Revue (19 page)

“Okay okay, you’re right. I probably would be more comfortable with Brad and Josh. But still, this sucks arse.”

“Sorry. But it’s only one night. Spend most of it on the town after the show.”

Hmm … not a bad suggestion.

***

Opening the door, I stepped into the three-and-a-half-star rated motel room and laughed like a hyena with a headache when I spotted the bedding configuration.

One double bed. One single bed.
Oh well, I hope they like cuddling each other.

I bee-lined for the single and dumped my suitcase on it—the universal language of ‘this bed has been claimed’.

“No fuckin’ way, sweetheart,” Josh said, following me into the room with an unhappy this-shit-ain’t-sliding voice.

Pfft.
“Yes way.”

Brad’s incredulous laugh followed. “Yeah, Cori, sorry, but
that
shit ain’t going down.”

“It is. I’m not sleeping with either of you. You guys can draw straws for the floor then,” I said dismissively, still keeping my back to them.

Warmth touched the skin on my neck, sending an exquisite wave rippling through my body. “You and me are gonna have words, right now.” An icy dread replaced his heat when he stepped back and turned to Brad. “Surfer, can you give us a minute?”

“Depends if Cori wants that minute or not … Cor?”

Again, keeping my back to them, I unzipped my suitcase. “It’s fine, Brad. He’s right. We need to talk.”

“Fine,” Brad huffed, dropping his bag on the floor. “I’ll be outside.”

I waited until I heard the sound of the door shutting before turning around, only to have Josh’s lips find mine before I could open them and say ‘fuck you’.

Powerless.
My body was simply powerless when it came to him. It would heat just from his mere presence and sizzle on the spots where he placed his hands. Damn, I equally loved and hated how he made me feel. I loved it when we were together and the feeling was right … what it should be. But I hated it when we were apart … like this … and how it had me
powerless.

“Josh, stop!” I said, shoving him away. I’d had enough of his lip’s manipulation.

He stumbled back and fell to sit on the bed opposite me, his hands finding his hair. “I can’t fucking help myself when it comes to you.”

“Bullshit! You can’t help yourself full stop,” I spat. “Last night was a clear indication of that.”

He scoffed, his eyes darkening with anger. “You remember last night, do you? Good. Then you’ll remember the cockhead who had his hands all over you.”

“Yes, I do remember him,” I bit back, glaring. “I remember sliding my tongue down his throat while he squeezed my arse.”

Josh’s eye twitched. “Corinne,” he warned.

“What? What’s it to you? Why do you even care? If you cared half as much as you say you do, then you wouldn’t be so quick to stick your dick and tongue in the first thing that walks by.” I growled with frustration, slumping down on the bed and mimicking his posture. “You taught me that it’s okay to do this, Josh—that holding out for something that’s not real is just stupid. You taught me to say ‘up yours’ to love and ‘hello, happy fucking’. You. Taught. Me. Not. To. Care. So why is it okay for you to fuck freely and not okay for me? Please, tell me why?” I said through gritted teeth, squinting my eyes at him in readiness for a fucking fair explanation as to why the double standard.

He scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. “Because it’s not you.”

“And what ‘is’ me, Josh?” I said, bitterly. “You don’t know … that’s the point. You never gave ‘us’ a chance long enough to find out who I was … who ‘we’ were.”

We both sat in silence for a few seconds,

“I do know you. I know that right now you want to take those two or three steps between us, climb on to my lap and cry into my shoulder.”

I shook my head quickly, afraid that if I opened my mouth to say no that I’d say yes instead.

He leaned forward, piercing me with sad eyes. “Why are you fighting us?”

“Because you kill my light, Josh!” I yelled. “You destroy it.”

Standing up, I placed one hand on my hip and the other in my hair, gripping it as I paced before him and expelled all that I felt he needed to know in that moment. “It’s funny, you know? Because I once believed touch could heal all hurt, that one simple look could say all words. I believed in you and that I could be
your
exception.” I scoffed, still raw that I’d been so stupid to think that. “I believed in life’s greatest lie—love. And now, thanks to you, I no longer believe in any of that. Instead, I believe a heart cannot remain whole, that it dies piece by piece until there’s nothing left.” I stopped pacing and sat back down on my bed with a deflated thump. “So yeah, I’m fighting you … ‘us’ … to protect what parts of my heart remain.”

Silence.

Staring.

I could see he was still ready to push me, but I was done with his lies and empty words, with his indecision and regret. I was done being his puppet.

Breaking the silence, I continued to stare, but kept my voice low and calm. He needed to hear once and for all that he’d broken me … that I’d broken myself—that
we
were broken. “I knew I was wrong about you all along, Josh, my whispers of doubt constant. Yet I refused to listen, to see through that smoke-filled screen you placed before me.”

