Top Secret

KEATON

I put everything I’ve got into my internship essay. I mean, it’s the only bright light in my shitty week. My girlfriend was spotted dining out with a lacrosse player. My ex-girlfriend, that is. When will I get used to saying that?

Meanwhile, my hot neighbor made it perfectly clear that I won’t be broadening my horizons with him again anytime soon. And instead of feeling relieved, I wake up every morning picturing his lips wrapped around my dick. And hearing his voice tell me to lie there and take it.

I think I want to do it again. At least one more time. Or maybe ten. I don’t know what that means exactly, but the thoughts, the fantasies, aren’t going away.

And because life is cruel, I seem to run into him everywhere now. Our new semester schedules must be more closely aligned than before, because he’s naked in the shower whenever I need the bathroom. Or he’s chatting up the cute barista in my favorite coffee shop when I stop there between classes.

Fuck me. I’m single, I’m a little depressed, and I’m very horny, with a side of sexual confusion, too.

Then again, I’m a man who does not complain. So you won’t hear any whining from me. But football season is over, and my single status leaves me with a lot of free time.

I’m at loose ends until Friday night, when I find out that it’s Owen’s birthday. “You have to come out with us, Keat!” he says. “It’s gonna be epic.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound upbeat. Maybe a night of carousing will improve my mood.

“He’s turning twenty-one,” Tanner says. “Time to hit the titty bars!”

“You just want to see Cassidy dance again.” He’s taken out the dancer he met at Luke’s Dance-off party twice already.

“Sue me!” My friend shrugs. “We’re going to have a great time. Kinda pricey, but you only turn twenty-one once, right, Owen?” He slaps the guy on the back.

So that’s how I find myself showering to go out.

Naturally, Luke is in our bathroom brushing his teeth when I walk in. I turn on the shower and then stand there in my towel while the water heats.

“Bunch of us are going out for Owen’s birthday,” I say awkwardly. “You should come.”

“Gotta work,” he replies. “Later!” He leaves without so much as a glance in my direction.

Right.

“Who’s the designated driver?” Owen asks as we pile into two cars, including mine.

Silence.

I let out a groan. “Really? You brought me along so that I could Uber you around?”

“We could take an actual Uber,” someone points out.

Grumbling, I start the car. The strip club my friends picked is not close by, and I guess I’d rather drive and drink only two beers than rely on ride-share apps.

They direct me inland, near the casinos, to a big parking lot in front of two clubs. One of them is called Jack’s and the other one is Jill’s.

We hop out of the car. I lock it and follow my brothers toward the buildings. They head left toward Jill’s, instead of right.

“Um, guys?” I stop and study the buildings. There aren’t any neon boobs or other tacky markings to distinguish the two. But I’m pretty sure that Jill’s is meant to beckon to women. “Don’t we want Jack’s?”

“Well, Zimmer isn’t here,” Owen says. “And clearly the rest of us are into Jills.”

As far as you know. But that’s beside the point. “But there’s an apostrophe. Jill’s is possessive…”

“You mean Jill is a jealous bitch?” Tanner quips, and everyone laughs.

“No, I…” I sigh. “Go on. You’ll see. It’ll be tonight’s fun little lesson in grammar. Who’s getting the first lap dance?”

“Cassidy says they don’t do lap dances here,” Tanner says. “Sadly.”

You won’t be sorry about that in a second. If I’m right, this crew won’t be wanting a lap dance at Jill’s.

Tanner opens the door and gleefully waves everyone inside.

I’m the last to walk in. And I don’t miss the frown of confusion on the female hostess’s face. “Evening, boys,” she says. “I think I should point out that—”

I put a finger to my lips. “This shouldn’t take long, but it will amuse me.”

She laughs and then shrugs. “No cover charge, then.”

Sure enough, after three more paces, my boys get a glimpse of the stage, where four men wearing only G-strings and chaps are bucking across the stage to whoops of encouragement from the female audience.

Seven fraternity brothers go rigid with surprise.

“See? Punctuation saves lives,” I call to them just as the song ends.

“Oh, shit,” Tanner says.

“Are we in the wrong place?” Owen asks.

I really hope his tutors are on point this semester. We need him to keep his GPA up so we can advance in the postseason next year.

Seven guys hustle by me and out the door before two seconds pass.

Laughing, I pause in front of the hostess again. “That was totally worth it. Thank you for that.”

“Happens at least once an hour,” she says with a grin. “I suppose we could change the names to make things more obvious.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” I point out.

