Page 3 of Brushed and Buried
“Staying?” I arch a brow, suddenly thinking it might be best for these guys to actually have the experience they paid for. “I would think you guys want proper fun tonight. We could ask Holly, the other stripper, to switch with me now so I don’t waste all the oil and muscles I have to put on underneath this cop uniform for the show.”
“Nah, stay!” Trevor waves me in like I’ve just been knighted. “C’mon, you down a beer, spill the wildest stripper stories you’ve got, then bail when you’ve had enough. I’m not letting my best accidental entertainment walk out the door.”
Finally, George rumbles, voice deep enough to vibrate the walls. “Becca must be busy with her own entertainment now. She’ll most likely want Holly to stick around too. She won’t care. She and Trev’s got…an arrangement.”
Trevor beams like that settles it. “Exactly. She’s fine. She’ll have her fun, and I’ll have mine. And mate, what are the odds?” His words start to slur slightly at the edges, tequila catching up with enthusiasm. “Fate delivers a very male stripper cop to ourdoor, and you think I’m letting you walk? Sit your ass down, you’re staying. Groom’s orders.”
Vince shifts like he’s about to cut in, his mouth parting and shoulders tense, but Lance beats him to it, clinking his beer against the coffee table with more force than necessary. “The groom has spoken. Case closed. Jury dismissed. You’re ours for the night, Officer Tightpants.”
Vince just goes still, all that restless energy bottling up in silence.
I flash a sharp smile, though every cell in my body wants to bolt. “Fate, huh? Fine. But if this is divine intervention, then divinity better cough up a damn tip jar. I don’t come cheap.”
I double down, expression sharp enough to cut glass. “Gentlemen, let’s get one thing straight. Tonight, I am the entertainment. Dollars, beers, bad pickup lines…it doesn’t matter what currency you’re paying in. I’ve danced through worse lighting, shabbier carpets, and pants so tight they violated OSHA. Trust me, you’re getting the deluxe experience.”
Lance nearly spills his beer, wheezing as he points at me. “Oh my god, I like him. You’re our emotional support stripper cop.”
The whole room just erupts. Trevor doubled over, Lance clutching his chest, even George shaking his head like he can’t believe this is happening.
And me? I stand there in shiny polyester and knockoff boots, trying not to laugh at how absurd this is. I’ve been heckled by bridesmaids, dodged flying glitter, and even survived “SweetCaroline” sung off-key at max volume. But standing here, stone sober, with three strangers and him in the corner watching, it feels like a new battlefield.
And damned if I’m going to lose ground.
Two drinks later, the room has shifted. Trevor’s halfway horizontal on the couch, sash almost falling, hair mussed as he gestures wildly with his beer bottle. His laughter comes easier now, looser, the words bleeding into each other. Lance is practically at my feet, eyes wide as if I’m Netflix and HBO combined. George watches like he’s the designated driver of life, keeping tabs so no one burns the place down.
Vince hasn’t touched his drink much or said a word. But every time I shift, I feel his gaze rake across me.
“So, like,” Lance slurs, chin propped on his palm, “do you guys do routines? Like…Magic Mike?”
I brush some imaginary lint off my shoulder and cock a brow, appearing unimpressed. “Sweetheart,Magic Mikeis community theater compared to what I can do.”
Trevor laughs, nearly choking on his beer.
Lance leans forward, eyes bright like he’s about to solve world peace. “Okay, but, like, real talk. Does stripping actually ever end in sex in your experience?”
George groans, and Trevor looks as if the question sobered him up. I just click the handcuffs open and closed, sharp little beats to buy myself a second. In my experience? The truth? No. I’ve danced on chairs, grinded to bad remixes, and let flower crown-wearing women stick dollar bills in my waistband, and I haven’t crossed that line yet.
But Vince Holloway is standing five feet away, unreadable as stone, and I can feel his gaze on me like a hand at the back of my neck. If he’s waiting for me to fold, he’s going to be waiting all night. For some reason, I don’t want him to think I am small, paralyzed by all these memories flooding back from when we were in high school. I want him to see I’ve become more than just a boy he pretended he didn’t know at all.
I flash a practiced smile, lean in just enough to sell it. “Stripping’s a job, Lance. People pay their bills this way. You put on a show, you make the crowd laugh, and give them a night to remember. That’s the gig. Officially, it stops at the dance.” I shrug, let the pause hang. “But unofficially? Sometimes the line gets blurry. Alcohol, bad decisions, big egos, and suddenly, people want more. And if everyone’s into it…” I drop my voice, smooth and practiced, like I’ve done this lecture a hundred times. “Let’s just say bachelorettes aren’t the only ones who get ideas. I’ve had groomsmen test their luck. I even did a bachelor party once that got…experimental.”
Trevor’s eyes widen. Lance’s breath hitches. George raises his brows likedamn.And Vince. Vince doesn’t move a muscle, but I feel his gaze heavy as gravity.
I keep the act rolling. “A couple of gigs went beyond just a lap dance. One bachelorette party turned into a free-for-all. Glitter, vodka, bodies everywhere.” I smirk. “A couple of groomsmen who thought they were starring in their own porno. You learn to pace yourself if you want to get through the night.”
They don’t laugh this time, not really. Trevor whistles low, shaking his head like I’ve just confessed to being a rock star. George raises his brows, impressed in spite of himself. And Lance, god, Lance stares at me like I’ve just handed him the secrets of the universe, envy written all over his face.
“You lucky bastard,” he mutters. “Maybe I’m in the wrong profession.”
I keep the smirk glued on, like it’s part of the act. Because inside? My stomach twists. Bachelorette parties, sure. Grinding to “Pony” by Ginuwine in hotel rooms with sticky floors and sash-wearing women, absolutely. But the closest I’ve come to crossing that line was one bachelor party where the groom slurred about anal like it was an Olympic sport.
They don’t need the truth tonight. Especially not with Vince in the room watching my every move, waiting for me to slip up, or to show some crack in the armor. If I’m going to stand in this room wearing knockoff boots and a crooked badge, if I’m going to face the boy who stood me up at prom while he’s becomesome NFL golden boy, then I’m damn well going to own every second of it. Later, maybe, when the costume’s off, when the act doesn’t matter, when I can admit I’m just a new stripper who only signed up because Holly swore it would be “easy money” and “fun as hell.” For now, they get the show.
Lance, predictably, leans forward, eyes gleaming with the curiosity of a kid at sex-ed who actually wants answers. “Okay, but then, how does it work with you? Like…logistically, as a…”
I stare at him, waiting for him to finish. Then it clicks. “You mean as a gay man?”
Lance nods so hard I think his head might fall off.
