Good Time(6)

“I’m worried about Rhys,” Lydia says when we’re about halfway to work.

“Why’s that?” Rhys is her love interest. He’s also her boss. And my boss. He’s everyone’s boss because he’s the general manager at the Windsor, the hotel where we both work. They’re not technically dating, but he’s into her and he’s fighting it, which is dumb because Lydia is amazing and they’re going to end up together. Sometimes men just have to figure things out for themselves though.

“It’s been two weeks since the, um, since the thing in the bar and I’m starting to feel like we’re not going to happen.”

The thing in the bar was an orgasm. In the back office, but still. I was super proud of her because that was way out of her comfort zone. When we got home that night I made her a bar badge, which is like a Girl Trooper badge for grownups. Dirty grownups.

“But also,” she continues, “I feel like we’re meant to happen. I cannot have all these feelings for no reason, can I?” She doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer so I think the question is rhetorical. “I know he feels it too, I know he does. I just can’t figure out why he won’t act on it. He kisses me like he means it, Payton. No one has ever kissed me like that before, you know? It’s different.”

I don’t know, because I haven’t kissed Rhys. But I’ve seen the way he looks at her, so she’s probably right.

“We’ll figure it out,” I promise her. “I’ll ask around. I know people.”

“You know people?” Lydia glances over at me while she’s stopped at a red light. “We both started on the same day. Who do you know that I don’t know?”

“Pfft.” I wave off her doubt. “You’re in human resources. I’m in event planning. Trust me, I get all the good gossip. No one is telling you anything.”

“That’s probably true.”

“I’ll have this figured out by lunch. It’ll be fine.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Probably. It’ll probably be fine. I’ll for sure have it figured out by noon, but Rhys might be into some weird shit for all I know. Like maybe he’s into furry sex or something. Which is cool, no judgment, but I don’t know if you’re down for dressing up like a panda bear to get him off so it might not be fine for you.”

“What?” Lydia shoots me another glance, her expression lined with confusion.

“Err, never mind.” I don’t think she’s ready to know just how confusing dating can be.





Chapter Four





“Are you sure you want to do this, Lydia?” My superior socializing skills want her to say yes. Yes, because it’ll be fun. Yes, because this is crazy. Yes, because we don’t have anything better lined up for the weekend. But as her best friend, I want her to think this over. For those very same reasons.

It’s Saturday morning and we’re sitting in the parking lot outside of Double Diamonds. The strip club. Gentlemen’s club. Whatever. The website didn’t look nearly as seedy as I expected it to, but it’s still a strip club. We’re here because my best friend the virgin wants to go inside and ask the owner to help her auction her virginity. To Rhys, specifically.

I know.

It sounds too nuts to be true.

It’s insanity.

But yet that’s what’s happening. I asked around yesterday and it seems that Rhys spends a lot of time at this gentlemen’s club. And there were rumors of professionals. And by professionals I mean hookers. I relayed the information to Lydia at lunch and by last night she’d come up with a plan. The aforementioned plan of selling her virginity at some kind of auction, to Rhys. There is no way this plan is actually happening. Nada, zip, zilch. Lydia is the good girl. The good friend. The good daughter. The good everything. And this idea she has is nuts. It’s not that I don’t think Rhys will bite, he will. It’s that I don’t think we’re about to encounter a strip club owner made of gold.

Anyway.

Into Double Diamonds we go.

I expect we’ll be kicked out. Or arrested for solicitation. Or hogtied and tossed onto a plane bound for Mexico. What? I have a vivid imagination.

Instead we’re asked if we’d like applications, which, I’m not gonna lie, is a little bit flattering. Sure, I already have a job, but you never know when you might need a back-up plan.

“I’d like to speak to the owner,” Lydia replies, shoulders squared and head held high.

“Me too,” I add, because I can’t let her go back there alone, assuming the head honcho is here and we’re allowed a meeting. Reason number one: I’m a good friend and a good friend would never send you into the back office at a strip club by yourself. Lydia is blinded by love and I can’t let her make a decision she’ll later regret. Reason number two: This has the potential to be real entertaining and there is no way I’m missing out. I stuff the application into my handbag as Lydia shoots me a look. I shrug—I kept the application because I’m curious, not because I’m actually going to apply. Probably.

We’re escorted past a few elevated platforms with the requisite poles in the center, down a long dark hallway and through a door.

The door leads to… an office. It’s a nice office. Really nice. It’s quiet and a row of windows floods the space with natural light. There should be a view of the parking lot because we’re a block off the Strip, surrounded by high-rise hotels and tourist traps. But instead there’s a courtyard of sorts. It looks like a section of the parking lot was walled off and turned into an outdoor patio. The wall blocks out the view beyond from our vantage point just inside the office doors so all I can see is a flower garden and a fountain. A freaking fountain. This is super disappointing because I was envisioning a dark room with bad lighting and an overweight white man smoking a cigar behind a desk while a couple of goons stood at attention ready to protect him if the need arose.