McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys

T
he show tonight
is a packed house, and that’s good for business. Good for me. I lay it all out on that stage, and my moves have made me the most sought-after dancer in Vegas.

My ripped chest is on the billboards for our show
Stripped
, featured at Ace’s casino, Spades Royalle. And you know those double-decker tour buses rolling down the strip? That’s my bare ass pasted across them, the one every woman turns her head to see.

They’re jaw-dropped before they ever see my cock.

And once they see my massive rod, they can keep their pretty mouths wide open.

And then they can get on their knees.

I’m a cocky bastard, but always getting what I want has turned me from my humble mid-west roots. Can’t help it—I’ve got a pretty face, and pretty big dick.

The other guys in the show aren’t jealous; it’s more that they’re in awe.

“McQueen,” Brad, the show’s manager, calls through the door. “You ready? The show starts in five.”

I look at the woman riding me on the couch in my dressing room, her big tits bouncing as I fuck her. Bouncing as she comes.

“You like that, Jen?” I ask. I thrust deep inside her pussy, and she moans in pleasure as she orgasms again.

“McQueen, you fill me up so good,” she says, shaking her head as I release.

I massage her perfect double-Ds, not wanting this party to end, but knowing it must. “I got a show to do,” I tell her, slapping her ass, letting her know this ride is over.

“That’s not fair,” Stef pouts, her dark skin glowing under the lights at my dressing table where she is perched, naked. She’s been waiting patiently for her turn.

I met her last night, and we had fun after the show—but this hook-up needs to end.

Can’t have a woman hanging around longer than a night or it becomes complicated.

I don’t do complicated.

“Sorry, babe, but I got work to do.” I only have a few more shows at this club, and I’d better make it good, leave with a bang. My days as a dancer at
Stripped
are coming to a close, but it’s been a good run. My upcoming gig at the new club
Hearts Royalle
is gonna be hotter than hell and, as the premier dancer, I know I’m gonna kill it.

I stand and drop the condom in the trash, my cock still ready to go. And, fuck, just seeing Stef here waiting for me, keeps me hard as a rock. She spreads her legs seductively, and I know where her hand is headed. She wants to go as bad as I do.

Brad raps his knuckles on the door, calling for me again. “Seriously, man,” he says. “Gotta move.” He swings it opens just as I’m considering another quick threesome.

“Fuck, McQueen, you’ve gotta get out there.” Brad’s eyes scan the room, and I know what he’s thinking. He’d fucking skip a show too, if it meant he could have a ménage on a Tuesday night.

I shrug at the women and grab my opening act ensemble: jeans and hoodie, sneakers, and a baseball cap.

“It’s been real, ladies,” I tell them, offering them my classic, all-American grin. The one that gets their panties wet.

The one that always gets me what I want.

I leave the dressing room without asking for their numbers, not needing to know their last names.

I’m not looking for anything more than quick fuck. Or a long fuck. Shit, all I care about is having some good old fashioned fun ... and relationships have nothing to do with that.

Pussy, on the other hand ... now, that’s something I can get behind. Or under. Or on top of.

Some guys have one-night stands, but if I’m sleeping with only one woman at a time I’m doing something wrong.

The thing is, if a woman wants to be with me, she knows she won’t be the only one looking at my package. I make a living showing off my body.

Some people judge me because I’m a male stripper, but I don’t give a fuck about those people.

Anyway, I only fuck the ones who like my work.

Which is a whole lot.

* * *

I’ve been coming to this gym for a year. And, still, every time I pull my Mercedes in the parking lot I take a deep breath and try to focus on what is, not what isn’t.

Those lines get blurred, but I need to focus. See things for what they are.

I’m here, at Kit’s Gym. Not in my Dad’s house. I’m here, training. Not arguing with my father. I’m here, free of my family’s watchful eyes for the next few hours.

You’d think that at twenty-three I’d have spread my wings bit, found some freedom ... but my life only seems to have become more restricting with age. The family is always around; Dad’s mansion is the headquarters.

I’m grateful to be the boss’s daughter in some ways. I’ve always had everything I need. But all the money in the world doesn’t change the fact that I’m the youngest of five kids, and the word
overprotective
doesn’t begin to cover the way they treat me.

My sister Mary got off the hook, being the oldest girl ... or maybe because she did exactly as she was told. Married a man who was in the family business, right out of high school, and started having babies.

The conversation I had with Dad this morning rings through my head as I sit in my parked car.

“No,” I told him. “I’m not ready to get married.”

“JoJo, you’ve been out of college for a year. You’re an asset that’s losing value the older you get,” Dad repeated, for the fourth time. His tone was rough, his face grim. I wondered if he was ever soft. I’ve never seen that side of him.

I shook my head again. “I get it. You want me married and popping out babies. But it’s not like Peter, Paul, or John are married,” I reminded him. I knew that my tone was sneaking into snarky territory, and that I needed to be careful.

“Your brothers help run the family, JoJo. And they’re gone half the time in Boston keeping everything in check,” he said. “I rely on their help to run this organization.”

I hate this—being the youngest daughter of the boss of the Irish Mob. I thought when he told me we were moving to Las Vegas five years ago it might mean a fresh start. Little did I know the insider gambling circuit here surpasses the one in Boston.

