Tease and Torture [Joey + Miho]
This log is now reposted in its entirety and in identical condition to its original version, which was posted on March 18th, 2009, and withdrawn several days later. It is now to be reinstated in all pertinent timelines.
[The Players: miho_m_nosaka and joey_wheeler. Plus a free dinner for - and a lot of thinking about - tristan_taylor_. And a bunch of NPC clients of the Prestige club.
The Scene: Joey picks Miho up at work on St. Paddy's Day and arrives early. "Awkward" doesn't even begin to describe it. Current-dated to March 17th, 2009!]
The Irish holiday had completely taken over Prestige, the well known and rather elite strip club in New York. Green drinks, beer overflowing, and pretty dancers clad in miniskirts or dressed as Irish maids, or Leprechauns. It wasn't winding down, despite the time, a very late 3:30 in the morning, but there seemed to be no sign of stopping for the activities of the celebration that had long since been over. St. Paddy's Day was reputable at Prestige, because they halved the price on well drinks, and almost demolished the price of beer though they racked up the price of food - which was phenomenal there.
The main floor had been cleared, tables set up around the stage and the patrons descended like hungry vultures, greedy eyes awaiting the much anticipated dance of the evening, when little Deadly Miho would strut her stuff and give many wet dreams in the process. Men paid the cover charge and sat for hours just to see her cute little body on the stage. She'd come out in a frilled miniskirt, St. Paddy's green of course, with a matching green halter top and short sleeved half jacket. Her bronzed legs were hidden by white tights, and heavy black Mary Jane stilletos were strapped to her feet. She'd tossed the glittery hat the moment she got out there, the music made everything feel so authentic, the song was named The Blood Of Cu Chulainn, not too fast paced but not brain draggingly slow, either.
It was now a half an hour into her routine and she'd lost most of her outfit. She wore little, just her shoes, tights, and her little green thong, its glittery shamrock twinkling in the moving lights. The green clashed a little with her vibrant magenta hair, and the pasties that covered her nipples were stiff but she never complained until she was out in the fresh air. Her eyes roved the crowd, her back pressed against the cool silver pole, sliding down to a crouched position until she moved back up, hips undulating a little while her hands travelled up her chest, over her breasts and through her hair.
Her knee hooked around the pole, giving her the ability to swing around it before she slowed arched her body against the pole seductively. She made her rounds towards the crowd, crawling on her hands and knees as men tossed money to her or stuffed it into her underwear. She sat on her knees in the front of the stage, at the end of the cat walk, arching a little to the music as she fondled herself in front of hungry male eyes. She gave coy smiles, and brushed her nails against some men's jaws... oh what wicked games we play, she thought softly, moving around the stage.
*
By three thirty am, Joey was already well and done with St. Paddy's Day for the year. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't done with him. He'd had a pretty normal day at work - a little on the long side, but made easier by anonymous frosted cookies in the breakroom - and then run home to the grocery to get some shopping done. The only surreal thing about his day up to that point had been the part where everyone was wearing his favorite color, but the clerk at the grocery - in bright kelly green - knew him, and asked after Tristan with perhaps too much interest. Joey patted the well-meaning woman on the shoulder, wished her a happy holiday, and hustled home.
Tristan was working tonight - Joey'd seen the jeans with the shamrock patch on their ass on the floor in his room, ready for the occasion - and he was sure the Phoenix had seasonally appropriate fare prepared for the occasion. But Tristan liked St. Paddy's, and Joey wasn't a total slouch in the kitchen.
...Anymore.
At any rate - with a little secretive cribbing from Mama Taylor - Joey had a go-to list of ingredients, and a largely unmonitored evening to himself to combine them. By eleven o'clock he had a workable, if small, portion of corned beef - with appropriate side dishes - cooked, packed into tupperwares, and loaded into an insulated lunch cooler to keep it warm, and the cats had surreptitiously placed slivers of it in their bowls. By midnight, he'd delivered it to Tristan at the Phoenix - and though he wanted, desperately, to kiss his boyfriend over the bar and mess up his hair, he resisted the urge, took a green beer on the house, and headed home for a nap.
Joey's alarm watch went off at two thirty, and - still fully dressed - he rolled out of bed, checked on the pets, and headed out toward his next stop for the night. That was Prestige, Miho's club. Since they met by chance, and bonded by humor, Joey and Miho had become quite close friends over the course of the last two years. They only saw each other every two months or so, at which point two or three coffee dates would be crammed into the space of a workweek before their equally busy lives swept them both away from each other again - but they kept infrequent contact up by email, and in general had exceedingly good impressions of each other.
