Hunte (24 page)

“My grampa told me never to hit girls, or I would.”

Sadie straddled me to inspect my swelling honker. She smelled a little sweaty—clean girl sweat, not like the locker room dick cheese smell of old jockstraps—and like Ivory soap. Her lips were too close to mine.

I shifted, feeling a little strange. Then I shoved her off my lap. My heart beat a million times a minute. I still smelled her girl scent, filling my nose.

“I’m fine,” I said. “But you still suck at basketball.”

In retaliation, Sadie bounced the hard orange ball once against my forehead before dribbling up the court and shooting a three-pointer. “I win. Loser.”

The basketball rolled back toward me, and she skipped out of the fenced enclosure, hitting her ten-speed, and riding away.

She’d always had a thing for bikes. Now—eleven years later—it was dirt bikes. The rip-roaring, heart-pounding, thigh-gripping good times of her Suzuki DRZ 250.

That was the first and last time I’d felt the weird awkwardness around my girl. I made sure nothing like budding teenage hormones came between us again. Not through junior high, puberty, or even when I’d been captain of the Wando High football team. The head Wando Warrior and quarterback, I’d played every game for Sadie while she’d gone the high school Goth routine. Standing on the sidelines, she was always the prettiest with her indigo ocean eyes.

Aaaand
now I took my clothes off for money, and she was an art student at CofC.

She was my buddy. A guy’s girl. I didn’t see her as a woman, but as a friend. Only a friend. Forever.

Riiiiight.

I settled the fedora on my head, slanting it at a rakish angle, and aimed a wolfish grin at the mirror.

Sadie had fallen in with the Ladies of Redemption MC, the sister charter to Retribution, and I’d followed right after her to the brotherhood, just like I always had. I’d heard about the MC’s troubles, and I wasn’t about to let her go in alone. Someone had to look out for her, and I’d appointed myself to that position the first time I’d beaten up Ricky the Rat Face when we were twelve and he’d called her Sadie the Slitch.

When it came to Sadie, there was only one thing she didn’t know about me. The Gentleman’s Quarters.

Then there was the MC. My lifeline. Something that had nothin’ to do with paying bills I was too young to handle, taking care of my grampa like he’d taken care of me.

Those rough road dudes would
not
understand this.

I’d been dancing at the GQ since I turned nineteen. Grampa Dean raised me from cricket to knee-high to manhood in his widower’s cottage. Now, at eighty-four, my grampa needed around the clock supervision. I took care of the daytime but someone had to pay for the night nurse, the prescriptions, the monthly medical bills, and the day-to-day living.

Shake my ass for a few minutes? Grin and bear it? It wasn’t nothing but a thing to make sure Grampa was well cared for.

I sat with him every morning whether my eyes were bloodshot from sheer exhaustion or not. After my shift ended and I’d cleaned up from sweating, gyrating, dancing, I’d head on home, say good day to the nurse, and make Grampa and me a hot breakfast.

“Naw. Y’all got better things to do than waste time over a man’s last dyin’ breaths.” He shuffled into the kitchen and sat at the table. He always made sure to set it for breakfast before turning in at night.

“I’ll be here ’til the end, Grampa. I’m double as stubborn as you and a helluva lot stronger.”

“You so strong, lift that old bottle over there and get me a refresher of bourbon and branch.”

I laughed at that and handed him a cup of black coffee instead, slightly flavored with bourbon. “You can have your one branch and bourbon of the day at precisely four p.m.”

He glared at me with his cloudy eyes then took the cup in his hands. It was only half-full. His hands shook so bad nowadays, I didn’t want to him to get burned if the coffee sloshed over the sides.

He was still a big man despite his years. Well over six feet tall and broad as a Southern pine. Wasn’t anything wrong with him but frailty—a delicate-sounding word for the worrisome burden of old age.

Grampa Dean’s mind was sharp as ever. After he finished his breakfast, he pushed the plate away and tapped his fingers until I placed a sharpened pencil and the daily large print crossword in front of him.

His lips curled up at the sides as he stared at the first clue. “You’ll make someone a good wife someday, son.”

“You old good-for-nothin’ coot,” I slung back.

