She huffs. “I’m older. I just got those genes, you know? Put me and my ma side by side, you’d think we were sisters.” A pause. “I’m thirty.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t believe it.”
She cackles, and digs her wallet from her sparkly black clutch, finds her ID, shoves it at me. “See?”
I look—the numbers and letters only swim a little bit.DOB 1-19-92.
“Wow. You look like you could beyoungerthan me.”
“You’re sweet.” She leans forward and out into the aisle, peering through the windshield. “Oooh, here we go.” She glances at me. “Never been to aprivateclub before, you?”
I snort. “I’ve never been toanyclub before.”
“Well, you’re in for an experience, I know that much.”
The bus halts, and the door opens, and the girls begin filing out, cross-chatter and inebriated laughter once again at near-deafening volume.
“Honestly, Angel, this whole night has been a heck of an experience. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me along,” I say as I follow her out.
She grins at me over her shoulder. “Don’t thank me till we get you laid, sister.”
Laid.
Oof.
I haven’t had sex in ten months, three weeks, and six days. I know the exact date—my birthday. It was missionary, Darren came in less than three minutes—I was timing—and he didn’t even question whether I came or not. And the answer to that question, had he asked, would have been a resounding NO. Not even close.
My vibrator and my imagination have gotten alotof use over the past ten months.
A LOT a lot.
Angel must sense the reason behind my hesitation. “You aren’t gonna tell me a girl as sexy-fine as you is a virgin, are you?”
“No.” I whisper it, then continue in a louder voice. “I was married for six years. But it, um, went south, and things between my husband and I—” I halt. “Ex-husband, I mean. The divorce is so recent I’m still not used to saying ex. Anyway, things weren’t good toward the end, so it’s, um, been a long while since I’ve gotten, uhhh…laid.”
“Well, today’s as good a day as any to end that dry spell.”
I laugh. “I’ve only ever been with my ex. I wouldn’t even know…” I shake my head as we finally make it off the bus and into the desert air—out here, it’s nearly cold. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Angel falls in beside me as we cross in front of the main entrance on our way to the serpentine maze of red velvet rope leading to the wide double doors. I gaze, concerned, terrified, and excited, at the name of the club, written in fifty-foot-high illuminated letters. Three letters. Each one the color of blood:
S I N
Electronic music thuds out of the open doors, which are at least fifteen feet high. Beyond, red velvet curtains block off the view of the club interior from the outside, but a tiny sliver between the curtains allows glimpses of flashing strobe lights and hints of moving bodies.
There are a good hundred or so people in line before us, each dressed to kill, the men in tight slacks and expensive shoes, shirts open to reveal bronzed chests, hair coiffed just so. The women seem to have all taken the same course in how to dress to revealeverythingwithout actually being naked.
I suddenly feel both overdressed and underdressed at the same time.
I’m not even wearing makeup. I almost never do, but still.
Angel pulls me with her, until I’m nearly trotting—we’re skipping the line, I guess. Cassie is leading the way, phone out. On either side of the double doors are two gargantuan men. They’re dressed in black cargo pants—the military kind, not the weekend-warrior dad kind—tucked into shiny black combat boots, with tight black T-shirts that stretch around acres of muscle, the club’s name as a logo on the left breast, written in the same bloodred font. They’re either brothers or twins, these guys—blond hair cut short and swept to one side, buzzed to the scalp between ears and crown. They have earpieces trailing down to walkie-talkies on their belts, and wear mirrored sunglasses, even though it’s at least midnight. And when I say acres of muscle, I mean at least fifty acres each. I have never in my life seen men in the flesh who look like these guys. Their arms are the size of my thighs, rippling with muscle, forearms corded and thick, hands like cinder blocks, thighs like tree trunks—all the usual euphemistic romance trope descriptors apply here. Except they’re real.
Ahead, I notice several of the girls in the group are leaning into each other and whispering, giggling—about the men, I would wager.
Cassie shows one of them her phone, and he pulls a phone or some handheld device from his back pocket, scans her phone with it. Then, he steps to the side and pivots ninety degrees, blocking off the entry of the people in the line. The other statuesque male reaches around the doorway and produces something—a roll of red paper bracelets. He fixes one to each of our left wrists and ushers us in, all without a word.
I shuffle nervously forward, aware of the resentful glares of the people in line, who’ve probably been waiting for a long time, and here we are just waltzing in.