In the warm months of the past year, Miho had taken Joey's sister under her wing and gotten her a modeling job - clothes mandatory. In Joey's mind, that was just one more thing to recommend Miho to himself, and though he'd already been fond of the purple-haired imp, the way to this man's heart is through his twin, and Miho scored a bullseye. Though they never actually went out drinking, the pair's friendship quickly progressed to that stage most often labeled "drinking buddies" - comfortable enough to pal around with each other, bitch about their various stressors, and acknowledge - with a laugh and a salute - the sexual tension between them that was more or less present at each meeting, but never entirely absent.
But that tension, though sometimes very powerful, was never acted upon. Joey recognized that Miho's attraction towards himself could be easily taunted - in a manner more cruel than playful - if he were to give her a peck on the cheek, or ruffle her hair, or let his hand drift from her elbow to her waist while guiding her into a taxi. Similarily, he was frank, gently, about the fact that - though he found her exceedingly attractive - he was involved in a very committed, very loving relationship with a man who was rather disinclined toward sharing.
So their friendship proceeded. Joey acquired an autographed copy of Miho's Playboy issue - cover and centerfold - and she found herself with an entire boxful of Bazooka Joe bubblegum, Joey's favorite - and exclusive - brand. Through all this, Joey sometimes offered to accompany Miho home from her job, on nights when he wasn't so fond of sleeping, or when a holiday - such as tonight's - made him worry about her safety. Tough woman she may be, she was still half his size, a third his weight, and still stubbornly insisted on dressing, off the clock, in ways that were quite definitively not advisable for the areas of town that her path home led her through.
So Joey, well aware of the potential consequences of St. Paddy's Day, offered to walk Miho home after her shift, knowing that his other two female priorities, his sister and Mai, would be safe in Tristan's care at the Phoenix. They arranged that he should show up after her show, around 4 am.
Joey was never one for being early. Punctual? Yes. Early? Not frequently.
Which meant that, as he showed his ID to the doorman and edged through the inner doors into the darkly lit main floor of Prestige, he was really scratching his head at himself. Here he was, a whole half hour early for picking her up, even though he knew from experience that it was far more likely for Miho to be behind schedule than ahead. He couldn't blame the trains - they always ran on time, if you were there to catch them, and he was. He shrugged, skirting the room toward the bar.
There was a really interesting piece of music playing - it had a strong beat, a lot of bagpipe, and fiddle. Joey's ears picked out the fiddle especially - his fondness and passion for violin music in almost all its shapes and forms had been growing by leaps and bounds over this past year, and his music collection on his computer had been growing all the more eclectic in leaps and bounds to keep up with him. He slid onto a barstool, ordered a cup of water from the bartender, and just listened to the music, eyes half-lidded, for a few minutes, savoring the sound.
He'd actually forgotten where he was - too used to thinking of Miho's workplace as a work place, not a place for play - so the single, drunken whoop from the other side of the room jolted him out of his thoughts unpleasantly. In the mirror behind the bar, conveniently placed so that patrons couldn't forget, for a moment, what they were missing onstage, Joey's eyes focused on the tawny, triangular shape of a woman's back, and the long extension of a leg, wrapped snugly in white hip-high tights, folded off to the side. Long purple hair shivered under the UV light as the woman shook it over her shoulders with a turn of her head.
Miho. No - Joey reminded himself. "Deadly Miho," here.
He swiveled on his barstool, and continued to watch.
She slithered around the pole like a serpent, arching her neck and tossing her hair. She swayed her hips, making eye contact with each man she saw standing near the front of the catwalk. She was sinfully bared, her slender stomach stretching as she slipped once again to her knees and undulated her hips in a sensual manner while her chest was slightly arched forward exposing the lean lines of her torso and accentuating her breasts. Her body had a small sheen to it due to the lights, her mass of magenta hair was in its natural curled state, bouncing to and fro with each movement. The style would have been described as JBS - Just Been Sexed. She had a wildness about her that called for attention.
She did not notice her friend, her sometimes confidant sitting at the bar, too consumed with making each man who slipped dollars into her waistband feel like he was the only man in the world. She would skirt away from the more grabby customers, and return to her pole with a sashay of her hips. With a slight smile she twisted towards the crowd, slapping her hand against her rear and making a small 'o' with her lips, before biting on the lower one as she began to spin on the pole again. No, if she had known that Joey was there...she might not have felt so confident. Her friend had never seen her dance, and some part of her wished to keep it that way - her routine sexualized her, made her an object and though Joey was in a relationship, he was still a man and men tended to think on linear lines more often than not.