He crowed with laughter, scribbling in the first crossword answer, holding his wrist steady with his other hand.

I took care of Grampa as best I could and as for Sadie, I hadn’t had to go all big brother over her yet. Just a few fistfights through the years to protect her from the usual jackasses. Nothing I couldn’t handle. For that I was thankful. Even the guys at Retribution had been respectful toward her, so far. It was a good thing, too, because I’d hate to have to pull a knife on a brother.

My so-called other brothers—
“
From a different mutha
”
as Jamal always said—pounded me on my oiled-up back as I headed toward the stage.

“Shake that fuckin’ money-maker.” Jack The Stripper spanked me on the ass, having just finished his dark BDSM routine.

“This one right here?” I riffed, grabbing my junk.

“
Bom chicka wang wang!
” Hiro shouted.

“You need some new material, my friend,” I said.

“And you need less on that big white honky ass.” Jamal reached out to squeeze my rear in both steering-wheel-sized hands.

“It’s called class, J-man. Somethin’ you wouldn’t know about.” I pulled away from his grabby hands, tugging at the seat of my pants.

As soon as I entered the pitch-black stage, their wisecracks drifted away. I was immediately centered. I got into place as my sight adjusted to the dark. Sitting at the desk inside a massive metal cage used only for my routines, I checked the angle of my fedora one last time. Then I dropped my chin down, looking out into the seething sea of women impatiently waiting in the crowded, smoky-lit room beyond the darkened stage. I watched them through lowered eyelids.

As far as strip clubs went, The GQ was upscale. But the deluxe surrounds didn’t fool me. No amount of expensive décor, upholstered seats and sofas, or pricey wine and liquor could disguise the fact ladies came here for one reason and one reason only.

S-E-X.

They wanted to be the center of attention, to feel important, wanted, attractive . . .
hot
by some of the most jaw dropping, eye-popping, impressive men in the lowcountry.

Horny plus honeys plus good booze and a sexy stud equaled
cha-ching
. Cash money.

A shiver of excitement raced through me. The fact I loved this vibe was what made me the best at what I did. I could be whomever I wanted for the length of one song. I was
whoever they wanted me to be.
And that gave me power over my life I had in no other area.

“
Aaaand
next up tonight! The man y’all have been waitin’ for! Showstopper, bed-hopper, babe fucker . . . KINKY KAID!” Micah hollered from his standpoint at the very top of the stage. The answering roar from the sex-rabid women resounded through the room.

“Now, he don’t do full frontal.” Micah’s voice registered low.

“BOOOO!”

“Wanna know why?” he yelled.

“YEAH!”

“Kaid’s cock is too big to cover with his hands. Boy ain’t small, if you know what I mean, and we don’t wanna get busted. Am I right, ladies?” Micah raised his arms, lapping it up.

“HELL YEAH!”

Well, at least Micah the cowboy boot-wearing, chaw-chewing emcee and owner of The Gentleman’s Quarters had one thing right.

He backed away from the stage with a bow, one arm extended behind him.

At that precise moment the lights blazed on, beaming down on me in a white shimmer.

There was no music at first. There didn’t need to be. The women went whole fucking hog wild, shrieking at the top of their lungs.

I sat statue-still behind the desk, the fedora shaded over my face. Continuing to look at them, my lips a firm slash in my face, I slowly splayed my hands on top of the desk I sat behind. Tonight I was a severe businessman, one who wanted to fuck the hell out of his naughty secretary. The suit I wore was jet black, and it wasn’t an off the rack POS either. I’d bought it from that huge Italian tailor downtown everyone seemed to know, Frankie Burelli. It had thin gray pinstripes and a few extra modifications. Cost a mint, but it was an investment in my career.

Music grinded from the high-end music system. Tove Lo’s sexy, raunchy “Talking Body” began. The chicks fucking loved it, so I was gonna work it hard.

Still I sat poised, waiting for the ladies to grow quiet. One by one, a hush circled through the throng. They stared at me and me alone.

When I was their sole focus and the music really kicked in, I stood and knocked the chair away, rounding the desk, face hidden, features stern.