“You don’t care about my happiness,” I told him.

“I want you to settle down, like your mother would have wanted. For the sake of the family.”

I was so over this guilt trip.

“I’ve gotta go,” I told him, grabbing my purse from the table. “I hear you; I do. I just don’t understand the urgency.”

Dad wasn’t having any of that. He slammed his fist on the counter. “The urgency is clear. I say it’s time for you to marry, so you will. And I’ve found the man.”

“Who?” I asked—shocked, but not surprised. Mary was married off when she was eighteen. I’ve been biding my time and I knew that, eventually, if I wanted to stay in the family, I’d be married too. “Is it someone I know?”

“I’m not looking inside for you like I did Mary. We’ve been wanting to make inroads with the Italians for a long time.”

“Who?” I asked again, my chest starting to burn. I felt scared. Out of control. Like a pawn in his game.

“Word is Frank Grotto’s getting out of prison next month.”

“No, that’s not possible,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s in for life. For that hit and run, for the drug ring. It was all over the news.”

“Looks like his lawyers got him off; other members of the family are taking the fall. Blood runs deep, Josephine. You need to remember that now more than ever.”

“Grotto is fifteen years older than me. It’s not an option.”

“We’ve wanted to make an alliance with his family for a long time. This is a done deal.”

“Dad, he’s a criminal,” I whispered, the intensity of the conversation weighing heavy in the room.

“There are worse things.”

Is that true? I don’t know. I just know I needed to get the fuck out of my father’s house.

I left knowing I don’t have a choice. That my fate will be sealed the moment Grotto is a free man.

And now my car is parked at the place that actually feels like home—feels safe. I check my face in the mirror. The slight bruise on my jaw is practically gone. I used makeup to cover it at home; no one noticed.

Funny how the one place I feel safe is also the place where I get my butt kicked on a daily basis.

My head throbs. I just want to pretend the conversation with my dad never happened. I’ve been living in denial. Arranged marriages are so dated, but not when your family is the mob.

I managed to convince everyone to let me go to college–although I had to live at home—but grad school was a no-go. When I brought it up last year, Dad said it was time I settled down like a good woman. It wasn’t that I cared about school; I just wanted to avoid the inevitable life plan.

But my heart is just not in that plan. Until recently, I’ve never once been swept off my feet.

And then, when I least expected it, I fell in love.

But not with a man.

With a sport.

It’s freaking impossible to follow in Mary’s footsteps when what I really want is nothing Mary has.

What I really want is to go into the gym today, and kick some ass.

I get out of the car, grab my gym bag, and head inside.

* * *

T
he smell
of sweat and men hits me, as it does everyday, when I walk in for my three-hour session. The family thinks I’m at a gym working out–you know, stair steppers and ellipticals, grabbing a smoothie and taking a cardio class with twenty other women wanting to get bikini-ready.

I don’t own a bikini. I prefer shorts and tank tops, a pair of gloves. I come to the gym to condition. To prepare. I come to the gym to fight.

But Dad doesn’t need to know that. No one in the family does.

“Hey, JoJo,” my coach, Kit, greets me as I pass his office, headed to the locker room. “You ready, girl? Today’s gonna be a beast.”

It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are always my hardest, longest day. Kit always lines me up a grappling partner mid-week, and I both love it and hate it. Up until a month ago, I was just here helping as a personal trainer and fighting in amateur bouts. But Kit thinks I can do this—really do this. So I’ve stepped away from doing anything besides training for my first professional fight.

I don’t know if his belief in me is warranted ... but I’ll take it.

And I figure that if he takes me seriously as a fighter, I can take myself seriously, too.

Which is why I consider myself distraction-free. I have only two priorities: my gym and my family. Anything else is in the way.

In the locker room I take off my white jeans and sandals, and change into my workout gear. Before locking my stuff up, I check my phone and see I have some texts.

My best friend from college, Lucy.

Lucy:
Hey chica, I’m so bored. Let’s do lunch. Pleaseeee.

Lucy:
Don’t ignore me. I know you’re at the gym. I’ll come there if you don’t say yes.

Me:
I’ve gotta work out till two.

My thumbs hover, knowing I’m a lame friend. Not wanting to be
that
person. I can make an effort.

Me:
Maybe tonight?

Lucy:
Will you go out, out? Like heels and a dress?

Me:
How about Netflix?

Lucy:
No. You are so boring. I mean a for real night out.

Lucy thinks I’m crazy. Thinks I am totally missing the opportunity to enjoy my twenties, in Vegas. But the truth is, I haven’t been out since a few months ago, when she convinced me to go out with her and a group of her work friends.

That night was a disaster. I thought I was brave enough, rebellious enough, to go to an all-male strip show at the Spades Royalle ... but I started blushing one routine in. I left to enjoy Lemon Drops in the bar until my friends finished watching the men get down to their tighty-whiteys or whatever it is they wear on stage.

Truth is, I’ve never seen a man naked and didn’t particularly want my first time to be at the show
Stripped
. Even if that hottie McQueen, who works out here at Kit’s Gym, danced in the show.

I swear, every time I walk into the gym I’m overwhelmed with half-naked men around me. Ripped arms, chiseled abs. It’s impossible not to feel at least a little bit of longing when I show up here among all these guys—guys who look at me with as much desire as I look at them.