Page 3 of Resist
“No. I just don’t come here for the ‘boy next door’. I come here for big, bad, mean, and sexy.”
Chrissy cracked up laughing and nudged her sister’s arm. “You’re so dirty. Wait till I tell Mum.”
“Ha! Who do you think I got my dirtiness from?”
Both girls laughed and made gagging noises.
“So,” Amanda said, turning toward me. “Who’s your favourite?”
I shook my head, uncrossed my arms, and smoothed down my white, silk blouse. “Oh, I don’t have one.”
“Of course you do. Everybody has one.”
“Not me.”
“Why not?”
“Because a mother doesn’t have a favourite child.”
Chrissy’s jaw fell open. “You’re their mum?”
“Noooo, stupid, of course she’s not.” Amanda pointed at me then drew her finger up and down my body. “Look at her … does she look like their mum?”
Chrissy shook her head. “Nooooo. You don’t look like anyone’s mum.”
I laughed at the compliment, my blushing cheeks, modest. Little did they know I was someone’s mum. “Good,” I said, pushing off from the basin. “I should hope I don’t look like their mum because I’m not. I am, however, the owner of Wild Nights Revue, so, technically, I can’t have a favourite.”
“Ohhh.” Both girls nodded, sympathetically.
“But if I could,” I added, my voice low and secretive. “I’d pick the ‘boy next door’.” Winking, I walked to the bathroom door and opened it. “Have a great night, ladies.”
As I stepped into the dimly lit hallway that led to the dining room set up for the guys’ performance, I took note of the young women lining up to use the restroom, some wearing t-shirts that read ‘I’m up for a Wild Night’, ‘Bad to the Bone’, and ‘Whisper to me, Josh’, and it suddenly dawned on me that these naïve, innocent girls were fantasising about the wrong type of hero. Bad boys weren’t all they were cracked up to be.Realbad boys broke your heart and lived up to their name.
I should know because I’d experienced arealbad boy before, and there was absolutely nothing sexy about it.
* * *
The darkenedroom buzzed withhushed excitement, and although I couldn’t see the eager elation on the crowd’s faces through the shadows surrounding me, I could definitely feel it. The anticipation was palpable; on my skin, in my veins, right to the very tips of my fingers, one of which was clamped between my teeth, no doubt indenting my perfectly manicured nail polish.
The stage lights flashed on and swirled over the stage like fireflies playing a game of chasey, inciting squeals and wolf whistles from the audience that could no longer be held back. This was the part of the show I loved most: the build-up, the tease … the promise of something extraordinary.
When I’d decided to buy Wild Nights, I’d spent months assessing my product: what it offered and what it didn’t, what it lacked and what could improve. Like any investment, the promise of return had to be sound. But what excited me most was how much this particular investment could yield with my foresight and strong desire for market research. My product — my revue — was hot property. It was the temptation of sex. The potential was limitless.
Standing with my back to the wall a few metres left and front of the stage, I rested my iPad against my chest and took note of the audience as the lights darted around the room, illuminating person after person — almost all women — as they sat around large circular tables. Some women bounced in their seats, some chinked wine glasses, and some even covered their eyes. Yet every single one of them clapped and cheered, and they did it with the biggest of smiles because they knew what was to come, having been groomed in one way or another.
Their expectations had to be delivered, of course, or the lead up was nothing short of false advertising. So what I wanted to improve with my first implementation as owner was to heighten that expectation with the unexpected. I wanted to give my customers something they craved but didn’t know they’d receive. Kinda like a multiple orgasm. And to successfully achieve that, I first needed to arm myself with every detail of every aspect of the revue, starting with its performers.
Startling just slightly when the unapologetic sound of an electric guitar pierced the air, followed by the shrill of Axel Rose’s infamous cry when “Welcome to The Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses blasted from the speakers, the spotlights stopped dancing on the crowd and held still on the five figures on stage: Matt, Josh, Brad, Noah, and Lucas, each of them dressed in fluorescent construction worker vests, hard hats, and jeans, their heads bowed, their bodies perfectly still.
I’d seen video upon video of the opening act of Wild Nights Revue but had not, until now, felt the intensity and adrenaline coursing through my body that seeing them in the flesh could only manifest.
Removing my finger from between my teeth, I pushed my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose, smiled and then tipped my iPad away from my chest and tapped my One Note app, opening the folder tab on Matt, the leader of the group. My notes read:aged twenty-nine, engaged, eldest of four children, and an original member of Wild Nights Revue.
I glanced back at the stage over the rim of my frames and narrowed my eyes on his towering figure, the spotlight illuminating his face when he lifted his head and removed his hard hat. Matt ran his hand ever so slowly over his dark brown, closely-shaved-to-his-head hair. It was a sultry move, accentuated by his chocolate-coloured eyes that deviously roamed his audience as his body waved to the music, his flawless, unmarked skin glistening. Matt’s perfectly timed moves, appreciative smiles to the crowd, and how he seemed to flow across the stage without so much as a single thought, spoke of maturity, professionalism, and leadership. He was clearly seasoned and fluent, and I liked his confidence.
But perhaps he was too seasoned, too comfortable. Perhaps, I could add a little more spice to his status.
Scribbling the word vanilla with a question mark next to his notes with my stylus pen, I moved to the next tab: Josh.Aged twenty-six, an only child, in a relationship (it’s complicated) with the revue’s photographer, Corinne, and having a reputation for fuckery — both on stage and off.His profile both excited me and raised red flags.
