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Chapter Seven: Heather at the Club


It was only like nine by the time I hauled myself out of the shower and gone downstairs to eat. I chowed down quick on a protien bar and a sandwich, then grabbed a Red Bull and headed out the door. I wasn't gonna sit around in the house all night. I had a score to even. So I swung into my car and drove downtown to one of the clubs. The lights gleamed off my car and I blasted my music and by the time I was rolling into the club I had my swagger going and I felt like I was gonna get lucky. I needed to get lucky just to cleanse my poor pallette of Monica from San Diego.

The lights stroked through the club, lighting it up like nobody's business. The dancers all ground and moshed their way through a pit that filled the center of the room. I glanced around for some direction to gravitate in, and finally settled on heading to the circular bar off to the left. I snaked my way through the dancers, the smell of sweat and mixing perfumes and the light misty vapor that the club had going over the floor filled my senses. Green strobe lights sliced the dark. The music was so loud and the bass so deep the floor shook. I got to the bar and ordered a drink and held it in my hand, swishing the ice, looking around for someone to be my target.

I spotted her without much effort. She was wearing a stringy tank top covered with rhinestones. The tank top looked like it'd been slashed across the front - in a fashionable way, of course - and revealed bits of her skin, only just barely covering everything that needed to (legally) be covered. She had on short-shorts and stilettos and bunch of dark eyeliner. She was laughing through bright red lips. She was with some friends, but they were all drunker than skunks. She reeked of quickie in the bathroom.

I pointed her out to the bar tender, "I'd like to send another of whatever she's drinking over to her," I said.

The bar tender nodded and frolicked off to make her drink. I watched as he carried a big pink thing over to her and put it down in front of her. She looked up and he pointed back at me at the bar and I saw her eyes light up and she thanked him, then got up and carried her drink in my direction.

Well that was easy, I thought. And that made me think of the Staples Easy button. I felt like women in clubs all had a Staples Easy button glued to their asses. I was definitely about to tie with Chris. And hey, if I was right and this was a quickie in the bathroom situation then I could probably take over tonight, too. For the hell of it I glanced around the room as the girl approached to see if I could spot another Easy Button chick.

"Hey," she said, coming to a stop beside me and sipping her drink. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," I replied.

She smiled around the straw, her red lips sucking softly on the end of it.

If only Monica from San Diego could see; I certainly didn't have any ED happening now.

"What's your name, baby?" I asked.

She blinked up at me with big doe-eyes. "Heather," she replied thickly.

"That's a nice name," I said.

She giggled.

"What're you up to Heather?" I asked.

"Just celebrating," she answered, still sucking on the straw. Her face was so suggestive. I knew I really didn't need to invest much more into this.

"What'cha celebratin'?"

"My friend's birthday."

"Well," I said huskily, "Happy birthday to your friend."

"I'll tell her," she said.

I stared at her eyes with all that eyeliner -- properly applied eyeliner. She actually had gotten it on her eyes. And she didn't have wrinkles and she was a college age girl so she didn't have any daughters that age and I was willing to bet this girl thought hamsters and all other rat light objects were gross.

I leaned closer, "Do you wanna... you know...?" I flashed her the Carter grin.

She slipped her fingers into mine and I knew that was a yes. She pulled me to her feet. I saw her friends all start shrieking and cat-calling at us, but I couldn't hear what they were saying over the music. Heather pulled me across the floor, through all the writhing bodies of dancers, away from the bar, toward the far wall. Heather pushed open a door marked Employees Only and we found ourselves in a dark, narrow hallway. A time clock and a mop were on one wall and an open door looking into an office on the other. There was a door in the back wall with a glowing Exit sign over it. She pulled me into the dark office and shut the door behind us.

Twenty-seven minutes later and Chris and I were tied again, even considering his latest one-up from the earlier. Heather was zipping her jeans, babbling about how jealous her friends were going to be. I was peeking out a crack I'd made in the office door, peering out into the hallway. It was still deserted. I turned back to her just as she finished fluffing her hair, "I mean, it's not like all of us have had a chance to fuck a Backstreet Boy."

My blood curdled.

"What?"

"You," she laughed. She stared at me... then her face faultered. "You are... Nick Carter... from the Backstreet Boys.... right?" Suddenly she looked horrified.

I had a feeling I was mirroring the look.

"You knew that?" I asked.

Relief washed over her. Relief did not wash over me. If she knew who I was, then I wasn't tied with Chris after all. Shit.

"I was like a huge fan of you when I was a kid," she said, "Of course I knew who you were. You should, like, die your hair blonde again. It looks way better that way. Why'd you dye it black?" she cocked her head to the side.

"It was a bet with a friend..." I muttered.

"Oh. You lost?"

"Not yet," I muttered. "But it looks like I'm going to."

She looked at me all confused. "I can still, like, tell my friends, right?" she asked. "I mean, like, I would never have banged some random dude at a club if he wasn't a fricking Backstreet Boy, you know?" she looked at me, all doe-eyed and innocent.

Those words, I thought, were almost exactly what the premise of this entire bet with Chris was based upon. I swallowed.

"I'm not like, you know, a slut," she added. Her cheeks turned red. "Oh God, you must think I'm a slut, huh?"

"No..."

"I totally am. Even if you are a Backstreet Boy, I shouldn't have done that. Oh God."

Oh God was right, I thought. I was stuck with a girl having an existentialist crisis in an employees only office in the back room of a club, still one down from Chris because she knew who the fuck I was. And she'd said basically that my hair looked shitty.

I was gonna kill AJ.

She started crying.

God damn it.

"Don't..." I said, "Don't do that. Please."

"I can't help it," she muttered, and she sat down on the desk where we'd just bomp-a-dee-bomp-bomped. Her face was all red.

I took a deep breath. I wasn't getting out of this. I walked over and sat beside her and awkwardly stuck out my arm and timidly put it around her, being careful not to like touch her like too much. It was weird 'cos we'd just had like sex but I still couldn't like bring myself to pull her close or whatever because like she was a stranger and that was weird.

It was the first time that struck me as an odd thing.

Not being able to hug someone that I'd just fucked like a rabbit with was a strange thing. Why not? Because the hug was too personal? The same reason I prostitutes don't kiss their clientele? I thought of that scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts won't kiss Richard Gere (and immediately made a mental note to hand in my man card because seriously? I thought of that movie?).

It took a good twenty minutes of awkwardly trying to convince Heather that I didn't think she was a slut (even though I had thought that, which was why we were here in the first place). I went home close to midnight, still one down from Chris, and feeling rather lame.

It occurred to me, too, that all the sex I'd had in my life maybe had been just because I was a Backstreet Boy and for no reason apart from that. And something about that realization gave me a funny feeling somewhere deep inside. I decided maybe the funny feeling was hunger and I think it might've been because when I got home I microwaved a frozen burrito and that funny feeling was replaced by another funny feeling that had me farting all night long.

Damn burritos.