Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (17 page)

“Hey, disco-boy,” Madison says. “The girls do the dancing, and we watch.”

“Oh, sorry.” My embarrassing performance comes to a sharp halt.

She latches on and hauls me deeper into the club. While pushing through the rambunctious crowd, we pass the stage where the exotic girls perform. Wow! Look at that! The girl is gorgeous, and even better—completely naked. I’m going to like this place. Her breasts are very large, but something is wrong. They don’t seem to hang any, rather poke straight out, like someone took a mammoth cantaloupe, sliced the thing in two, and pasted each half to her chest.

In a secluded corner, we settle into a cozy table. After a few moments, a waitress arrives.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Whiskey and soda for me,” Madison says. “And for him, a shot of the same.”

A shot? I can’t say anything, not with the waitress staring at me. She won’t serve either of us after my tongue falls out and wiggles across the table looking for some words.

“A shot of what?” the waitress asks. “Whiskey, or soda?”

“Whiskey,” Madison says, and glances at me, then back to the waitress. “What? He’s okay, he’s a marshmallow. He won’t cause any trouble.”

The waitress studies my face like something is wrong with it. “Well maybe, but . . .”

“But what?” Madison asks.

The waitress points to my mouth. “Look at him, he’s got permagrin. If he smiles any bigger, his head’s gonna crack open.”

They both laugh. Ha-ha, very funny.

“So what, I’m just happy. I’m having loads of fun, so I smile big.”

That didn’t go so bad. Seems the beer cells—I mean, brain cells—that control speech, yeah, that’s it, they aren’t too far gone, not yet.

“Okay, I’ll serve him,” the waitress says. “But keep an eye on Mister Happy and his load of fun.” She glares one last time—a warning shot—and wanders off.

Madison gazes at me with her lovely inquisitive expression. “What are you so happy about?”

Hmm, what’s a good answer?

“Life?”

One word replies are good. In this condition, forming complete sentences is a chore.

She smiles. “Life, eh? So you’re liking it.”

“Yes.”

See, I can do it. One word at a time.

“So tell me, Mister Happy, what are you liking about it? What’s making you smile so much?”

How can I answer that in just one word?

“You,” comes flying out of my mouth.

Or I could have said
beer,
the real reason I can’t stop grinning. But my first choice was better, seeing how it gave Madison a glowing smile.

“Oh, Adam, you’re so charming. I love you.” She forms an expression that may lead to crying, not of sorrow, but of joy. She is so beautiful, even when she tears up. She deserves more than one word at a time.

“I love you too.”

What did I say? I did, I said it,
it’s true,
but it’s okay. More drinks tearing down the barriers that hold our emotions hostage.

A tear slips down her cheek, and her mouth scrunches into a tiny smile. The size does not reduce its significance, her smile is full of love, for me, for us, our being together.

The waitress returns with our drinks. Madison wipes her tear and gets a new smile, not so tiny. She raises her glass high. “Cheers!” She extends her arm, casting the beverage away. Is something wrong with it? She hasn’t even tried it yet. And what is cheers? Next she says, “Drink up.” Oh, I get that, put it
up.
When I raise my small glass, she smacks hers into mine, then adds more nonsense. “Bottoms up, down the hatch.” She brings it to her lips and flings her head back, taking the load in one swallow. Maybe I’ll follow, but I don’t follow this lingo. What hatch? We’re nowhere near the ship.

I tilt my tiny glass and down the contents in one swift gulp. Yow! It burns, almost. Not really, just that it might somehow. A cool liquid, but it warms my chest.

Now hold on—I know what she was doing.
A toast.
A ceremonial embrace of glasses and the following consumption of the beverages contained therein. Huh? Good thing I didn’t try saying that, tough enough just thinking it. A toast, sure, and I’ve had whiskey before, but why didn’t I remember until after the fact? Familiar situations emerge, yet they appear foreign until past, then it’s all perfectly clear—similar events have occurred before. The drinks are having a strange effect. An occluded past knocks at the door, and forces its way in, but without regard for which memories are trivial, and which are of deadly importance.

Madison says, “Let’s sit at the rack. I want a better look.”

