Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel) (16 page)

I felt a little ill, but mainly lost. Lost because I didn’t know what to make of Brad kissing another woman. Lost because he and I weren’t an item, therefore it shouldn’t effect me as much as it was. And lost because I was in desperate need to talk to H. He still hadn’t responded to the last message I’d sent about him only being words and nothing more. My response had been harsh, and I knew he wouldn’t have liked hearing it, but my intent was never to offend or make him feel that he meant nothing to me, because he did. He meant a lot. His words meant a lot. They always had.

Removing my phone from my clutch, I opened our message thread and started typing.

Em: Silence says so many things,

and more often than not

they are all wrong.

I pressed send and waited, hoping he would reply, which he did. My phone beeped seconds later. Relief washed over me like a drug-induced high.

Mr Happy: Perhaps they’re not wrong.

Perhaps they’re right.

I smiled sadly, able to tell by his words that I’d offended him, but at least he responded.

Em: I wouldn’t know.

I don’t speak in muted tongue.

Mr Happy: No, you certainly don’t.

Damn it, he’s shitty. I hate it when he’s shitty.

Em: What was I supposed to say, huh?

You tell me.

I waited for him to offer his perspective on the matter, even though I didn’t really want to get into the whole we-can’t-be-together argument with him. But he didn’t respond, so I waited a little longer then gave in, spurring him for a further response.

Em: Cat got your tongue?

His reply wasn’t instant, but it did come a minute or two later.

Mr Happy: No. My tongue is busy.

You’re interrupting.

An unsettling feeling waved through me, and I wasn’t sure if it was one of prurience or bitterness. Either way, I didn’t like it.

Em: Apologies.

Go back to eating your ice cream.

I smiled at my retort.

Mr Happy: Oh I’m eating, love.

Just not an ice cream.

It is sweet, though.

I call bullshit!

Em: Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk while eating?

It’s rude.

Mr Happy: Yes, she did. But I’m a big boy now.

I make my own rules.

Em: You also make up bullshit.

Mr Happy: Whatever you say, love.

Now excuse me while I finish my dessert.

Argh! Arsehole much
? He was bluffing. He had to be.

Em: I don’t believe you.

You can’t type on your phone

and eat out a woman at the same time.

Mr Happy: Don’t try and call my bluff, love.

And don’t ask me for something

you don’t want proof of.

With my heart racing and my hand trembling just slightly, I responded anyway. He wasn’t going to win. Not this time.

Em: Don’t tell me what I want and what I don’t want,

because you don’t know.

I pressed send, my feeling of nausea increasing.
Shit! I shouldn’t have said that.
I’d outright lied. But fuck, I was pissed off.
H
had pissed me off. He’d deliberately baited me. All I’d wanted to do was apologise for the original message and for upsetting him. I’d only wanted to make things right between us and let him know he was more to me than just words.

I’d just wanted to chat … and see how he was.

My phone chimed his message, the ring surging right through my body. I paused, but only for a split second before opening it.

Oh my fucking God!

H hadn’t used words. He hadn’t needed to. Instead, he’d sent a picture of his finger pressed inside a woman’s pussy. And I suspected by the camera angle, she’d been none the wiser about him taking the photo.

I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. That message was aimed at hurting me, and it had. Deeply. I knew he fucked women. Of course he did. I just did
not
need photographic proof of it. I did not need it waved in my face.

Blinking away the moisture forming in my eyes, I typed him one final response.

Em: Don’t message me again.

I prefer what silence says over anything that you could.

Pressing send, I closed my eyes momentarily then switched my phone on silent, slipping it back into my clutch as two girls stopped next to my seat. They flicked their lighters on and ignited their cigarettes. I smiled, but it was fake. Smiling was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to kick, punch, cry and scream. Nothing about my current situation warranted a smile. Not even a sickly sarcastic one.

“Those twins are the hottest guys I think I’ve seen in my life!” one of the girls said to the other, covering her bare abdomen with one arm while bringing her other arm up to take a drag of the smoke she held between her fingers.

“I know, right? Apparently they’re both single. We should try and chat to them after the show.”

They both giggled, and the God-awful sound rattled my teeth. It also welcomed back the green-eyed monster and fuelled my already raging anger.

“They’re not,” I said resolutely, standing up and adjusting my hot-as-fuck, don’t-mess-with-me, super-tight black dress.

Both girls eyed my actions, the taller of the two glancing at her friend before making eye contact with me again. She was heavily made-up, with dark, thickly-rimmed smoky eyes and bright lips, and she wore disdain better than the six-inch wedges she stumled in. “How do you know that?” Her tone sounded unimpressed.