“OH MY GOD!!!” A blonde woman screamed, standing right at the front with her nose pressed against my cage.

I pointed at her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth with a second squeal.

Loosening my tie, I slid the pale gray silk length from around my neck. Keeping my eyes locked on the middle-aged screamer, I ran the tie between my legs, up to my groin, and rode it back and forth between my legs. You didn’t need sex-ray vision to get a solid view of my balls and cock as the tie pushed my package up and out.

The woman fanned herself once then fell back into a heap of arms.

She might’ve fainted.

The rest of the chicks were foaming-at-the-mouth frenzied.

Job well done.

I whipped off the belt with a loud
SMACK
against the stage from side to side as I moved forward to the rhythm of the song.

GASPS, EVERYWHERE.

I slapped the belt against the shiny steel bars of the cage before I flung it aside.

Turning away, I hooked one shoulder out of the suit jacket then the other. Rolling my body in a sinuous rhythm, I dropped the jacket. The muscles in my arms pulled at the seams of the bright white shirt. I turned my head to the side and bit my bottom lip with a wink.

Ate. That. Shit. Up.

Dancing across the floor, I released the tails of the shirt from my tight pants. Making eye contact with one squeeing, flushed woman after another, I popped button after button down the front of my dress shirt. It rippled open. I flicked the cuffs apart, waiting for several beats of the music before letting it fall to the floor in a snowy pool of fabric.

My first fainter was not long alone.

Grooving to the desk, I stood directly in front of it, my back to the howling audience. Muscles fanning all along my back, I hooked my fingers into the waist of the fitted black pants. My tat showed, and I heard more than a few women swear in loud voices. The tattoo wrapped from my shoulder blades along my sides before curving inward to my ass. Twin cobras in black ink hissed at each other across the top of my spine then snaked to my lats. Their tails disappeared inside my pants, the ink elongating onto my left ass cheek and down to my thigh.

The women
hissed
with one giant intake of breath when I swiveled around to face them.

I flicked the button at my waist, bunching all my muscles.

They waited for me to rip off the breakaway pants.

Silence. Held breaths. Pink cheeks. Parted lips. Parted legs. Heaving tits . . .

I didn’t give them what they wanted, not yet.

I glided forward, dancing to the unstoppable beat. Button popped. Eyes hooded. Face in shadow. Bare-chested. Zipper down. Screams from the crowd. Undulating to the floor and back, I grabbed both sides of my pants.

“DO IT!!!!”

Fists pounded on the stage.

Money fluttered down, green rain.

I shredded off the pants and slung them away.

The fainting count went up to half a dozen.

Like Micah said, no full Monty, just the tight black mesh pouch sheer enough to make all the chicks’ eyes bulge like my more-than-a-handful package. My blond pubes peeked over the top, trimmed and tidy. The V-cut of my pelvis arrowed right down to my cock. And there was no mistaking how large I was.

To go buck naked you had to cup your junk with your hands, and even though I had large hands, they simply weren’t big enough.

“Still got my hat, ladies.” It was the first time I’d spoken since my show had begun and my voice came out deep and hoarse.

“Give it to us!”

“Think you deserve a piece of me, do you?” I rubbed against the front of the cage, my cock in the thong rasping against it.

Women licked their lips and waved money in the air right in front of me.

I returned to the desk. My muscular ass and back laddered in muscles on show. “You got it.” I nodded to Micah who stood offstage, grinning like a maniac.

The cage rattled up, up, and away. Ladies rushed to the lip of the stage the instant they had a free pass.

I hung back, building excitement. I bent over the desk and peered back. In this position, the women got a prime view of hard glutes and a hint of balls.

Total hysteria erupted behind me.

I faced the throng, and slid across the floor. The rhythm propelled my feet. My arms rising above my head, I rolled my big shoulders, my huge ripped chest. Close to the edge of the stage, I dropped to my knees, leaned back, spread my thighs, giving a bird’s eye view.

Holy Marys
and
Hell Yeahs
and
Holy Fuck Me
shouts splintered the air as the green rain fell faster.

As soon as I gained my feet, I sailed the fedora out across the women. Then I jumped off the stage and into a het-up sea of horny ladies.

Hands all over me.