Huh? Oh, the rack, I know that one—the area around the stage where us sleazy men can sit close and see all the details. Sure, I know all about the rack, I’ve seen that before. Yeah, it’s all coming back, thanks to that head-whirling whiskey. Maybe I’ll have another.

* * *

We slip into seats at the rack. The other sleazy men gathered at the stage notice Madison, and they smile. Apparently any female, on stage or off, gets the attention of these perverts.

A different girl now performs, quite delicious, though a contrast to the last—this one has titties. That’s the thing about breasts. When they’re really big they’re called boobs, knockers, maybe even jugs, while the smaller variety are typically referred to as titties, or simply—tits. The dancer’s breasts remind me of Madison, whose are similarly small, but that’s okay, since the real beauty of any breast is the
nipple,
where the mouth finds pleasure tickling the stiff candy with the tongue and teeth, sucking and nibbling, oh what a delightful treat.

Much of the dancer’s physique is similar to Madison. The womanly hips, meaty thighs, and petite though adequate breasts, baring tight, erect nipples. But her skin is fair, a contrast to Madison’s luxurious bronze, and her shorter hair is dirty blonde.

The dancer has moved along the stage, giving each customer a personal show, and now she approaches me and Madison. The dancer wiggles and squirms erotically, nearly touching herself in all the right places, which brings much delight to Madison, who displays a wide grin as she enjoys the dancer’s suggestive performance. The dancer draws extremely close, bringing her luscious breast nearly in contact with Madison’s cheek.

Madison asks, “What’s your name?”

“Emerald. And you?”

“I’m Madison, and this is Adam.”

Emerald smiles. “Hi, Adam. Nice to see you brought your woman along.” She looks at Madison with a sensual gaze nearly equal to one Madison might conjure herself. “She is beautiful,” Emerald says, then reaches out to stroke Madison’s hair. “You’re a lucky guy to have such a beautiful girlfriend.”

Girlfriend? When did she become my girlfriend? Sure, she’s a girl, and my friend, but combined, the term is uncomfortable.

Madison returns the caress, running the back of her hand across Emerald’s cheek. “When do you get off?”

What does she mean? Matt is right, my mind’s in the gutter. I’ve got to stop being such a sleaze, I might get hurt. She means when she gets off work.

Emerald says, “When you touch the right spot.” Her sweet lips curl toward a grin.

Seems everybody’s in the gutter with me. Yep, we’re all gutter trash, doomed to a life of pure pleasure. Love it!

“Then later tonight,” Madison says.

Emerald stops swaying and her eyes light up. “Wow, you’re not one to beat around the bush.”

She say bush? Screw it, being a sleaze is fun, I won’t get hurt.

Madison grins. “Yes and no.”

The song concludes and Emerald collects her tips, the majority of which came from Madison, whose generous offerings lie scattered across the stage. Emerald takes her time scooping up the bills, all the while smiling at Madison. Then she winks, hurries off the stage, and the next girl takes over.

Madison quietly says, “Let’s go back to the table.”

“Why?” I ask, loud and clear.

On stage is the girl who was performing when we first arrived.

“Not here.” Madison yanks me off my seat.

Across the club, we return to our table.

“So why?” I ask. “I thought you liked watching. She looks pretty good.”

“Not all of them, silly. She has fake . . . you know. A gigantic chest doesn’t automatically make a girl sexy.”

“Fake
what?
” I ask, the shock pushing my voice loud enough that curious club-goers look to our table.

Madison pulls me near and speaks privately. “
Breasts,
you ’tard. You know, sacks of goo in her chest. That’s icky. They feel funny.”

How very odd. Why would a woman do that to herself? Well, explains how the melons defy gravity. Is that sexy? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t say no if she asked me to touch them. They’re not that icky.

“Wait here,” Madison says. “I’ll be right back.” She gets up to leave but turns back. “Oh, and if the waitress comes by, order me another drink, and get whatever feels right for you.” She hurries away.

I’m stuck here anyhow, my legs feel like rubber. Sitting will do just fine. Whatever feels right? I don’t know, this drunk thing is difficult, maybe I should take it easy and have a soda. To hell with that, real men drink beer. The waitress stops by and I order another round.