I smiled and went to walk past, but paused. “Because I’m fucking one of them.”
Or more accurately, I will be.

***

Johnno—a big, burly security guard—stood outside the guys’ change room when I stormed toward him. With each step closer, his eyes widened, his expression morphing into one of holy-shit-is-that-the-little-pixie-woman-or-a-raging-bull. And rightly so, because I was one and the same as I held up my lanyard, not bothering to stop when he tried to refuse my entry.

“Emily, you can’t go—”

“Oh, put a sock in it, big guy. There’s nothing behind these doors that I haven’t seen before.”

Turning the handle, I pushed forward and announced my entry before actually stepping inside. “Cover up or don’t, I’m coming in.”

I smiled sweetly at the frustrated Maori who didn’t look impressed with my disregard for his objection. He huffed and turned his back to me, so I walked into the guys’ room and rounded the corner, my eyes seeking and finding the one person they wanted to see and scold. No one else in the room mattered. Just Brad. Just Brad and his freshly tainted lips.

“You!” I said, pointing at him.

He froze. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

His brows drew together,

“The shit, you’re in,” Noah said in a sing-song voice. “Pissed, Tiny Dancer is.”

I glared at the infuriating Yoda-talking, hip-thrusting Brad lookalike. And if I’d held a kickarse lightsaber in that moment, I would’ve struck the fucker down. He raised his hands.

Death-glare—successful.

Brad put the bottle of oil he was holding down and walked toward me. “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer, continuing to glare, unable to speak. Every emotion I’d felt in the last hour compressed tightly in my chest, ready to explode, and I didn’t want to explode. Exploding was never good. It was messy. And the clean-up often took a while.

“Em?”

Slowing my breathing, I’d calmed just a little before he stopped in front of me, the smell of coconut bewitching my senses and casting some kind of spell.
Oh, hell no!

“Do not come any closer,” I whispered, closing my eyes in order to rein in my self-control. I was there to make a point, and I needed to make it good.

“Talk to me.” His voice was soft, his touch on my shoulders delicate when he gently squeezed them.

My eyes shot open, and I lifted my arms to shrug him off. Brad took a step back, his hands falling to his sides, resting against a white towel secured low around his waist.
Holy fuck! Focus, Em, focus.

Blinking, I inched forward and placed my hand on the knot of his towel. He took in a sharp breath, and his obliques contracted. I couldn’t help but to trail the tip of my finger along the left side of his
V
, as if to coax it to relax again. It didn’t. It remained taut. Rigid.

Continuing my finger’s glide over his abs and up his chest, I circled one of his pecs before circling the other. They flinched, and my body instantly reacted in the same manner. Our eyes met, his dark, hooded and dangerously ravenous. They inflamed the burn within, heightening my depravation to have him. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not until I gave him my message, loud and clear.

Leaning forward and elevating to my tippy-toes, I went to ever-so-slightly brush my lips across his but didn’t. Just the thought of doing so enraged me further and provoked my shade of vibrant green. His lips had been on another’s just minutes ago, and they certainly wouldn’t be touching mine.

“Do you like my lips?” I asked, my voice deliberately husky and low so that only he could hear me.

He swallowed while looking at them. “Yes. You know I do.”

“Good. Because if you ever want them and the lips between my legs, then you need to keep yours away from anyone else’s.”

I flared my eyes at him one last time before turning and leaving the room.

Closing the door behind me, I let out the breath I’d been holding. My skin prickled with the presence of Johnno eyeballing me. I didn’t want or need his scrutiny. Not to mention that Brad or any of the other guys would no doubt burst through the door any minute, ready for the next performance, and I certainly didn’t want to be standing there when that happened.

“Thank you, big guy,” I said quickly, shooting him an appreciative glance before walking away. 

“Yeah. Well …” he called back, “… I’m not gonna say ‘any time’ because you’ll get me fired if I do.”

I tried to smile at his response, but my cheeks wouldn’t cooperate. They weren’t stupid and couldn’t be fooled. They knew the truth—that smiling was the last thing I wanted to do. Smiling was for the happy, and I was far from fucking happy. I was angry and hurt, and I wanted to curl up somewhere to expel the overwhelming sense of sadness that had up and hit me like a freight train.

I just wanted to cry … like a friggin’ baby. And I honestly didn’t care. I’d learned that crying wasn’t a sign of weakness; instead it was one of courage in letting things go. It was accepting that to release what anchors us down allows us to move forward.

I’d also learned that tears never solved; they never cured. They couldn’t heal what was broken or take pain away. I knew that. I knew that all they ever did was help us purge and cleanse what sadness had dirtied. They allowed reprieve, and sometimes that was all we needed.