Joey glanced away, asking for a second cup of water from the barman, and chewed the ice of his first as he quickly brought his attention back to his friend. Here she was, dancing the routines and moves that she was always so smug about, telling him how all the men died little deaths for her, how they clamored to show her appreciation with their wallets, how she was the hottest thing on the floor, "the most prestigious Prestige." And though Miho was the type to talk big, Joey realized as he watched her, for this at least, she had ever reason to do so. The woman was just possibly sex incarnate. And it helped that she was his type. Ohhhh, she was his type. He watched every curve as it flashed in front of him - hip turning toward him, ass, small of the back, shoulder; her arm twisted around as she twined herself around the pole, and the soft strength of her upper arm revealed the pert softness of her breast, nothing but its tip obscured by the glittery green bauble taped to her skin.
Miho's teeth flashed bright in the dim lighting as she grinned, licked her lips, and kicked one heavily-shod foot into a demonstrative stance. The white tips of her nails drew his eye next, flashing out in a curve that led down and in as she settled her hand over her groin, fingertips spanning the distance between her thighs. She flexed into a partial crouch, then out again; the tendons of her inner thighs, the muscles of her ass, tightened and cast shadows in her skin, advertising Miho's fitness, youth, and firmness.
For one second, Joey let himself remember what it was like to have a woman - to touch her curves, her softness, to be the bigger and stronger and supportive partner. To wrap her around himself, and himself around her, in a definitive yin-yang relationship.
Then Miho was Miho again. Not an anonymous, available, on-the-menu woman he would like to have sex with -- but his friend. Whom he was going to tease as soon as she got offstage. Cellulite? No, he knew enough from Red that that could get dangerous. Hm. Probably the pasties, then. Or - He scanned the stage, looking for the cast-off parts of her costume. Oh. That hat. That'd do it. For your sake, girl, I hope you tossed that thing off quick-like, Joey laughed to himself.
Then he downed his water, set the cup on the counter, and pulled out his wallet. He didn't have any twenties or fifties - which seemed to be the clientele's currency of choice at the moment - but he did have a two. Pinning the uncommon bill between his fingertips, Joey pocketed his wallet and sauntered, confident as anything, right up to the edge of the stage, where he stood between two seated patrons, just far enough back from their seats that they would neither notice him, nor be upset by his presence (upset customers meant fewer tips for Miho, of course) - but more than close enough for Miho to notice him as soon as she finished her rounds on the other side of the stage and came back over to the pole. In prepartion for her approach, Joey folded the $2 into fourths, then in half again, and held it casually at about shoulder height.
She could feel the eyes on her, and the part of her that hated it reviled the sweeping glances, the appreciated stares but the second part of her that reveled in this, thrilled at the prospect that if Joey didn't show up she'd at least get the chance to chat up one of these gentlemen and then maybe her bed wouldn't be so empty...so lonely. She'd had many partners in the past but they'd dwindled in the years. Now she was looking at a ratio of every third or fourth week, she'd have a man in her bed to warm her. Then, afterwards...she always felt like she betrayed something inside of herself.
She would never swear off the men, not for anyone unless it was becoming dangerous, but no one would make her suffer nights in a huge empty bed. Nothing could make her survive that. She felt her body protest at a move, muscles stretching and she felt the pressure in her calves, as if the points of her heels were driving into her physically. She'd been at this for almost an hour now, teasing men, stroking egos with a single smoldering look, and occassionally dipping behind the curtain to slip her money into a drop safe - somenights required it. Nothing was tackier than waddling around with bills stuffed in your undies. With a secretive dip backstage she dropped her second round of cash off, wiped the sweat off her face and then returned for the final 15 minutes of her performance. This was when the pasties would come off - she almost, almost, bared everything at the end.
It wasn't done to bare everything, so the thong would stay on but the heels and tights would go, then she would fling off the pasties and give a couple more spins off the pole. Her body coiled around the pole, looking around the crowd - she spotted a hand up, a bill between its fingers. She did not notice the face, not until she sank to her knees before the man with the bill - and her heart almost stopped. She stared in slack jawed surprise at Joey, with his money between his fingers, and she felt a shake go through her. She offered her hip to him, trying hard as hell to look coy and sexy, and not embarrassed. "...Say...handsome..." She said, briefly brushing her hand across his arm. "...Would you help a pretty girl with her shoes, and stockings?" She asked, shifting to sit in front of him, offering him one slender tawny limb, the stilettos gleaming temptingly in the lights.
