Punk and Zen (22 page)

“Not my thing.” I smiled over my shoulder as I walked
my tray to the bar.

I worked the rest of the night, like I did the
others—fetching drinks, cleaning, making chitchat and correct change. When we’d
closed and the lights had come on for the cleanup, Jen approached me again.

“Is it ’cuz you’re small town, or is it ’cuz you’re a
virgin?” Jen asked me as I sat at the now-emptied and shiny clean bar, sipping
a Coke and waiting for Grace to come up front with tonight’s pay. The few
patrons that remained—all half dozen or so—were well-known regulars either
waiting to meet someone, hooking up with someone from the staff, or just
keeping us company, I guess. I suspected one or two of them had romantic
inclinations toward Grace.

“What?” I asked casually, not rising to Jen’s bait. I
ABC figured that as long as I kept perfectly calm and didn’t react to
anything Jen said, maybe she’d eventually back off. So far my strategy hadn’t
really worked, but it was better than losing my temper.

I beat the shit out of the trees in the yard when I
got home.

But still…she was the boss when Dee Dee wasn’t
around—and that was a lot, because it seems that managing a bar has a lot more
to do with schedules and paperwork than it does with bartending.

“Your attitude,” Jen answered, skipping snideness for
directness this time. “Are you just really that provincial?”

I sipped my soda quietly as I considered how to
answer, then put the glass down carefully. “What are you talking about? What
attitude? And secondly, how do you know I’m not racking ’em up on the side?” I
stared into those dark eyes.

Jen’s lip curled into a sneer. “Kid, I had to rip them
off of you tonight, and you didn’t even respond. And it’s not the first time
that happened, either. You get numbers shoved at you left and right, and you
don’t even glance at them. You just smile thanks and stick ’em in your pocket.
What’s wrong with you?” She finally got to her burning question. “Are you
deformed or something?”

Well, it wasn’t snide, but it was still rude. I raised
an unamused eyebrow.

Jen did have a point. Women stuck money in my bra,
their numbers written on the bills. When I brought them their drinks, they’d
ask if I could give them a cherry, then tied cherry stems into knots with their
tongues and smiled sweetly as they handed them to me. They brought me
cappuccinos and pizza; one even made me a sweater, and another gave me a
leather jacket I still have. One called me edible, and another asked what
afternoon she could pencil me in for a session of cunning linguistics—and yes,
I know what that means.

The night before, some guy (an occasional guy came in.
They were either gay or vouched for by the women they were with) offered to pay
me if I would take his young friend to a prepaid hotel room and help her
celebrate her twenty-first birthday—by “making her a woman.” These women were
pretty, smart, charming. They were sexy, bold, creative. Some of them were
aggressive, and some of them were shy, and through it all, I smiled, I thanked
them for the cappuccino, I listened politely—and I said no. Every time.

For those that got a little too aggressive for my
taste, there was Jen. And in all honesty, it didn’t matter how crowded the
place got—and sometimes there was barely breathing room. All I had to do was
turn my head and lift my chin, and in seconds, I’d receive an apology—or
there’d be room for one more on the dance floor.

Earlier this particular evening a group of women were
celebrating something, I dunno what—could’ve been a softball game, could have
been a corporate merger, the clientele was so diverse—and I’d had to take two
trays of drinks to the table they’d found in the corner. While I was holding
the trays, about four of them tried to strip me—and I mean strip ABC Page
107me.

I didn’t know what to do, and when I looked around for
Jen to call her, I just made eye contact and she was there in less than half a
second flat. Good thing, too, because my shirt was already open to the waist,
and the first button of my jeans had gotten undone.

“I mean, nothing fazes you. You know, one day when
you’re older, you’re gonna look back at this time and wish you’d done something
with it.” Jen nodded at me solemnly. “They’re not always gonna throw it at you
like that.”

