Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(54)

I lied. I lied to the nicest, most honest girl I’ve ever known.

That was quick.

Without waiting for her response, I turn off my phone and put it back in my pocket just in time to watch a girl in what looks like a shredded one-piece bathing suit and high—very high—heels take the stage.

Strolling slowly, like a predator, around the shiny silver pole at the front of the stage, her fingertips caress it slowly. Sweat forms on my upper lip and I swallow hard, fighting the urge to flee.

You’re allowed to be in here.

The music picks up, mainly pop stuff from stations I wasn’t allowed to listen to in high school, but always did once I got in my car. I began to covet my time in the car. Obviously, when my little sister, Ellie, was in the car with me I’d keep it on the Christian-only stations, but not when I was alone.

Now, though, the music sounds different. Looks different, as this girl, identified at the beginning of the song as Leanne—a normal name—twists and turns her body in seductive ways around the pole. Keeping her back and legs straight, she slowly bends over, her backside facing me as she leaves it lifted in the air.

It’s not a normal one-piece bathing suit. She has nothing covering her backside except a floss-like piece of fabric. I know it’s called a thong, but I never planned on seeing one in person unless my future wife wore one. Sure, magazines are one thing, and some of the guys in high school and I joked around with them, but it’s different in person. It’s … personal. But, I force myself to sit and wait for the moment of understanding. Why my father would do this, and so much more, at the risk of absolutely everything. Leanne curves her back and slithers like a serpent up the pole, her breasts cradling the metal on either side as she slowly makes her way to standing.

While I have no intention of touching any of the women in here, and the signs by the bouncer and all around remind anyone patronizing the place that they’re not allowed to touch, people, as usual, seem to like to push boundaries. Men with protruding stomachs and trucker hats edge their way as close as possible to the stage. None of them seem particularly embarrassed or shameful to be in here. There are a few men who, like me, seem comfortable sitting in the back. Watching them, though, makes me feel a little dirty.

I know why I’m here, but why are they here? If they’re not hoping to get a face-full of tanned and tattooed backside, why bother coming? Looking to my left, I try to subtly study one such man. Mid-forties, I guess, wearing decent enough clothing to suggest that perhaps he worked in the business district today. Some high-ish level corporate job, judging by his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves. He looks exhausted, leaned all the way back in his chair drinking coffee that I’m certain he wishes were spiked with something strong.

The funny thing is, despite the pale and worn look on his face, his eyes are alive as they view the stage. The girl. A straight look stays on his face, but his eyes dance wildly, and it’s almost like I can see his brain lighting up. Turning my gaze back to the stage, I tilt my head and try to see what he sees.

The dancer presses her spine against the steel rod and turns her hips, grinding down the pole until she’s nearly seated. Her index finger traces the thick fullness of her bottom lip. Soon, with her eyes closed and head tilted back, her hand moves down her neck, over her breasts, and across the tight skin of her stomach. My heart races, and a warm feeling starts at the back of my head and works its way through my body, heating my cheeks and causing me to shift in my seat. Moving in the same hip-curving way she did on the way down, the dancer stands and faces the pole. She grips near the top of it and hoists herself up, legs winding around it in an almost inhuman way.

Suddenly, it hits me.

I don’t have to date this girl, or ask her father for her hand in marriage. I don’t have to struggle with celibacy or how far to take things before our wedding night. I can just sit back and appreciate the curves of the female body from a safe twenty-foot distance. I won’t touch them and they won’t touch me. I’m just looking. I feel high, and all I’m doing is looking. Watching. Studying. All the times I’ve ever snuck off and done things guys at CU are warned not to do—even though it’s our own body—don’t compare to the feeling surging through me at this moment. And all I’m doing is watching.

I watch all night, ordering several more Cokes from Destiny, and then the girl who came in at shift change, though I didn’t catch her name.

I never make it to the party, but stumble home sometime after midnight, feeling what I’m guessing it might feel like to be drunk, and climb into bed before anyone can question where I may have been. Lying in bed with my eyes closed, I can’t shake the images of the night from my mind.

And I don’t think I want to.





CHAPTER TWENTY





Royals


Kennedy.




“Well, here we are,” I murmur, pulling down the long, exclusively gated driveway of Trent’s parents’ house.

I’m careful with most of the people I know to not call it their house. They did nothing but be born into such a life, and, in my head anyway, I’m careful to remind myself of that.

“Oh, how sweet,” Mollie coos sarcastically, “they’ve got valet.”

Rolling my eyes, I pull up behind a shiny Land Rover, and wait for my turn to hand my keys over to some underpaid college student who is probably going to pee in my back seat.