"Gladly," Joey answered smoothly, not betraying his worry on his face - he had not meant to break Miho's game face, and if the last fifteen of her act went down the tubes because of him, he'd - he'd - something. Moving past that, he tucked the bill gently under the strap of her thong that she had lifted for him, then, as she smoothed it down again, put one fingertip on the hard resin sole of her Mary Jane. "But am I gonna have problems with Jacques at th'door if I touch you?" He'd never heard of a strip club that let the patrons touch the dancers during the floorshow.
"All part of the dance, my good sir." She said, smiling. "Jacques won't touch you...its the last 15, you know...?" She smiled, gave him a giggle and gently wiggled her foot. "You should be honored...lotta men would kill for this little indulgence of mine..." She said, her voice rougher than it was usually, a little huskier. She knew Joey teased her about her weakness to him, but the sword swung both ways. With a coy look, and her voice an octave lower, she could be completely different woman on stage - and Joey was toying with Deadly Miho, who had no qualms with teasing him. She'd gotten in trouble the first time she'd let a patron do this, but when the revenue went up, cash flowed harder and more men came by to try and be the one to take off the stocking, or shoes...her manager let her keep this little side show. 'Make it sexy, make it money.' Those were his words.
"Lotta men would kill," huh? Joey could feel the glare from his left. No shit. Well, he was wasting Miho's time, and the rest of the room was going to get impatient if they delayed. Maybe he could help her make the best of the rest of her show.
So Joey curved his hand around the back of her ankle, caressing all the way up her calf, then back down, and supported her ankle while he unbuckled her Mary Jane and lifted it gently from her foot. The shoe - heavy as FUCK, how the hell does she walk in these? - was set aside, and then Joey - very hesitantly - walked his fingertips up Miho's leg to her thigh. He could only hope that she kept doing...whatever it was she did best...with her upper half, so that the customers on the other sides of the table were still entertained, and could still see enough of a show, as he hooked his fingertips (square, a little rough from picking at his cuticles) under the edge of her stockings, knuckles brushing her skin, and began tugging downward.
She shivered visibly at the touch of his fingers on her. Oh yes, a little bit of a guilty pleasure and a tool of evil to use this part of routine for a fancy touch from her friend. She felt bad, but his hands, though rough, felt amazing on her skin which prickled beneath his fingertips. The arousal she let flow onto her face was not played, nor forced but trapped inside of her - the tension was always there, and to have Joey practically undressing her was enough to keep her dreams busy for nights to come. The man beside them - the one not glaring daggers at Joey - whooped as she arched her chest up, sliding her hand along her stomach and against the curve of her breasts as the stocking slid down. The thrill of it sent shivers through her - and she knew she had one shoe left. One stocking left. Would she'd be able to stand up at all once he finished? His money burned her hip, singing its guilty song at her as she watched him through hooded violet eyes. "Your hands feel strong..." She suddenly sat up, sliding her foot playfully against his hip. "You must work hard for a living." She purred, staring at him from her lashes.
Joey shook his head and ignored the question, and tried to ignore the foot. Miho was shameless. And -- he was perhaps in too deep, too - this might get too interesting, in the next minute or so. It might - Tristan might -
Oh, calm the hell down and strip the woman, Wheeler, Joey chastised himself, halfway laughing, halfway frustrated. It's not cheating to help her earn a couple extra fifties. He scraped his nails up Miho's leg, teasing the back of her bare calf and thigh, and then switched to the other leg, trying to disguise the way that his hands automatically leapt away from her skin as soon as he heard her breathy gasp. Then he stopped thinking about whether the other guys in the room were still having fun - stopped thinking about the performance - just undid the buckle on her platform shoe, set it aside, and wrapped both palms around Miho's stockinged leg. Warm, hard pressure against her skin as he ran them both up the length to the lacy top of her stocking, moving with her as her leg flexed, toes curling, foot pointing and lifting until her heel was hovering just over his shoulder. The DJ looped the music, replaying five or six bars, building momentum. Joey's gentle, questing fingertips tucked under the lace edge, gripped, and tugged down. His knuckles traced the sides of her knee, the dips in her ankle, as he went. The song moved forward.
Joey lifted his eyes to find Miho's - and instead of finding them, found her throat instead. The woman had arched back where she sat, elbows bracing her on the raised stage, head thrown back. Joey couldn't tell what faces she was making, but he could see that her mouth - lipsticked - was hanging open in an O that was either very well acted or...
He stopped that thought cold.
