It’s just that I need to. It’s the smart, prudent choice for me, the only one that will ensure self-preservation. And that’s always been my main goal—to defend against any weakness that might destroy me.
The problem is, this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to give in. That should scare me. And it does.
Another problem is it also excites me.
* * *
When Jet led me, drinks in hand, to the semicircle of sofas placed around the center of the room, I never expected him to sit beside me the whole night. Yet that’s what he’s done. For two hours now, he’s lounged beside me, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch, fingertips barely grazing my shoulder. I’m sure that I should protest, that I should mind. But I don’t. I don’t protest, and I very much don’t mind.
Within minutes of us sitting down, others started to follow suit, sprawling on the other sofas, gathering around Jet like cheerleaders around the quarterback. I would think it bizarre if I didn’t completely understand it. Jet has a charisma about him, a magnetism that draws people in. I can see it in their eyes as they watch him, listen to him, interact with him.
Jet doesn’t seem the least bit affected by it, but I’m sure he notices. I have no doubt he knows exactly how people respond to him.
Especially women.
I can feel the eyes of every female in the place on me, stabbing me with knives of envy. Even the ones that are ostensibly here with other men seem to be waiting for the moment when Jet will leave my side so they can swoop in and make their move.
I’m relieved that Tia has stayed within eyesight. I haven’t been able to tell how much she’s drinking, but she seems in control, like she’s just having fun socializing. I hope that’s all it is.
A loud siren sounds and a red strobe light starts to flash on the makeshift stage set in front of the couches. Along the back wall, a curtain that I hadn’t even noticed before parts to reveal a huge plaster cake on wheels. Two guys wheel it to the center of the stage and jump down to scoot onto the rapidly filling couches.
The music gets louder and the lights dim even more as people start to clap and cheer. Someone brings a folding chair and sets it directly in front of the cake. Seconds later, three guys escort the man I presume is the groom-to-be to the chair and push him down into it.
“Jake! Jake! Jake!” the crowd chants. Jake, a ridiculously handsome guy wearing a fireman’s hat and a big smile, shakes his head.
“Oh, no! The only girl I’m interested in is meeting me at the church tomorrow.”
A mixture of boos and claps ring out. A red-haired guy steps up and whispers something in his ear and then slaps him on the back good-naturedly.
“He’ll tough it out. No need to worry,” the smiling auburn-haired man yells as he turns toward the rest of the room. I can see that he’s quite good-looking, too. It makes me wonder if all of Jet’s friends are hot.
He hands Jake a shot of amber liquid, clinking the glass with the one he’s holding, and they both down the liquor in one smooth drink.
They both holler and laugh, the one guy backing away and announcing, “Jake Theopolis, ladies and gentlemen.” He makes his way back to a gorgeous, exotic-looking brunette, one of the few “other” women here. It’s obvious by the way he looks at her and then bends to kiss her that he’s very much taken.
The crowd cheers again, but not nearly as much as they do when the top of the cake pops off.
I’m not surprised when a beautiful blonde arises, wearing nothing from the waist up but pasties. Gracefully, she climbs out of the cake and slinks her way down to Jake where he’s seated in the chair. That’s obviously the hot seat.
Behind them, another girl jumps up in the cake, this one a brunette who is also wearing only pasties. After she climbs out, another arises, making me wonder how much room there is inside that cake. But I don’t wonder for long. While the blonde is busy with the guest of honor, the only male in the room who looks like he’s really not interested, the other two girls get about their business—mingling. I see the brunette’s eyes scan the crowd and come to a screeching halt when they reach Jet. She visibly veers toward him.
With her loose-hipped walk, she struts straight to Jet. I feel his hand clamp down on my shoulder and I glance over at him. His face gives away nothing, but I can only imagine how hard this is for any man, much less one who has a weakness when it comes to sex.
The brunette bends to slide her hands up Jet’s thighs, reaching for his free hand and tugging. When he doesn’t move, she leans in to whisper something in his ear. She straightens, still holding his hand, still tugging. Jet gives her a polite smile and shakes his head. While she is perceptibly disappointed, the girl doesn’t continue to try to change his mind. Her eyes flicker to me once and then she concedes, moving to the guy sitting closest to Jet on the other side, putting her wiles to work on him right away. When she leans forward to flash her ample cle**age in his face, I notice that her eyes are still on Jet.
I focus on Jet to gauge his reaction, but he’s still staring straight ahead. When I glance toward the stage area again, it’s to see the redhead is now approaching. She, too, attempts to lure Jet into doing . . . something. Whatever it is that guys do with these types of girls at bachelor parties. But again, he resists.
He says nothing and neither do I. I question whether it’s going to be like this all night, but then the music changes. I’m relieved when it seems to signal that this portion of the night’s . . . entertainment has come to an end. But it doesn’t really. It only triggers another surprise.
All the service girls, the ones who look like pinup bunnies, file into a single line in front of the stage. With a crescendo in the new song, each reaches for the center of her little satiny outfit and pull. It breaks away, leaving each woman in only her fishnets, some tiny black panties, and black sparkly pasties.
As they stand before the crowd, posing in their feminine beauty, I scan their faces. It’s with growing dread that I see that a few of them are already eyeing Jet. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he is prone to excess. If this is the way women react to him on a regular basis, which I suspect it is to some degree, it’s no wonder he has trouble saying no.
I see a particularly interested waitress with short brown hair glancing repeatedly at Jet. So when the girls disperse, I’m not the least bit surprised to see her make a beeline for him.
I glance at Jet again. His face is set in stone, still showing no reaction whatsoever. If it weren’t for the tic at his jawline, I would think he’s made of steel. But that tiny tell is all it takes to show me what’s really going on inside him.