It was what I needed and fast

Detouring to the bathroom, I found an empty cubicle, placed the toilet lid down, and sat on top with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.
What the fuck? What the actual fuck am I doing?

My eyes filled with tears, and I let them fall. I allowed the shock and jealousy over seeing H’s cruel photo-message together with Brad kissing another woman leave my body and trail down my face. I let it all silently pool to the ground at my feet until there was no more tears to shed. And then I breathed slowly and focussed on the tampon advertisement hanging from the cubicle door before me. ‘Be real. Be
Carefree.’

“Oh shut the fuck up,” I muttered to the stupid and falsely empowering ad. If I were going to be ‘real and carefree’, I wouldn’t use the bloody things in the first place.
Pun unintended.

“Em, you in here?” Cori called out.

“Yeah,” I answered, quickly tearing off a couple of pieces of toilet paper and wiping my face and eyes.

“You alright?”

“Uh-huh, I’m fine.”

“Okay, just wanted to let you know that Brad is up next. Trust me, you don’t want to miss it.”
Trust me, I think I do.

“No probs. I’ll be out in a minute. Where will you be?”

“Down the front, near the merchandise stand.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“Good. Hurry up.”

I groaned quietly when the bathroom door slam shut behind her. Part of me did want to see Brad’s act, even though part of me didn’t.
I wanted to see him drip with sexual virility—because hotness—but I didn’t want to see those drips land on other women.
Ugh.

Staying in the cubicle with the tampon ad wasn’t an option though, so I stood up, unlatched the door and rushed to the basin, washing my hands and quickly checking the status of my eyes and blotchy face. They weren’t too bad, so I quickly touched up my face and floralised my body with a spritz of perfume before rushing out the door.

As I entered the function room, the lights were dimly lit, the sound of crashing waves filtering through the speakers. I squinted my eyes and spotted Brad’s silhouette casually strutting to the centre of the stage and carrying something big, my guess … a surfboard.

I hurried toward the merchandise stand, not wanting to miss the start of his performance, which was also when the room morphed from subtle darkness to an amber glow, and a woman’s exotic voice sounded a vocal arpeggio
.

I smiled. Beyoncé’s
“Drunk in Love” … very nice.

Brad was casually leaning against the board with one bare foot crossed over the other, his body surrounded by a golden glimmer that gave the aura of a hot summer’s day. A white tank top showed affection by hugging his chest tightly, black boardshorts hung long against his thighs, and his perfectly scruffy, shoulder-length blond hair framed a confident smirk on his face.

He looked hot.

Really
hot.

And all of a sudden, I was hot.

In fact, I was so Chilli-Con-Carne that I wasn’t watching where I was going and clipped my leg on the corner of the merchandise table. “Shit-ffff!” I quietly cursed, rubbing the tender spot.

Cori lowered her camera and turned her head toward me, displaying a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. 

I replied with a quick hello-I’m-here wave before mouthing,
Sorry
.

She smiled and shook her head before raising the camera to take more photos. I too returned my focus to the stage. Beyoncé’s voice blasted through the room, singing about drinking and being unable to keep her fingers off a guy, which was appropriate, especially when Brad started rolling his abdomen seductively to the lyrics and running his hands down his chest and abs, stopping to lift the hem of his top suggestively.
Sweet love of soft, golden skin.

Throat couldn’t swallow.

Mouth fell open.

And legs all but gave way.

Having no choice but to brace myself on the edge of the table, I accidentally knocked over one of the small the merchandise displays. “Shit.”

“Do you need a seat there, honey?”

I turned my head toward Patsy but couldn’t remove my eyes from Brad’s hands, which dipped down the sides of his obliques, highlighting his
V
. “Er … yes. A seat would be
very
good right about now.”

She laughed. “Take approximately six steps directly in front of you. There’s a spare seat there.”

I nodded and held my hand out just slightly, counting six steps in my head as I intermittently glanced between the stage and the seat I was walking to. Women screamed excitedly and some even wolf-whistled when Brad laid the surfboard down and dived onto it, activating his muscles and lowering his legs very slowly until he was in a push-up position.
Wow! He just pulled off the world’s sexiest worm.

I paused, deliberating what I’d just thought, and realising it was all kinds of wrong and an even worse visual.

Shaking my head as if to physically shake away all notions of worm masturbation, I homed in on Brad’s hips. On his rolling hips. On the way they lightly touched the board before lifting off again.

Roll.

Lift.

Roll.

Repeat.