Sitting alone for a spell, I sip my beer and enjoy the band, which continues playing upbeat, energetic tunes. Beer, women, and good music. What more could you ask for? Aw, crap, I just reminded myself again. I could ask to keep all this. Boy, the goons would really have something to say about this joint. Here we have devil worship, certain to be wiped out in the name of social purity.

Madison returns with our new friend in her clutches. “Emerald wants to join us. Okay with you?”

Duh. Like I want her to go away. Why does she even ask?

“Hell yeah!” I announce to the whole place. “Two gorgeous women? What more could you—”

No, I’m not going to say it, I’m not even going to think it. Now’s the time to enjoy life. I’ll have fun tonight, and worry about my problems tomorrow.

I think the beer said that.

* * *

Beer is a funny thing. It has a mind of its own, the beer mind, that overpowers the regular mind. Or is that my own mind being drunk? I can’t tell, and really, don’t care so much. Beer and related beverages have additional effects, obscuring all good sense, leading a person to believe they are invincible. But some drunks believe too much, falling prey to their twisted imagination, and end up doing something really stupid, like standing in front of a speeding truck as though it would simply bounce off of them. That’s not a good drunk. Well, unless it’s a beer truck, that’s different.

Madison calls for my attention, which is flying all over the room about now.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and leaves Emerald at the table.

Now where is she going?

Emerald is a beautiful girl as her name suggests, a brilliant gemstone. But her name is not Emerald. Huh? Where did that come from? That’s the beer talking, right? Emerald, or whatever her name is—stop it! Anyway, she gazes at me and says, “Madison tells me you want to play.”

“Play?” I say, my mouth suddenly operational. “I was thinking more like you and me getting it on animal-style while you go down on Madison.”

I can’t believe it.
Did I just say that out loud?
It’s that fucking beer. Oh hell, it doesn’t matter. She’ll probably be impressed by my sexual confidence, appearing as a
real
man. Did I actually just think that? That’s totally lame.

“Ooo, I like the sound of that,” she says. “So you like me?”

Now what have I gotten myself into? She deserves a reply, but possessed by a demon of blunt sincerity . . .

“Yes, I like you very much,” I say, off to a respectable start. “In fact, I lust to tongue your sweet honey lollipop, and fill you with my creamy delight, over and over, until you’re gushing with ecstasy.”

Don’t tell me that just fell out of my mouth.

Madison returns and slips in cozy next to Emerald. “Have you two gotten to know each other?”

“Oh yes, we have,” Emerald says, gushing already, probably wet between the thighs by now. “He’s awesome. He says all the right things, and he’s so handsome.”

Is she on drugs? Maybe the beer altered what she really said. Yeah, something about a turd pretending to be Prince Charming.

“Then you’re ready to play,” Madison says. “And you, Adam?”

“I should be popping a boner any second now.”

That should do it for today’s quota of colorful references to sex. I’m slipping from reality, which is no longer all that real, more like we’re on a merry-go-round, since the room started spinning. The beer mind may be good at being sleazy, but it’s lousy at focus. Madison now has a twin, and both are tugging on my arm, though they seem to be floating past, and keep leaping back to float past again.

“All righty then,” she says. “Finish your drink. Jerry’s on the way.”

One swift gulp and the beer is gone, followed by a boisterous belch. Boy, they probably thought that was manly. No, they giggled, maybe. Hard to tell, they won’t sit still.

I struggle up and escort my dates, not one, but two women, well, maybe four, could be eight, not quite sure. Anyway, the entire orgy, over to my place to strip naked and . . .

Whoa—the floor doesn’t seem completely flat, rather a bit slanted. This makes it nearly impossible to stand up straight, since every time I do, I immediately fall to one side.

Madison holds tight and guides me toward the exit.

The damn wall leaps out and smacks me!

What’s the deal? Walls don’t usually do that, why now? No fair. The whole place wants to turn round and round.

The waitress approaches as we near the exit. She has a few duplicates following her as well. They all stop to look at me, their every motion synchronized.

I slur, “Hiya, cutie, wanna come too? Orgy over at my place.”

My final lecherous proposal doesn’t seem to work. Maybe I didn’t add the proper smile. Or delivered it to the wrong one, there might be six of her. They all respond, but none of them appears interested in the offer.