“Tall, dark... athletic...”
“…Twelve inch cock,” I giggled. “Probably one of my callers.”
She didn’t even pause. “He’s got tattoos on his chest, and shoulders. Top of his arm, too. Faces and stuff, like icons. Think his gran was Roman Catholic or some shit.”
“That’ll sure help me identify him, since everyone is fully clothed this evening.” A trio of blondes walked past in little more than belts with their pert little arse cheeks on show. “I take that back...”
She squealed in my ear, jumping up and down on the spot. “I see him!” she hissed. “Over by the DJ booth in the corner. He was looking right over here!” I tried to look but she yanked me by the elbow. “Jesus, don’t make it obvious.”
“What now, then?” I sighed. “Can we dance or something?”
“You think that will work?”
“No idea, I just want to dance,” I grinned. “Worst case scenario you’ll have to march on up to him, and say Hey, I’m Chelsea. Fancy a fuck so I can sell your story to the papers? How could he possibly refuse?”
“I could go up to him.”
“I was joking.”
“What if someone else pulls him in the meantime?”
I grabbed her arm, determined to get my groove on. “Then you’ll just have to take Fernando instead, won’t you?”
“Redfern’s got until midnight to make a move,” she said. “After that I’m just gonna jump on him...”
Poor guy wouldn’t know what hit him.
Jason
Theo’s birthday crowd was dripping with hangers on. They spilled onto the dance floor, giving more attention to who was watching them than they did to the music. Hair flicks and pouts, and exaggerated wiggles. Fake. All fake.
But not Gemma.
She found her groove without a care for the crowd around her, shaking her juicy arse without a damn for how cool she looked, or who was dancing next to her. A whirling, smiling tornado of red curls, vivacious and contagious. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Her blonde friend was pretty but couldn’t dance for shit. She swayed like a mannequin, eyes scanning the crowd as she shifted from side to side. I’d avoid her eyes as they hunted adoration, but they seemed to follow me. Me and any other guy who was anyone, most likely.
I sank into the Singers’ crowd, keeping a hand in the conversation without losing sight of my dirty girl. Theo was already well gone, a drunken mess by midnight, slurring and chanting and grabbing any tits within arm’s reach. Lads will be lads, and I was too old for this shit. Too old for this place.
It didn’t take long before the usual drunken bullshit started up. Dare or forfeit. Forfeit invariably involves necking down some alcoholic monstrosity and dare invariably involves fucking about with women.
I made it pretty damn clear I wouldn’t be joining in.
Theo’s dare was a piece of piss. Snog some random at his table. The girl didn’t even pretend to object, slobbering his face off while he copped a good grope of her ass for the privilege. Riley’s dare gave him sixty seconds to get a girl to flash her tits for the boys. He managed it with twenty seconds left on the clock. Then came Powell’s dare. Powell’s good for anything, crazy bastard.
Theo surveyed the crowd, scoping out a challenge. My stomach hit on the floor when he pointed it out.
“There,” he laughed. “Chubby red strutting her stuff on the dance floor. Fuck her in the toilets and bring us her knickers.”
Powell grinned his head off. “Not into fat girls, mate. Pick again.”
The table stamped their feet. Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit, but Powell put his hands up.
“Alright, alright. Chubby it is.” He skulked away, heading for an oblivious Gemma while my fists twitched at my sides.
“Show’s over,” I said. “Training on Monday, you’ve all had enough.”
“Only just getting started,” Theo laughed.
“Show’s fucking over, Fernandez,” I snapped. “I fucking mean it. This shit’s going too far.”
I made my way towards the dance floor, but Winstanley blocked my way, necking champagne from the bottle. The drunk prick was stumbling about the place; obscuring my view of the dancefloor and spouting barely-audible drivel. I struggled to get away, palming him off onto Danny Fieldman on his way back from the toilets.
I made an escape to the shadows at the side of the DJ booth for a better vantage point, scanning the dance floor for my dirty girl and that stupid asshole Powell. If he touched her, I’d rip his fucking spleen out. And yet I was fucking hard. Hard at the thought of him pounding her soft, wet pussy in the club toilets.