Yummy!
His biceps also looked quite tasty—tensed, arms locked, and showcasing his raw strength. Not to mention the muscles across his shoulders and back were begging for my tongue to trail over each and every rise and groove, like a tasty slippery-dip.

“I want to be that surfboard,” a woman slurred, drawing my attention momentarily. She was blonde with perky boobs and sitting across the table from me, her near empty wine glass suspended in her hand and pointed in Brad’s direction.

I smiled to myself.
In your dreams, Titastic. In. Your. Dreams.

If I were nicer than a bitch on heat in a kennel full of bitches, I’d perhaps feel sorry for her misfortune. But I wasn’t nice this particular evening. Therefore, Titastic would have to find another hottie to ride her buoyant self. That surfer on stage was mine, no one else’s.

Returning my attention back to Brad and what he was doing with his body—and fuck me, was he doing all kinds of wonderful things, truly wonderful dry-humping things—I couldn’t help but to shuffle back in my seat and cross my legs firmly. And just as well, because when the beat kicked in, and he quickly jumped from his push-up to his feet, poised on the board with his arms out in a surfing position, I wasn’t sure whether to pout the loss of dry-humpy-humper or rev up my vagina for sexy surf god.

I chose to rev.
Vroom. Vroom.

Brad stepped off the surfboard, bouncing to the fast tap of a snare drum as he walked toward the front of the stage in a cocky, I’m-the-shit kind of way. Beyoncé sang about grinding in a club, so Brad stopped and placed his hands over each other, as if to mimic cupping a woman’s head in front of his cock, and complemented the lyrics by grinding his hips into the air in small sharp bursts.
Wow!

My vagina revved full-throttle.

One thing that Brad did well was hit dance moves with perfect synchronisation to the beat of the song. He was a natural dancer, his movement unforced, and I guessed it had something to do with genetics, considering the talent his mother possessed. You could also tell that he knew the song, knew each of the elements it contained, and knew how to work with them.

Another thing he knew was how to make women scream, which was exactly what they did when Jay-Z’s rap sequence sounded and Brad jumped off the stage to enter the crowd, lip-syncing the words as he stopped by random women to give them a lap dance.

My heart thumped profusely, and my throat turned dry. I was so nervous about what was going to happen next. Either Brad could refrain from kissing any of the women making grabby hands at him because he wanted something more with me, or he could stick to tradition and send me a message of ‘Fuck you, I’ve been doing this long before you came along, and I’ll continue to do it long after you leave.’

My eyes were hawk-like, staring him down as he sauntered around the room touching woman after woman in a gentlemanly manner, some a delicate glide down their hair, and others a chin-tip and quick peck on the forehead.

So far so good …
until my nerves near exploded when he made his way closer to where I was sitting.

He met my stare.

I froze.

He smiled devilishly.

I thawed.

And before I knew it, he stood before me, his legs touching my knees, a sinister grin creeping in at the corners of his mouth as he bent down and rested his hands on my thighs. Our faces were level, his eyes fixated to mine, his nose gently caressing mine, his lips feathering
mine.

“Do you want my lips on yours?” he asked, his breath warming my trembling mouth.

I nodded slowly.

“I can’t hear you, sexy pixie. Do you want my lips on yours?”

“Yes!” I all but cried out, stretching forward to make it happen.

Lips met lips and tongue found tongue, his mouth crashing onto mine, the feeling somehow stopping time. The crowd sounded a melody of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, some clapping and whistling, and some even saying ‘damn’ and ‘not fair’. But the fuck I gave gave no fuck at all, because the man’s kiss had the power to diminish reality, stripping away those who weren’t relevant, leaving only me and Brad.

His fingers flexed on my thighs as his tongue danced in my mouth, and I all but lost control for wanting to draw him in close and taste everything he had to offer. I needed him to brand me within, to feel me quiver when he touched parts of me he was yet to touch. I needed him to fucking take me … and sooner rather than later.

Spreading my legs apart, he separated our kiss and kneeled on the floor in front of me, his hands exploring the warm skin of my inner thighs. I moaned and placed my hands on his shoulders, languidly tracing my fingers up and down the back of his neck.
Okay, yeah, this soon is perfectly fine.

“Hold tight,” he gritted out, sliding me along the seat until I slammed into his stomach.

My legs automatically wrapped around his waist before he hopped to his feet in one swift movement, standing with me secured to him.

“Brad! My dress!” I shrieked, worried that it had risen to my stomach.

He wrapped an arm across my arse and another around my lower back, covering the area. “I’ve got you.”

I smiled. “Yes, you do!”

“You ready to ride my other surfboard?” he asked, walking me toward the stage.

“Yes!”

He nibbled my neck. “Good.”