Her thighs and shoulders were both spread, stretching her body out - though Joey had carefully not looked any higher than the lace at the mid-thigh tops of her hose, and had no intention to look that far. He vaguely knew that she was wearing panties. But to focus on them - or on what they didn't cover - that much would be too far, crossing his own personal lines. Still, he couldn't avoid seeing the smooth valley of tawny skin formed by her breastbone and her breasts, and the skin stretched taut by their weight. The glittery green shamrock pasties twinkled gaudily in the stage lighting, and they, an abstract, artificial element of the very organic woman in front of him, felt like the 'safest' part of the whole experience. So he focused on them as the stocking slipped free, and with delicate touches of his fingertips, Joey folded Miho's leg down, tucking her bare heel onto the stage, and leaned slightly forward to chastely kiss her knee, before stepping back from the stage, out of her reach. Putting her out of his own reach.
Shit. Shit.
When his fingers finally left her skin, the agonizing fire trails cooled as she moved on autopilot. She gave him an artificial smile, though the heat in her eyes burned brighter than anything. She pressed her forehead against thepole trying to take in the coldness of the metal, wanting to calm herself down. She was beyond aroused, and she knew it was wrong to think like this. Joey loved his man, and she was only his friend after all. She forced hurt upon herself, emotional hurt, in order to slow down the raging ache inside of her. She didn't mean that much to Joey, and he was only playing into her selfish whims anyway - she sort of forced it on him. Her body was moving seductively, though her eyes were half unfocused, but she still made a good final performance - she slid her hands up over the pasties on her breasts, and peeled them off, exposing herself more fully.
But even as she looked at the direction Joey was in, she purposely skipped looking at him - her body moved around the pole, sliding up and down it like a well known lover, gave the men a few more spins before she grabbed up what little bits of her costume she could and exitted the stage, feeling more embarassed than when he mother had caught her with a boy in her room.
*
It took Joey most of the time that Miho spent backstage, presumably getting dressed and gathering her things, to get himself under control. And that was a more complicated process than it seemed. His arousal had been entirely physical - and that was easily enough dealt with. (Margaret Thatcher Naked On A Cold Day was his favorite.) But the emotional turmoil - guilt that he'd fucked up her big finish, guilt that he'd felt anything in the first place - guilt that he was guilty over his own healthy body - guilt that he'd probably ended up giving Miho fuel for more frustration that he didn't return her feelings - guilt that he'd probably just fucked up stripper-clientele protocol - it just went on. And Joey Wheeler was very good at giving himself the workover.
He walked up to the stageside while the other patrons were filing away from their seats, closing their tabs and collecting their things now that the evening was over. The lights came up a little, suggesting departure, and some of the novice dancers came out to start cleaning up. Some collected used drink cups; one walked out onto the catwalk Miho had used and gathered up the rest of her costume, as well as all the money that had been tossed right on the stage by patrons in the last minutes of her act, while she did her pole work. Joey approached the girl, who had a large, dark tattoo of a leaping rabbit on her upper thigh, and who was wearing nothing except a Playboy Bunny collar, heels, and thigh-high hose with one garter belt for money.
"That's Mi-- Deadly Miho's money, isn't it?" he asked, trying not to sound aggressive but getting testy despite himself. Cold shower when he got home, cold shower not because he'd still be aroused - hell, he wasn't now - but because he was so fucking pissed at himself. Cold shower because he didn't deserve hot water.
"That's hers, innit?" he pressed.
"You telling me how to do my job, Mister?" the girl snapped back, propping her elbows on her knees and spreading her knees for balance as she crouched in front of him. Joey blinked, resisted the urge to put up a hand to shield his eyes - that would be rude, and she wasn't unattractive, it was just -
"I don' know how your job goes, Miss, I ain't been in this club before," Joey answered, trying to stay on topic.
"For a newbie, Miho sure's got a shine for ya." She paused, contemplative, then went back to collecting fifties and benjamins from the floor. "I could smell it from the side ramp, for fuck's sake, n' she never gets wet on the job, normally. You better pay 'er good after you fuck 'er."
"Jesus Christ!" Joey cursed, stepping sharply away from the girl. "I am not sleeping with Miho, isn' that against you guys' rules or - or - Jesus bloody Christ. Just - just - have a good evening," he managed, marching quickly away from the stage. He took up haven by the bar, ordered two cups of Dr. Pepper, and had drained both before Miho finally reemerged.