His brow furrowed and he went to object, his mouth opening, but I kept going. “It was me who let that denial cut deep, and now all I can do now is sit back and watch myself bleed. Y … you,” I stuttered.
“
You were my mistake.” A lone tear fell to my cheek, but I was too frozen with hurt and regret to wipe it away.

Josh dropped his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were glazed over, his jaw set … firm. He looked furious. “A mistake? Is that how you really feel?”

No. Yes. I don’t know.
Swallowing, I inhaled deeply and set my shoulders.
“Yes,” I said resolutely.

Lies.

Necessary lies.

“Then we’re done.” He stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind him and leaving me feeling as empty as I’d ever been.

***

Hours later, I was standing left of stage next to Patsy, taking photos just like I had these past few weeks. I hated myself. I hated what I’d become … what
Josh
had made me become. I hated him. But I especially hated how he had to stick his tongue down every goddam woman’s throat that he just so happened to be straddling. And fuck, was he straddling a lot of them.

“Christ, Bugs, settle down,” Patsy muttered to herself under her breath. “What the hell has gotten in to him tonight?”

I set him free, that’s what. I lied to him and set him free.

You can’t try and change a person. They have to want to change themselves. Clearly, Josh was happy being Josh
.

I snapped a few shots, choosing to capture the exhilaration of the audience. I’d seen enough of Josh’s display and did not need a photographic reminder.

“This is what he does, Patsy,” I said, my tone emotionless.

“Not like this he doesn’t.” She turned to face me, her expression stern. “Look, I don’t know what’s happened between the two of you. I don’t get involved in the guys’ personal lives. But when it affects the happy mojo I have going here, I will stick my beak in.”

“I understand. And I’m sorry. I never meant to cause any disruption to your mojo.” I gave her an apologetic smile. “Josh and I had a thing. But it’s over. It was never going anywhere. How could it? This is who he is and what he does. He wasn’t going to change that for anyone. Least of all me.”

“Yes, this is what he does,” she said, twisting and gesturing to the room as a whole. “But that? …” She pointed directly at him while he was grabbing two women’s hands and shoving them down his G-string. “That isn’t.”

Swallowing heavily, I looked down and fiddled with my camera. I was disgusted by his over-exuberant performance, at his apparent lack of class and dancing skill that he normally possessed. Strangely enough, and despite seeing women constantly fall all over him, touch him, and beg for him to touch them, I enjoyed watching him perform. I could see past the physicality involved between him and his audience, and I respected and appreciated the acting, effort and art behind the revue as a whole. But tonight? Tonight he was just repulsive.

“Corinne, honey, you may not think he can change
who he is
for you. And you’re right—he can’t and shouldn’t. But he can change his ways. And let me tell you, up until recently he was certainly doing that.”

Looking back up and out toward Josh, I knew deep down what Patsy was saying held some truth. But you couldn’t form a relationship with only fifty per cent effort. You were either in or out. And he was out.

“People fuck up,” she continued, her voice sombre.

Josh helped the two women—who’d grabbed his cock—to their feet, parading them through the audience to applause. He then kissed each of them on the cheek and whispered into their ears. Both women blushed and gave each other a curious smile.

  Turning on my heel, I paused and nodded in Josh’s direction. “Yeah, Patsy, they do … repeatedly.”

Fresh air—it always calmed and provided clarity. Enjoying it was the brain’s way of rewarding you and saying ‘Thanks for keeping me alive, here … chill out and calm the fuck down’. So that was what I was doing after seeing Josh set himself up for a cosy little threesome.
Fuck him.

The cool night air felt wonderful against my skin, cleansing my thoughts as I sat in the courtyard of the Coffs Harbour Hotel, crickets chirping a symphony in a nearby shrub. I wished they’d shut the fuck up. The chirping little fucklets made the worst noise in history.

Sighing, I needed to calm my farm and stop allowing Josh to bother me. We were done. Through. Zip. Nada. If he didn’t put value on who he was and what he was doing, then why should I? I shouldn’t, and quite frankly was no longer going to. In fact, I needed to move on and find someone I could have a bit of fun with. Maybe not a dirty little threesome as Josh was partaking in, but one single person who could give me an orgasm and not a broken heart. Yes, I needed a good ol’ fashioned one-night stand … then possibly another one.

Why not?

Standing up from the park bench seat I’d been sitting on, I walked back into the hotel, rushing when I heard Patsy announce Brad was closing the show with his new routine. He’d mentioned on the bus, while wearing a devilish smirk, that he was going to ‘perform his fuckin’ balls off’. So yeah, it had me curious. I was keen to see just how one’s balls would be performed into abandoning their owner.