I toyed with the edge of my glass. It’s not like she
was saying anything I hadn’t thought before; I just didn’t believe that shit
anymore. Besides, how did you explain to someone that you were already, in your
heart of hearts, sick to death of the whole, empty, ugly thing?

None of it meant anything. At the Red Spot, the women
had wanted me because I was the DJ—no other reason. After the incident with
Candace and some others, they’d wanted me because they “knew” I’d make them
come. Hell, women and girls, even straight ones, would accost me in the club
and try to kiss me. I knew which were straight, though. The gay girls would try
to kiss me wherever; the straight ones tried to steal my kisses in the
bathroom.

Me, well, I was no innocent. Sometimes I’d taken
someone who kissed me into the booth to make out and dance with them there,
sometimes two. More than several nights I’d left the booth and prowled the
crowd, so restless, so high on that feeling that rides right under the skin
through the blood, that unquenchable thirst, that I took the maximum the booth
could hold—three—back with me.

I hadn’t cared who they were or who they were with—it
didn’t matter. For as long as I wanted, they were mine. Any of them. All I’d
had to do was walk up, smile, and nod toward the booth. They knew what to do,
they always did.

Usually a party in the booth had meant just that, a
party. We’d make out, we’d dance, and the girls drank for free. It was sensual
more than sexual, and I’d sent more than one back to her boyfriend or
girlfriend (but usually a boyfriend—the girlfriend usually came in too) more
than ready for whatever they were going to do next.

Unless we were dancing or kissing, though, I let no
one touch me. I fucked some of them, and on at least two occasions I’d fucked
one while making out with another. No one ever, ever, got invited back a second
time. My nights had gotten more and more crowded; the dancers themselves took
on a new edge. I no longer wore black most of the time—I wore it all the time,
and I’d earned it.

Jen’s voice broke in over my thoughts. “Really, Nina.
One day, you’re going to be old and alone and not as pretty, I mean, as young
as you are now. You should just get out there and enjoy it, you know? Rack up
the points while you can.”

Ah, points. There it was again, the concept that got
me into so much trouble in the first place. I smiled at Jen, trying not to
chuckle. She was being sincere, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Besides, this was the ABC first time she’d ever spoken to me without
her customary growl or glare, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment.

But it was fucking ironic. I mean, everyone put so
much pressure on getting laid. Why? There had to be something more to being
“young, dumb, and full of cum,” as Cap described everyone under thirty. Wasn’t
there? Something more, I mean.

And I was surprised, too. I mean, okay, I knew
straight guys had to deal with that sort of pressure from their peers all the
time; I could see that with Nico and the other guys I knew. But I was shocked
to experience the same sort of pressure from women, I mean, from gay women.
Wasn’t that the sort of thing every woman pretty much complained about? How all
anyone wanted to do was to fuck ’em? Part of the negative aspect of patriarchal
culture or some such stuff? So why repeat the pattern? And why, why of all
people, pick on me?

Besides, what the hell did Jen know about me anyway?
She had no idea of who I was or what I’d done. I mean, for fuck’s sake, one
night while I was DJing, during the beginning of a really hot tune, I’d
descended from the skybox to hunt—that was what it was, essentially. In
seconds, I found the right girl. This night had brought me a blonde with an
attitude I liked, and as I stepped up to her, a familiar voice spoke over my
shoulder.

“Trace always said you were really cute,” said Van.
What a fuck. But interesting, though, I noted, because he and Trace weren’t
together; but he was with the girl I wanted.

The last time I’d seen him had been a few weeks
before—after Candace and before my first anonymous guest.

In my mind’s eye, I could still see the quirk of his
lips. “Don’t talk to me,” I told Van and laughed lightly, never taking my eyes
from his dance partner, who smiled back a bit nervously. “Go wait by the
booth.”