The girl who Joey had been speaking to gave a sudden shriek. Miho stood over her in a pair of leather shorts, knee high combat style boots, and a heavy sweatshirt - she had her fist twisted in the girl's hair, with a look of 'i'm about to kill you' on her face. The girl flailed a little harder as Miho forced her head back, fury in those violet eyes. The loudest protest was 'I swear I was only collecting it for you...!' And that's when Jacques stepped in, gently seperating Miho from the other dancer - the dancer handed over the money and Miho shoved it into her small backpack-like purse. The dancer fled from the stage with the costume, and Miho jumped down from the stage - she swept past Joey without a word, not even a smile in his direction - "Billy!" She called to the bartender, "Tell Maury I'm headin' out now. And let him know I won't be doing anymore sideshows for awhile."
A cup of water was handed to her and she drank it down. Then she turned to Joey - "You ready?" She asked, pulling her bag over her shoulder. She'd removed the make up she had been wearing, and pulled her hair back, trying to make herself as plain as possible. "Let's go. And don't listen to those other girls, they'll say what they want. Just make sure you don't follow too closely or they think I'm taking you home to fuck you." She said, almost coldly, as if she was trying to put distance between them vocally.
...Right.
Joey sighed, slumping into his customary slouched posture, and let Miho get a twenty-pace lead before following her out of the club. He didn't even bother to berate himself - stupid, impulsive, foolish - as he followed her at a distance, shuffle-footed, toward the subway stairs. She wanted to pout? Fine. He could pout too. She started this whole mess.
He should have declined to touch her.
Reject her? While she was on stage? Yeah. Right. He had more respect for her income than that, much less her self respect.
He should have been on time, not early.
Right, so now curiosity was a crime, too?
Cut yourself a break, Wheeler. She fucked this one up. Not you.
Not that it made him feel a single ounce better about the whole fucking mess.
Once outside, and good ways from the club she slowed her pace and settled into her customary walk beside him. "Sorry...its the whole Alpha bitch thing.." She stated glumly. "I can't be nicey-nice with the guys unless they think I'm going to give them a bit extra. I don't wanna ruin your reputation at the club that way...and...and I don't want people to spread rumors, and it somehow get back to your man." She reached out to touch his arm lightly..."I got a lot more respect for you then that, Joey..." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt. "Sorry about the whole thing...serves me right. I thought I could handle it. Just shows me how much I can't."
"Messed with you too, huh," Joey muttered, hands shoved in his pockets. He shot a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes, and out from under his bangs - in the slow scrolling light of the streetlamps, her unpainted face looked even more beautiful, and more honest.
I could - I'd be able to - take this woman home and make love -- No. No, it wouldn't be love, but it'd be gentle - it'd be tender. I could do that to her - with her - not just fuck her, Joey thought. The thought stunned him - in a pleasant way - because it was the first time he'd thought that about a woman in...well. In longer than he cared to remember. His previous girlfriends - that is, girlfucks - loomed in his mind as misogynistic demons, and again guilt stabbed him, replaying the time he'd had his hands on Miho's thighs. A minute. That was all.
Feeling more a heel than a gentleman, Joey looked down at the sidewalk again, frowning vaguely, but silent.
"Oh hell yeah. I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight, that's for sure.." She said, knocking her shoulder into his arm a little. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his arm slightly - "...Don't show up early anymore, Joey...I think it'd be better for both of us..." She said quietly. "...Yeah. It'd be the best idea." She told him, leaning her cheek against his bicep. She looked up at him when he looked at the street ahead of them, and once again for the umpteenth time in her life admired the subtle beauty about him. He was pleasantly attractive, with an easy going face that made you want to smile at his every smile, laugh at his every joke and it made you feel like you glowed from the inside out like a lamp when those eyes locked onto yours, made you feel like the only woman - person...in the world that truly mattered. Miho forced her violet gaze from Joey's face, training it on the ground, a small frown settling on her lips - barely noticeable to a normal person who hadn't known her for so long.
"Sorry, Miho," Joey muttered, closing his free hand over her smaller ones on his elbow, and closing his eyes for a few steps. In that temporary darkness, he imagined the warm glow of his partner's hands, which always seemed tawny lion golden in his memory, though in reality they were dusky brown. He remembered the feel of the man's shoulderblades against his own collarbones and chest. Joey hoped fervently that Tristan's night at the Phoenix didn't go poorly...that he would be easily woken enough that Joey could request permission to join him in Tristan's room and bed...that he could explain this night, the awkwardness, his worry...that he could sleep away the morning in Tristan's arms.
Hell, I'll take the day off work, Joey thought. But first I have to get through the rest of the night.