Bring it on!

Positioning myself to the right and halfway into the room, I scanned the interior of The Coffs Harbour Hotel. It was typical of the style of venue the guys had been performing at since the tour had started. Except, being in Coffs Harbour, this venue was situated beside the beach and comprising floor-to-ceiling glass windows, which, at night, reflected the interior. I’d already taken a few pictures by way of reflection, loving the unusual perspective and quirky artistic flare. I was keen to get some shots of Brad in that style, as well.

Pointing Nina at the window, I set the focus on the stage at the exact moment the sound of waves lapping the shore filtered through the speakers. The lights were dim when Brad casually strutted onto the stage, movements controlled and confident. He was nothing but a silhouette and appeared to be carrying something … big.

It looked like a surfboard.

I smiled.

The room morphed from darkness to an amber glow and a woman’s exotic voice kicked in—a vocal arpeggio. I recognised the song straight away: “Drunk in Love” by Beyoncé.
Oh hell yes! This is perfect.

Brad stood casual, leaning against the board with one foot crossed over the other. He was illuminated in yellow light and superciliously winked and tipped his chin to different areas of the crowd. The golden glimmer surrounding his body gave the aura of a hot summer’s day. It also increased the temperature of my own body. He looked hot!

Wearing long-cut, black board shorts and a white tank top, Brad’s shoulder-length blond hair sat perfectly scruffy. Oh, and the man was bare-footed.

I took him in. My pulse quickened. He looked amazing. And my God, you’d have to be blind or a lesbian not to swallow deeply and lick your lips for the need to dampen your parched mouth. So that’s what I did … swallowed, licked my lips, and pressed my finger on the shutter, taking some quick shots of his sun-kissed body before the lighting changed.

Beyoncé’s voice blasted through the room, singing about drinking, thinking and being unable to keep her fingers off a guy. The song itself spoke of sex, but with Brad on stage, rolling his abdomen seductively to the lyrics … holy crap! He ran his hands down his chest and abs, stopping to lift the hem of his tank top suggestively. Trailing them farther, he dipped one down the side of his oblique, highlighting his
V
. The seductive smirk on his face and the hint of golden tanned skin was enough to elicit some excited screams and wolf whistles.

Trust me, I was tempted to scream myself. He was definitely workin’ it tonight.

Lowering my camera, I let it hang from my neck strap and turned to face the stage, captivated by how enthralled he was in his own performance. This act was so much better than his alternative, and I was definitely going to be telling him that.

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. It reminded me of that worm dance move, but
so
much sexier. His biceps were tensed and the muscles across his shoulders and back were bumpier than a carton of eggs.
Holy fuck!
I had the sudden urge to trail my fingers over each and every rise and groove.

Shaking my head, I took a seat and got comfortable, ignoring the fact I’d just invited myself to sit at a table of strangers. If they looked at me oddly, I hadn’t noticed. And I honestly didn’t care. My feet were sore, I was exhausted, and Brad had me fixated on his body and what he was doing with it. And fuck me was he doing all kinds of wonderful things. So wonderful, that I really wanted to be the goddamn surfboard he was dry humping.
Wow!

Who knew Brad could be so … so enticing? It made me smile, amazed at how a sexy song and an equally sexy routine could make me see him in a different light. I don’t know … he just seemed so much more confident, so natural, and so fucking delicious.

The beat kicked in and Brad quickly jumped from his push-up to his feet, poised on the board, arms out in a surfing position. It was smooth, slick and very cool, especially how he bounced during the chorus. I liked that bit. The bouncing. It flexed his quads and pronounced his arse.
Yes … very nice!

The fast tap of a snare drum kicked in and Brad stepped off the surfboard, bouncing to the beat toward the front of the stage in a cocky I’m-the-shit kind of way. The lyrics about grinding in a club played, and Brad ground his hips into the air in small sharp bursts. One thing he did well was hit dance moves perfectly to the beat of the song. You could tell he felt the music. It wasn’t forced. He knew the song, knew each of the elements it contained, and knew how to work with them.

The chorus kicked in and Brad wrenched his tank top off and tossed it as he bounced about. He then rolled his abs and chest in waves of sexual filth, my eyes following the ripple of his body and wanting to get dirty from those motions. I swear to God, if I was a cartoon character my tongue would’ve rolled out of my mouth and hit the floor.
Holy fuck did Brad know how to work this song.

Jay Z’s rap sequence sounded, which was when 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. 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.

