Plan B (17 page)

T
HE
Scarlet Romeo was packed when I arrived. I had to pull into a lot two blocks from the club and walk, but not even that little inconvenience could darken my mood. I was walking on cloud nine.

“ID.”

I handed the bouncer my shiny new driver’s license the state sent me for my special day. When you’re under twenty-one, the ID reads the long way, but when you become of legal age, you get the big boy card.

He looked up at me and back down at the card. There was no mistaking that sexy hair, it was definitely me. He handed me back the license and smiled. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Marshal. Enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I plan on it.” I shoved the card in my back pocket. “And thanks.” I winked at him as he held the rope back, allowing me to enter the club.

The décor in the club looked how I imagine a showgirl’s dressing room would look like—feather boas, sparkly accents, and drapes of billowy chiffon in soft pinks. On either side of the stage, go-go boys were up on Greek stone pedestals, dressed in white pirate shirts tied to show off their muscular stomachs, black G-strings and knee-high boots. The small tables that were scattered around the dance floor had adorable vanity chairs with scrolling ironwork and hot-pink, padded cushions.

I made my way to the bar, weaving in and out of the crowds, hands landing on my ass, eyes wandering down my body, one dude bold enough to press his palm against my crotch when I tried to squeeze between him and his friend.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Buy you a drink?”

My eyes roamed down his body appreciatively. His T-shirt stretched tight across bulging pecs, leading the eye down to his thin waist and impressive bulge straining against the front of his jeans. When my gaze moved up to his, the look in his brown eyes was a blatant invitation to look all I wanted, touch if I had the mind to. And I did have mind to. No sense burning any bridges—I may need to climb back across this one. I ran my finger down his chest from breastbone to navel and said seductively, “I’m meeting a friend. Maybe later.”

I moved on, the crowd swallowing me up before I could hear his response. I made it to the bar, my body vibrating with the raw sexual scent in the air. I’d been pressed against, touched, propositioned, and fondled enough that by the time I squeezed into a stool, I had to adjust my growing arousal. I ordered a Miller Lite on tap, figuring I’d start out slow and work my way up to the stronger stuff.

I sipped at my beer, turning the stool to check out the activities around me. The blaring techno music beat in time to the flashing disco balls that hung from the ceiling. There was a nice mix among the partygoers—everyone was represented, including glamorous drag queens, young college frat boys, twinks, bears, leather daddies, men in business suits, and still others in everyday jeans and T. It was like a smorgasbord of carnal delights and I was starving.

I turned my head to the right and spotted a server in black spiked heels attached to long shapely legs, tiny little ruffled denim skirt that was high enough to show a perfectly sculpted ass, and white fishnet shirt. What grabbed my attention was that ass. I would recognize that perfect butt wiggle anywhere. Bran set down a round of drinks at one of the tables, bending at the waist, putting that awe-inspiring backside on display.

He and I had talked a couple of times earlier in the week and shared numerous text messages. He was expecting me tonight and planned to introduce me to his friends. Bran was in a relationship with an author who was big and beefy. Rick looked more like a bodybuilder or physical trainer rather than a gay romance novelist, but like Bran had said, he would have been an idiot to pass up that combination of brains and brawn. While Bran may not have been available, he knew plenty of men who were single and looking for the same kind of uncomplicated relationship I was.

I knew the moment Bran spotted me; his smile grew and he practically ran in those stripper heels to give me my first lipstick mark of the night.

“You made it. Oh. My. God. You look stunning!”

“Nowhere near as fabulous as you look. The minute I saw you walk, I knew you could work a pair of stilettos like no one’s business.”

Bran lifted one leg and did a little graceful kick, showing off his shoes. “It’s all in the size thirteens, baby.” His voice was singsong and teasing.

“Thirteen?” I parroted. I fanned myself and gave him a saucy grin. “That man of yours is very, very lucky if the old wives’ tales are true.”

“They are, and he is.” Bran winked at me and I snickered. “I gotta grab this next round for table six, but I’ll be back.”