"Don' worry, tho'," he added, just before they headed into the relative noise and clatter of the subway tunnels. "There's not much left of the night to last through."
[The Players: miho_m_nosaka and joey_wheeler. Plus a free dinner for - and a lot of thinking about - tristan_taylor_. And a bunch of NPC clients of the Prestige club.
The Scene: Joey picks Miho up at work on St. Paddy's Day and arrives early. "Awkward" doesn't even begin to describe it. Current-dated to March 17th, 2009!]
The Irish holiday had completely taken over Prestige, the well known and rather elite strip club in New York. Green drinks, beer overflowing, and pretty dancers clad in miniskirts or dressed as Irish maids, or Leprechauns. It wasn't winding down, despite the time, a very late 3:30 in the morning, but there seemed to be no sign of stopping for the activities of the celebration that had long since been over. St. Paddy's Day was reputable at Prestige, because they halved the price on well drinks, and almost demolished the price of beer though they racked up the price of food - which was phenomenal there.
The main floor had been cleared, tables set up around the stage and the patrons descended like hungry vultures, greedy eyes awaiting the much anticipated dance of the evening, when little Deadly Miho would strut her stuff and give many wet dreams in the process. Men paid the cover charge and sat for hours just to see her cute little body on the stage. She'd come out in a frilled miniskirt, St. Paddy's green of course, with a matching green halter top and short sleeved half jacket. Her bronzed legs were hidden by white tights, and heavy black Mary Jane stilletos were strapped to her feet. She'd tossed the glittery hat the moment she got out there, the music made everything feel so authentic, the song was named The Blood Of Cu Chulainn, not too fast paced but not brain draggingly slow, either.
It was now a half an hour into her routine and she'd lost most of her outfit. She wore little, just her shoes, tights, and her little green thong, its glittery shamrock twinkling in the moving lights. The green clashed a little with her vibrant magenta hair, and the pasties that covered her nipples were stiff but she never complained until she was out in the fresh air. Her eyes roved the crowd, her back pressed against the cool silver pole, sliding down to a crouched position until she moved back up, hips undulating a little while her hands travelled up her chest, over her breasts and through her hair.
Her knee hooked around the pole, giving her the ability to swing around it before she slowed arched her body against the pole seductively. She made her rounds towards the crowd, crawling on her hands and knees as men tossed money to her or stuffed it into her underwear. She sat on her knees in the front of the stage, at the end of the cat walk, arching a little to the music as she fondled herself in front of hungry male eyes. She gave coy smiles, and brushed her nails against some men's jaws... oh what wicked games we play, she thought softly, moving around the stage.
*
By three thirty am, Joey was already well and done with St. Paddy's Day for the year. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't done with him. He'd had a pretty normal day at work - a little on the long side, but made easier by anonymous frosted cookies in the breakroom - and then run home to the grocery to get some shopping done. The only surreal thing about his day up to that point had been the part where everyone was wearing his favorite color, but the clerk at the grocery - in bright kelly green - knew him, and asked after Tristan with perhaps too much interest. Joey patted the well-meaning woman on the shoulder, wished her a happy holiday, and hustled home.
Tristan was working tonight - Joey'd seen the jeans with the shamrock patch on their ass on the floor in his room, ready for the occasion - and he was sure the Phoenix had seasonally appropriate fare prepared for the occasion. But Tristan liked St. Paddy's, and Joey wasn't a total slouch in the kitchen.
...Anymore.
At any rate - with a little secretive cribbing from Mama Taylor - Joey had a go-to list of ingredients, and a largely unmonitored evening to himself to combine them. By eleven o'clock he had a workable, if small, portion of corned beef - with appropriate side dishes - cooked, packed into tupperwares, and loaded into an insulated lunch cooler to keep it warm, and the cats had surreptitiously placed slivers of it in their bowls. By midnight, he'd delivered it to Tristan at the Phoenix - and though he wanted, desperately, to kiss his boyfriend over the bar and mess up his hair, he resisted the urge, took a green beer on the house, and headed home for a nap.
Joey's alarm watch went off at two thirty, and - still fully dressed - he rolled out of bed, checked on the pets, and headed out toward his next stop for the night. That was Prestige, Miho's club. Since they met by chance, and bonded by humor, Joey and Miho had become quite close friends over the course of the last two years. They only saw each other every two months or so, at which point two or three coffee dates would be crammed into the space of a workweek before their equally busy lives swept them both away from each other again - but they kept infrequent contact up by email, and in general had exceedingly good impressions of each other.
