Page 4 of Resist
When Googling the revue for the first time during my acquisition research, Josh’s offstage antics unveiled quite a few disturbing headlines:Male Stripper Takes Home More Than Just Cash, A Lover or a Fighter? Nude or Rude?He was a publicist’s nightmare and, yet, the revue’s biggest drawcard.
“Grind those baby-making hips, Joshy,” a woman screamed from the table directly to my right. She drummed her hands on the linen tablecloth then barked like a dog.
I smirked despite her highly undignified behaviour, and that was because it was perfectly appropriate, as she represented yet another demographic of customer the revue loved to cater toward — horny, hungry, middle-aged mums desperate for a night of freedom.
Focusing my attention back to Josh, he dry-humped the stage, his actions filthy and sensual, dirty and delightful. It was what he did best, and it ticked my boxes. It also made me think things a boss shouldn’t think, which wasn’t necessarily bad; it meant he was doing his job.
Josh sprung up from the ground, stepped to the front of the stage and ripped his construction worker vest from his body like an enraged movie superhero. Tribal-inspired tattoos travelled his biceps and chest, the area vast considering his size — the man was a beast.
“Take it off,” a woman hollered, followed by another, “Yes, take it all off.”
Josh was the biggest of all five guys, his presence on stage unmistakable. He spoke ‘beware: dark and dangerous’ but with a side of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, because the man could dance. He was by far the best dancer we had.
Arrogance rolled from him in waves as he thrust his hips, hitting every musical note with perfect precision. He owned the stage, owned the props and, taking a quick scan of the rows of screaming women all around me, he appeared to own most of them as well.
Josh was my star performer. Trouble with a capital T, but definitely a star.
Tapping Brad and Noah’s tabs, I opened them simultaneously, setting their profiles side-by-side. Both were identical in appearance, metaphorical sons of Apollo: sun-kissed, long golden-haired surf gods. Both had similar tattoos on their biceps, and speaking of their biceps, those boys’ guns could easily be mounted on an armoured tank to ward off enemies.
They were very impressive and near parched my bicep-loving mouth.
Although both men were visually hard to differentiate, their personalities, both on stage and off, couldn’t be farther apart. From the research I’d gathered, Brad seemed to float, never leading never last in line. He was somewhat aloof but always there when needed: reliable and loyal. Noah, on the other hand, could be seen as Josh’s protégé: uncensored and with a mouth that could do with a bar of soap.
Watching the twins on stage was, without a doubt, sheer joy, because it wasn’t often in life that you were blessed with two homogeneous, sexy, talented performers; the perfect package deal … two peas in a lusty pod. They were my golden duet, and I knew I had my work cut out for me to successfully keep them both viable for as long as possible, because if for whatever reason one left the revue, it would be disastrous.
Swallowing heavily, I clamped my bottom lip with my teeth when one of them swung a sledgehammer over his shoulder and stroked the handle, slow and seductive. I wasn’t certain which twin it was, but my guess leaned toward Brad, his moves slightly sharper than Noah’s, not as dirty but noticeably more refined.
He singled out one woman in the crowd and blew her a kiss. She squealed, and I couldn’t blame her. Brad was drenched in sex appeal, scorchin’ hot on the outside, soft and sweet within, and according to Patsy — my extremely colourful and openly gay revue manager — he was now dating Corinne’s best friend, Emily.
I wasn’t yet sure how I felt about the boys ‘dating.’ Relationships in this industry often lead to a fiery blaze of jealousy and betrayal, and that type of inferno was definitely one I was hellbent on avoiding. I was, however, a strong advocate of keeping business and pleasure separate — absolutely no fucking around with the customer. So I couldn’t exactly ignore nor dissuade their attempts to successfully maintain loyal, loving partnerships. I guess it was possible despite the odds stacked against them.
Shifting my eyes to Lucas, now standing front and centre stage, his measuring tape extended to mimic an erect cock, I tapped my stylus pen on my lips as he thrust his hips with an endearing, cheeky grin. He was the lead in the opening act, which I thought was a big mistake, a mistake I would be haste in rectifying. The show needed to start strong, nothing less. And that wasn’t to say Lucas’s presence on stage was weak, because it wasn’t. He had an intriguing magnetism, a Mr Nice Guy that could potentially turn rogue, and I wanted to utilise that. Emphasise it. He was an underdog and our weakest link, which was why the opening act needed to be better.
Lucasneeded to be better.
I didn’t want to change his ‘boy next door’ persona. I liked it, a lot. It suited him. But I sensed potential for more. More intrigue. More suspense. More eroticism. And after witnessing what I did in the stairwell, with my help, he would soon become the boy next door with a dirty surprise.
Oh, yes, I had plans for Lucas.
Big plans.
You are Helena Smerdon. Youare wealthy, powerful, confident and headstrong. You are the owner of Wild Nights Revue. You’re the boss. Act like it. Show no weakness.
The creak of an opening door snapped me from my silent pep talk, and I looked up from where I stood, leaning against the edge of the stage, and wondering for a split second whether or not I should stand entirely and elevate my already towering height to punctuate my status.
“I’m sure it won’t take long, Josh,” a blonde female said as she entered the room, stepping under Josh’s extended arm, which held the door open. “So stop complaining.”
“Tired, he is. Beauty sleep, he needs,” one of the twins interjected as, he too, tried to step under Josh’s arm.
Josh shoved him back in a piss-off playful manner and let the door fall against his shoulder. Deep chuckles filled the room as the members of my revue spilled into the empty dining hall where they’d not long finished performing, many sets of curious eyes finding mine as they made their way closer to where I was standing.
I acknowledged their interest with a single nod and gestured they sit at the tables in front of me. “Please, take a seat.”
“Legs eleven,” the backward-talking twin murmured behind his hand, his eyes lingering unnecessarily on my pins.
I raised an eyebrow and responded with, “BINGO!”
Corinne — I assumed from the camera bag hanging off her shoulder — smiled and stifled a laugh as she sat down while Josh grunted and leaned on the back of her seat.
