishop outside.

Me: Be ready. This won’t take long.

Bishop: A little confident, aren’t we?

Me: Never had any problems before.

Bishop: Mhm, you have a problem living in your house right now.

This motherfucker.

It’s apparent that everyone—Mills, Bish-fuck, and Emmy—have noticed that Stormi is pissed at me. And I’ve been acting like a bitch because I don’t come up to the house anymore to see the disappointment in her eyes. Not until I know she’s asleep or in her room anyway.

Me: Worry about yourself, dick wipe.

Me: And don’t be an asshole Uber driver either.

Me: Matter of fact, don’t talk at all.

The door to the room opens, displaying a now somewhat dressed Bianca in a matching green bra and a crooked smile. Her eyes trail down the length of me and lands on my crotch through parted legs before stepping inside and closing it.

Apparently, she likes what she sees.

“Hi,” she greets, biting on her lower lip. “Are you the man that wanted me to meet with him?”

I compel myself to keep any scowls or glares off my face and remain seated, wanting to jump off this couch and slam her head into the small table in front of me. “I am.”

She doesn’t hide her assessment of me, rounding the only object in between us and sits on it. “What can I do for you?”

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