“Take your time. I think I may go play on the dance floor for a bit before the show starts.”

“Okay. I have a break coming in about thirty minutes, so go play, mingle, and then I’ll introduce you to some of the other boys and girls.” Bran leaned over and gave me a mock peck on the cheek, then strutted off to work the crowd.

I lifted my mug and took long pulls as I watched the bodies swaying on the dance floor to the upbeat music. I was itching to join them, so many men grinding and thrusting sent a buzz of arousal through me. I shifted on my stool—my jeans suddenly felt too tight, as did my skin. I downed the last of my beer, set the mug aside, and headed for the dance floor.

The lighted dance floor flashed an array of colors in time to the bass-heavy techno music, the occupants causing it to vibrate with their movements. I stepped on to it and it was like heaven beneath my feet. The air was thicker here, the smell of musk, sweat, and arousal palpable. I inhaled the enticing scent deeply, taking it in to me and let the crowd take me.

As I mentioned, I have two left feet and can’t dance for shit. However, standing in the center of a crowded dance floor, bodies packed tightly together, barely enough room to do more than sway as hands roamed over bodies, it was more like foreplay than dancing. I’m really good at foreplay.

I closed my eyes as the music filled me, raised my hands over my head, and gyrated to the beat. Foreign hands roamed down my back; my flesh tingled in response to the touch, which moved downward to cup and massage my ass. More fingertips brushed along my jaw, tracing the tendons down the side of my neck. Still others caressed my chest, stomach, and groin until I became part of the rhythm. I was the music, no longer one physical body, but part of the flowing melody of arms, legs, and torsos.

The song ended, a hush falling over the club. I opened my eyes and my breath caught when I found steel-gray eyes staring at me from within the crowd. The stage lights came on and the crowd shifted and they were gone. It was only a split second, but I could have sworn Lance had been there. I knew it was ridiculous, but…. I brushed off the eerie feeling and moved with the mob off the lighted floor as a husky and sensual voice flowed from the speakers. “Good evening, boys and girls. Welcome to Scarlet Romeo.”

S
WEAT
trickled down my spine, my legs a little shaky as I moved away from the dance floor. I spotted Bran waving me over to a table. He was sitting on the lap of a large man with wavy dark brown hair and trimmed beard. I recognized him from the pictures Bran had sent me of him and his boyfriend, Rick.

Bran motioned toward the chair next to him. “Sit! I ordered you a beer.”

I gratefully took the chair and the offered beer. “You’re a lifesaver.” I took a long pull from the brew, the cold liquid easing my dry throat.

“Everyone, this is Danny.” I shook the hand Rick offered me as we both greeted each other. Bran then pointed to a broad-shouldered man with chestnut hair, his emerald T-shirt matched the green of his eyes. “That’s Kegan.” Kegan raised his glass in a salute toward me and smiled. I waved back. Bran then leaned close and said quietly for my ears only, “He’s single, twenty-eight, hell of a nice guy, and total power bottom.”

I covered my mouth discreetly with my hand and said, “Sign me up for one of those.”

Bran gave me a saucy look and nodded. He then pointed to the final member of the group, a gorgeous specimen of All-American USDA choice farm boy. “That’s Drake.”

Drake smiled, showing off perfectly straight white teeth, the hunger in his hazel eyes unmistakable, and I squirmed in my seat as he held me in his sights. I couldn’t break away from his mesmerizing stare, even when Bran leaned over and whispered. “Single, twenty-five, and don’t let those boy-next-door looks fool you. He’s an aggressive, kinky toppy top, but trust me, those sore muscles and bruises come morning are so fucking worth it.”

As if Drake knew what Bran was saying, he winked, an amused, self-assured smile curling his lips. I swallowed hard, a jolt of lust hitting me dead center in the chest and racing south.

“Oh dear God. I’ll take a helping of that too.”

Bran chuckled and gave me a challenging look. “You wouldn’t survive a night with the both of them.”

