“Ooh, I bet it’s so pretty,” Vicky says, and then beams her bright white teeth at us.
I hope she’s smiling like that afterwards, because I’m worried that after what I have planned, she may never speak to us again.
“Let’s go get changed,” I announce, as we make our way to our hotel. “Our night has only just begun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ROCCO
The rest of the drive goes off without a hitch, and after showering and changing into jeans and dress shirts we head to the Rock Bar for a few beers. Not that I’m drinking. We have about an hour to kill before the strippers arrive back at the hotel.
I feel like a sucky best man, because I’m not looking forward to it. What guy doesn’t look forward to lap dances and easy girls strutting around naked in a hotel?
One that’s trying to stay sober.
Once upon a time I’d be all over this kind of shit, but now? Easy chicks and strippers remind me of the stupor I used to be in, far too often. Paralytic, blind-rotten drunk. Now that I’m dry, I don’t need triggers. Really, the next thing I know my cock is going to shrivel up and drop off one day in the shower.
As we sidle up to the bar, wolf whistles and girls screaming and laughing around the end of the bar distract me.
“You want something?” Jones asks, with a shrug of one shoulder.
“A Coke.” I lift my chin. There might as well be a giant ‘pussy’ sign on my forehead.
“No dramas,” Jones says without batting an eyelid. He turns and hails a bartender.
Fuck he’s good to me.
“I’m gonna check out what’s goin’ on,” I tell him, and walk towards the squeals.
Much to my surprise, there’s a bucking bull area. Facing the ring, three girls are leaning up against the edge, wearing white tanks and matching short shorts, with dark purple sashes draped across their upper bodies. One is short with blonde, cropped hair, and the others are tall with long, fair hair. They have legs that go on forever. Another group of girls stand to the side, helping a girl dressed in pink out of the ring.
We’d already passed two hen’s groups on the way here. Vegas is just one big fucking hen’s and buck’s party.
I sit on a stool at an empty area and watch them. It’s a reprieve from watching the other boys drink.
“Come on, April,” a familiar voice chants. “Now that you’ve seen the other hen ride, it’s your turn to dominate this bad boy.”
Ha. What are the odds? How many bars are in this town?
The tall girl in the middle hitches her leg over and climbs into the padded ring. She turns around and bows, confirming that it is in fact April. She runs her fingers over the words ‘Bride to Be’ on her sash, wearing a smile that would melt hearts all over this party town.
“Watch me rope this sucker,” she says, and makes a lasso movement with her right hand. The girls encourage her with claps and cheers as she kicks off her sandals and mounts the padded beast.
The machine kicks and then starts a slow roll forward and then tilts and sways back. Two seconds later, April is flat on her back on the brown leather padding. She giggles as she rolls onto all fours, her shoulders heaving as the laughter takes over her whole body.
“This bull can kiss my arse,” April curses with a huff. Once she’s balancing on two feet, she slaps the back end of it. “Nothing on Pamplona,” she says.
She ran with the bulls? Why does this not surprise me about her? Jones has certainly gotten himself a firecracker.
Speaking of Jones, I’d better get back to him. It’s his bucks.
“Maybe I should show you how it’s done,” Suds challenges.
That “Pony” song blares from the speakers. Of course it fuckin’ does.
“Be my guest, fair maid of honour,” April says, and does a curtsy before her, gripping at the sides of her shorts.
As if I can turn away now.
Suds slips off her white sandals and moves like some kind of sexy goddess as she hoists herself to sit on the edge of the ring, and then twists slightly to place one foot on the ledge, spreading her knees apart. She giggles, carefree as anything as she climbs inside. With a swivel of her hips, she grips the edge and turns her back on her friends. She leans back, showing off how fuckin’ incredible her tits are as her upper body hangs upside down off the edge and she balances like some kind of kinky yoga teacher with her toes reaching for the sky.
I palm the front of my jeans. I don’t know why I had to physically confirm that I’m hard as a hammer.
“You tease! Hurry up and ride that animal,” April shouts.
“We need more champagne,” Vicky squeals at a passing waitress.
Suds pulls herself up and then throws a leg over the machine and wiggles her hips until she settles into position. She gives a nod and then the bull starts to move.
With each roll and twist, Suds sways her body, holding her left arm high in the air and pushing her chest out when the time is right. She’s in control. She makes it look as if she was born to be a bull rider, but more than any of that, she’s hot as fuck.
“Here’s your Coke,” Jones says, and holds the tall glass in front of me. I choke. On what, I’m fuckin’ baffled. As I scull down my drink, the bubbles itch inside my nose with each gulp.
“Will you look at that?” Nathan says from beside me. “What I’d give to have that beauty ride me. Holy hell. The way she rolls her hips …” The bull turns so her front is facing us. “Those tits are frickin’ superb.”
Suds has now gained the attention of a large crowd of guys, who are milling around the edge of the ring. I hate that they’re watching her. Everyone in here is ogling at my …
“We should go,” I bark out. I’ve got a right mind to haul Soph over my shoulder and drag that sexy arse out of here. It’s not my place, and she’s not my girl but fuck, if only.
Why am I thinking like this? Is the desert air doing something to my brain?
“Um, yeah. Drink up boys,” Jones announces. “We don’t want to disturb the girls on their night out.”
****
The two strippers hover over Jones as he lies flat on his back in his Calvin Klein jocks where the coffee table was just minutes before. Stone, Billy, Nathan, Steve and Brett sit around the neighbouring couches, and I perch on the arm of a chair in the corner. Stone looks more interested in the label on his beer bottle than the main attraction in front of him. The other guys look like salivating dogs ready for their next meal.
The end of “Wet” by Snoop Dog blares through the portable speakers. Thank fuck the song is nearly over.
Every other man in the room is transfixed on these women as the ginger-haired girl takes a can of shaving cream and starts shaking it. As she performs this simple act, her bare oversized boobs jiggle. They’re big, but her skin looks stretched to almost bursting point. Those nasty surgical scars underneath her tits leave no illusion as to whether they’re fake or not. It makes me wanna vomit.
When they said they did tricks, I had no idea what that entailed, I just said they needed to keep it clean. Nothing that in any way shape or form would lead the bride-to-be to inflict grievous bodily harm on me, or more importantly, on the groom. I hope to fuck they stick to the plan.
“This’ll be cool to start, honey,” the dark-haired waif says as she squats over him in a black string bikini. She might as well be wearing nothing, because the top is more like putting two discount stickers on a pair of watermelons.
“You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC kicks through the speaker and instantly my mood sours. Suds. This is something she’d listen to. I’d give anything to be with her now, rather than be witnessing this freak show.