I’ve no idea what had possessed me to order him like
that, but whatever the reason, I wasn’t terribly surprised when he did it. I’d
tracked him until he settled by the door, then returned my attention to the
blonde before me. She wasn’t a girl, exactly, and she was a bit more than a
young woman. Whatever she was, she was definitely beautiful, with lanky legs,
and, as I said before, I liked the way she tossed her head. It was that simple.

“I’m Nina,” I smiled and introduced myself, although I
knew it wasn’t necessary. “Join me for a drink.” It wasn’t a question; we both
knew the answer.

“Simone,” she answered with a coy look and licked her
lips. “I’d love to.”

Yes, this was going to be a great night, I’d thought
as I took her hand and led her back to the skybox. I didn’t even look at Van,
and they both followed me in.

“Lock it,” I ordered casually over my shoulder as I
strolled to the request window and signaled for Andra. I glanced down at my
meters as I passed; I was good for time.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked Simone
cordially.

“Corona. Corona with—”

“—with lime,” I finished for her with another smile,
and the one she reciprocated with packed some serious sensuality.

Van piped in. “Hey, I want—”

I held up a hand to forestall him; I didn’t want to
hear his voice if I could help it.

“Tequila. Beer back, right?” I asked, finally looking
at him and arching my brow.

Van seemed impressed that I knew that as I returned to
the window.

Andra had arrived and I told her what we needed. “Oh,
and the usual for me.” I grinned at her. She smiled and nodded, then eased back
through the crowd.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” I invited both of them.
“I’ve got to set a few times.”

At my tables, I checked my mix, my mike, and my
headphones. As I slipped them over my head, I asked Simone, “Any special
requests?”

She and Van had made themselves at home along the back
bench, but at that, she stood up. “Only if you’ll dance with me,” she replied,
her voice throaty and low.

“Of course.” I laughed lightly, because that was the
point, because it was part of the plan, and she was eager to play my game.
“What will it be?”

She told me, and I programmed my next set. By the time
I was done, the drinks had arrived and I tossed mine down—a shot of scotch
followed by a shot of blackberry brandy. If I was going to poison my liver, I
didn’t want all the extra calories that a mixed drink would provide. In fact,
it was a good thing I didn’t like beer—turns out that just one serving has a
full pound of them.

Everything and everyone set, I’d danced with Simone,
and Van danced behind her. She was a good dancer, and when the timing was
right, I kissed her, a thorough, sensual kiss that made promises I just might
keep—tonight. Simone’s hands clutched at my waist as mine tickled, traveled,
and teased up her spine. With my tongue I drew delicate lines into the hollow
of her throat that I knew, from the deep sound that rumbled beneath and through
my lips, she enjoyed.

When Van reached forward, I slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” I told him with a deadly smile over
Simone’s ABC shoulder. “You don’t talk to me, and you don’t touch me.”

“Sorry,” he’d muttered and looked away, over at the
dancing crowd.

“Now…where were we?” I asked Simone as her hips swayed
dangerously close to mine, but I held them tightly, less than an inch away from
me, building, playing, delaying the inevitable. “Oh, I remember.” I smiled.
“Right about here,” and I returned my lips to her neck.

By design rather than by accident we’d ended up with
Van on the back bench and Simone between us. Van spread his legs, and Simone
nestled between his thighs, her ass grinding against his denim-covered cock as
we continued to dance, a dance that was more dry fuck than music. When Van
groaned, I had to really force myself not to think about the last time I’d seen
him.

I’d nibbled on her lip and let my fingertips trail
along her thighs until I reached her cunt. What a nice surprise, I thought as
she tossed her head and leaned back against Van, clutching his thighs. No
underwear and shaved. She spread her legs for me, and I slid my fingers between
her warm, wet lips, enjoying her silkiness. She groaned, and I licked the
column of her neck.

“God…” Van muttered, his hips grinding behind her.

“If you’re not quiet, I’ll stop,” I warned him as I
gently played in Simone’s waiting cunt, teasing the emptiness that waited for
me to fill it, “and if I hear you come, I swear to heaven, I’ll slap you.”