The crowd around us went crazy. Catcalls, applause, and whistles so loud they drowned out the music, making any response I said out loud impossible to hear, but I still mouthed, “What a way to go.” I took another big gulp from my beer and turned toward the stage. If the two men Bran had chosen to sit at the table with us were any indication how hot the night was going to be, I was in for a scorcher.

A tall and slender drag queen with chocolate-brown skin and a mass of wild black curls slinked across the stage. Her hips moved to the music as she worked the stage; the white, sequined material of her slinky dress caught the light and made the fabric come alive with sparkling color.

The Donna Summer lookalike did an impressive lip-synced version of “Hot Stuff,” working the crowd up into a frenzy each time the phrase
“Lookin’ for some hot stuff, baby, this evenin’”
came through the speakers. Men screamed “Me!” along with other more lewd suggestion on what they’d give her that evening. It was all in good fun and I was having a ball.

After Donna stepped off the stage, Bran had to go back to work, but sent over what would be the first of many rounds of beer and shots of tequila for the four of us remaining. I clapped and drank through a spicy and sexy Gloria Estefan impersonator doing “Turn the Beat Around,” and after that a spectacular rendition of “The Shoop Shoop Song” by the most stunning Cher—including the diva herself—that I’d ever seen.

As the applause died down after the last performer, a debonair-looking gentleman with salt-and-pepper gray hair and a black tux made his way to the center of the stage. I eyed the shot of tequila sitting in front of me, debating whether I should throw it back or not. My head was already swimming a little and I couldn’t stop giggling, a sure sign that I had moved past tipsy and was racing toward sloppy drunk. I decided against another shot. I needed to pace myself and gave my attention back to the gentleman on the stage.

“This next lady really needs no introduction,” the MC crooned into the microphone. “But I will give her one anyway.” He nodded to someone to the right of the stage before continuing, but his speech was lost on me when the two go-go boys I’d seen dancing on pedestals earlier came and stood on either side of me.

“Danny,” the one standing on my right said, and held out his hand. “Would you come with us, please.”

I shot a look to my companions in confusion, but the three of them were all smiles and waved me on. I shrugged. “What the hell.” As long as they didn’t expect me to show off any fancy dance moves or do too much spinning, I was game.

I placed my hand in Sexy Go-Go Boy Number One’s hand and allowed him to help me to my feet. I swayed a little as the room spun and gripped his hand tighter to steady myself. Go-Go Boy Number Two, bless his heart, hooked his arm in mine, and the two of them led me to a chair that had been set in the center of the dance floor facing the stage.

“Thank you, boys,” I slurred as they guided me to sit. They then each leaned down, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and wished me a happy birthday. I thanked them by patting each of their tight little buns as they moved back toward the stage. The crowd around me went nuts, screaming, and clapping. I looked up to see the source of their frenzied applause. Stepping out onto the stage in a calf-length, snow-white fur coat, six-inch white stiletto heels, and a head full of platinum blonde waves was none other than Marilyn Monroe—I mean, Marilyn Mon’Rod—herself.

She stepped up to the microphone, clutching her coat to her chest, a sensual smile curling her bright red-painted lips. When she sighed huskily into the mic and dropped her coat to expose the white halter dress with classic flowing pleats, the crowd went wild again. I gotta say, the cleavage on Marilyn Mon’Rod was as impressive as her long shapely legs. But to my astonishment, she went one better and began to sing. Not lip-syncing like the other performers relied on, but actually singing, and her voice was beautiful as she began to belt out “Happy Birthday, Mr. Marshal.”

Marilyn never took her eyes from me as she slithered and pranced across the stage to the stairs, where Go-Go Dancer One and Go-Go Dancer Two held out their hands to help her gracefully swish and sway down each step.

I was held captivated by the glamorous and sexy vixen as she made her way to me, singing a cappella. Not a single noise from the club interrupted her, not the clink of ice in a glass, a cough, nothing while the entire club was held under her spell, and lucky me, she was heading my way.