Watching him approach the table I was seated at, I sat still, hoping to blend into the crowd. The problem was, I didn’t. Where the women around me had styled hair, bright lipstick, heavily coated lashes and provocative clothing, I had a ponytail, singlet top, jeans, and Chucks. I stood out like a sore thumb.

A girl across the table from me, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, squealed like a stuck pig when Brad stopped by her chair and dragged his finger down her cheek, neck and across her cleavage.

It made me laugh … a little too loud, which grabbed his attention.

He looked up.

I looked down.

He walked around the table.

I tried to crawl under it.

Okay, so I didn’t actually try to crawl under it. But I wanted to. Badly. I wanted to hide but, instead, I sat like a deer in headlights and mentally told my cheeks to remain anything but red. I told them that if they blushed I would slap them stupid next time I was alone.

They didn’t listen.

They flamed like a goddamn tomato.

Brad stopped, 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. His face was now level with mine. I stiffened and held my breath, my eyes wide and taking in the desire that was building in his.

His fingers flexed then spread my legs apart, and I’d like to say that what happened next was a blur … but it wasn’t. It was crystal clear. Brad kneeled on the floor in front of me and ran his hands up and down my legs. I whacked them, giving him a stern look, but I could tell he wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

Shithead! Frustrating, annoying, turd!
That was what he was. He knew he’d placed me in a predicament that tipped the scales in his favour. He knew this because, when at a revue performance, if you were to turn your nose up at one of the performers when they chose you to ‘play with them’, you’d be booed, frowned upon and shamed. You’d be burned at the stake. Well, maybe not in practical terms but, theoretically you’d be marked for an untimely death due to the unspoken consensus being that if you weren’t up for some fun, then you shouldn’t be there.

It wasn’t that I was opposed to having some fun. I just wasn’t happy about having it when working … and with Brad … and in front of all our colleagues.

Frantically, but subtly, I shook my head at him and let my eyes speak of the hell I would rain down upon him if he went any further with his tease. The son-of-a-bitch ignored me. Apparently, he was unsympathetic to my warning, opting to continue with the fondling of my legs.
Goddamn it, Brad!

Realising I had to just sit there, endure it and play along, I buried my head in my hands and pretended I was embarrassed. It wasn’t a complete charade—I was … a little.

Brad pulled my hands away, swivelled my camera around to my back and draped my hands on his shoulders, forcing me to lean forward.

He then whispered into my ear, “Don’t pretend you aren’t enjoying this.”

I dug my nails into his skin and whispered back, “I’m going to enjoy kicking your arse after the show.”

Placing his hands firmly on my lower back, he slid me along the seat until I slammed into his stomach. He then hopped in one swift movement, from his knees to his feet in a squatted position. “I suggest you hang on,” he murmured.

What?
Brad stood up, and I had no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist in the fear I would fall. I also squealed like a schoolgirl. “Brad! No! Put me down!”

He laughed.

It wasn’t funny.

It was far from fucking funny … in a funny kind of way.

“Don’t you dare take me on stage,” I growled in his ear, watching over his shoulder as the back of the room grew farther away.
He’s so taking me on that stage. That son-of-a-bitch is taking me on that stage.
Brad ‘Surfer’ Rowlands was about to sign his death warrant.

Rising with each step he took, I soon found myself blinded by a stage light and burying my head into his shoulder. I also clung to him for dear life. If I clung, I could not be put down … on that stage.

Genius.

Not so much.

“Let go of me, Cori,” he instructed, his tone a little grumpy.

I dug my nails in again and murmured “no”.

“If you don’t I will lay you on the stage and dry-fuck you in front of everyone in this room.”

I released my grip.

Instantly.

Fury bubbled in my stomach as Brad led me to a lone chair in the middle of the stage. I sat like a good little girl and glared tiny daggers at him, which was when he bent down, cupped my face and kissed me—his tongue ever so slightly dipping in to my mouth.

Pulling away, the shit-eating grin he wore was one of victory, as if he’d just conquered Mt Everest. Instead, what he’d conquered was a meeting with my slap, named ‘bitch’. The bastard was gonna cop it as soon as we were backstage.

Placing my head in my hands again, I pretended to hide safely behind my fingers while Brad danced around my chair. Taking comfort behind my fingers reminded me of when I was a child, and how I would hide in the middle of the room in the best spot possible—crouched into a ball with my hands on my face. No one could find me there. I was invisible. Now? Not so much. Now, I was extremely visible.

Brad peeled my hands from my cheeks and brought one to his lips, applying a kiss to my wrist while winking. He then spun to face the audience and reverse-straddled my lap, taking control of my hands once again and guiding them up and down his chest.
Sweet mother of oily six-packs! Wow!