We high-five each other just as a new song starts up. It’s that Sam Smith song, “Promises.” I turn toward the stage instinctively. A very loud, very female shriek of joy rises over the music as a hot guy with dark hair saunters onto the stage in a crisp white shirt, skin-tight gray trousers, a matching suit jacket and a red tie. And then I do a vicious double-take.

Unless I’m losing my mind, it’s Luke-fucking-Bailey.

I’m vaguely aware of my jaw hanging open as he saunters, barefoot, toward a desk and chair that have been rolled onto the stage. Sam Smith is already singing about all the things he wants to do for me as Luke begins to move his hips to the sensuous beat.

Jesus. The music runs through his body like a current. He’s barely dancing, and yet the movements are somehow a hundred and ten percent sex as he sheds the suit coat and flings it over the chair. Then he loosens the tie. It’s almost casual, as if he’s alone with the music and the swing of his hips to the sexy beat.

The women shriek like they’ve all won a car from Oprah.

And I can’t look away. I’m rooted to the floor as Luke slides the silk tie from his collar with a slow, sensual pull. A shiver runs up my spine, as if I can feel it myself—the slide of the silk over cotton.

On stage, his gaze is distant. There’s no eye contact with the crowd. He doesn’t pander, because he doesn’t need to. Every eye in the room is already fixed on his fingers as they slowly unbutton that lucky shirt, while his hips circle and grind.

The effect is entirely voyeuristic, as if I’m watching his private thoughts as he prepares for sex.

Then he casts the shirt away and springs into action, hopping onto the desk with one gravity-defying leap. A spotlight illuminates those golden abs as they ripple and flex. And he slides a hand past his cock as if he can’t quite stand how sexy he is.

I can’t quite stand it, either.

The crowd loses its mind as he rotates, showing off those tight trousers as a hundred women sigh. It’s fucking genius, because this is some serious wish fulfillment right here. Luke is playing the role of the hot CEO. He can provide for you, and then come home to make you scream.

Oh, and now we can also appreciate that he’s well hung, because those skintight pants reveal every ridge and bulge of his gorgeous body.

Take them off, my libido begs. And then take mine off, too.

I told Luke that most of me wants to hook up with him again. That’s not the case anymore. All of me wants it. Right here, right now—I’ve never wanted anything, or anyone, more.

Goodbye, sexual confusion. Because confused is the last thing I’m feeling at the moment. There’s no other way around it—I like dudes. Especially that one onstage.

While I’m having this eureka moment, Luke takes a deep breath, and then turns in the direction of a metal pole that’s maybe six feet from the desk. My poor little brain is just doing that math when Bailey leaps through the air like a sideways Superman, arms first, catching the pole in both hands.

And then he just sort of hangs there, legs out straight, body perpendicular to the pole. The maneuver requires either incredible core strength or a special insider’s arrangement with gravity.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I sputter, wondering how that’s even physically possible.

A throat is cleared beside me.

I whirl around, but it’s only the hostess watching me with an amused expression on her face. “Maybe you’re in the right room after all?”

Shit. “Sorry.” I feel blood rushing to my face as I try to recover myself. My frat brothers are long gone.

But I can’t resist one more look at the stage. Bailey has a leg around the bar now. He’s spinning slowly, almost casually, his muscles rippling while the women scream. Dollar bills are falling on stage like a blizzard.

I force myself to look away, leaving the club the way I came. The January cold smacks me as I step outside. I suck in the chilly air, trying to cool off my overheated body. It takes me a minute to put my game face back on.

Finally, I cross to Jack’s and open the door, spotting Tanner striding toward me. “What happened to you, man? I was gonna send out a search party.”

“Checking the car,” I mutter. “Thought I forgot to lock it.”

His arm lands on my shoulders. “Come in, already. I got you a beer. This place is sick.”

I let him pull me toward a table where my brothers are all sitting, goggle-eyed at the women dancing in various places around the room. The women are all wearing G-strings and very little else. But I don’t even see them. I’m stuck inside my head, which has become a very complicated place.

Luke Bailey is a stripper. Male entertainer. Whatever it’s called. That’s how he knew the women he recruited for his Dance-off dinner. They’re his coworkers.

What’s more shocking—the fact that Bailey takes off his clothes for money? Or that I want him to take off mine?

I settle in for a long evening of watching women shake their butts while I nurse two beers and a big secret. No, two secrets. One about Luke, and one about me.