In the warm months of the past year, Miho had taken Joey's sister under her wing and gotten her a modeling job - clothes mandatory. In Joey's mind, that was just one more thing to recommend Miho to himself, and though he'd already been fond of the purple-haired imp, the way to this man's heart is through his twin, and Miho scored a bullseye. Though they never actually went out drinking, the pair's friendship quickly progressed to that stage most often labeled "drinking buddies" - comfortable enough to pal around with each other, bitch about their various stressors, and acknowledge - with a laugh and a salute - the sexual tension between them that was more or less present at each meeting, but never entirely absent.
But that tension, though sometimes very powerful, was never acted upon. Joey recognized that Miho's attraction towards himself could be easily taunted - in a manner more cruel than playful - if he were to give her a peck on the cheek, or ruffle her hair, or let his hand drift from her elbow to her waist while guiding her into a taxi. Similarily, he was frank, gently, about the fact that - though he found her exceedingly attractive - he was involved in a very committed, very loving relationship with a man who was rather disinclined toward sharing.
So their friendship proceeded. Joey acquired an autographed copy of Miho's Playboy issue - cover and centerfold - and she found herself with an entire boxful of Bazooka Joe bubblegum, Joey's favorite - and exclusive - brand. Through all this, Joey sometimes offered to accompany Miho home from her job, on nights when he wasn't so fond of sleeping, or when a holiday - such as tonight's - made him worry about her safety. Tough woman she may be, she was still half his size, a third his weight, and still stubbornly insisted on dressing, off the clock, in ways that were quite definitively not advisable for the areas of town that her path home led her through.
So Joey, well aware of the potential consequences of St. Paddy's Day, offered to walk Miho home after her shift, knowing that his other two female priorities, his sister and Mai, would be safe in Tristan's care at the Phoenix. They arranged that he should show up after her show, around 4 am.
Joey was never one for being early. Punctual? Yes. Early? Not frequently.
Which meant that, as he showed his ID to the doorman and edged through the inner doors into the darkly lit main floor of Prestige, he was really scratching his head at himself. Here he was, a whole half hour early for picking her up, even though he knew from experience that it was far more likely for Miho to be behind schedule than ahead. He couldn't blame the trains - they always ran on time, if you were there to catch them, and he was. He shrugged, skirting the room toward the bar.
There was a really interesting piece of music playing - it had a strong beat, a lot of bagpipe, and fiddle. Joey's ears picked out the fiddle especially - his fondness and passion for violin music in almost all its shapes and forms had been growing by leaps and bounds over this past year, and his music collection on his computer had been growing all the more eclectic in leaps and bounds to keep up with him. He slid onto a barstool, ordered a cup of water from the bartender, and just listened to the music, eyes half-lidded, for a few minutes, savoring the sound.
He'd actually forgotten where he was - too used to thinking of Miho's workplace as a work place, not a place for play - so the single, drunken whoop from the other side of the room jolted him out of his thoughts unpleasantly. In the mirror behind the bar, conveniently placed so that patrons couldn't forget, for a moment, what they were missing onstage, Joey's eyes focused on the tawny, triangular shape of a woman's back, and the long extension of a leg, wrapped snugly in white hip-high tights, folded off to the side. Long purple hair shivered under the UV light as the woman shook it over her shoulders with a turn of her head.
Miho. No - Joey reminded himself. "Deadly Miho," here.
He swiveled on his barstool, and continued to watch.
She slithered around the pole like a serpent, arching her neck and tossing her hair. She swayed her hips, making eye contact with each man she saw standing near the front of the catwalk. She was sinfully bared, her slender stomach stretching as she slipped once again to her knees and undulated her hips in a sensual manner while her chest was slightly arched forward exposing the lean lines of her torso and accentuating her breasts. Her body had a small sheen to it due to the lights, her mass of magenta hair was in its natural curled state, bouncing to and fro with each movement. The style would have been described as JBS - Just Been Sexed. She had a wildness about her that called for attention.
She did not notice her friend, her sometimes confidant sitting at the bar, too consumed with making each man who slipped dollars into her waistband feel like he was the only man in the world. She would skirt away from the more grabby customers, and return to her pole with a sashay of her hips. With a slight smile she twisted towards the crowd, slapping her hand against her rear and making a small 'o' with her lips, before biting on the lower one as she began to spin on the pole again. No, if she had known that Joey was there...she might not have felt so confident. Her friend had never seen her dance, and some part of her wished to keep it that way - her routine sexualized her, made her an object and though Joey was in a relationship, he was still a man and men tended to think on linear lines more often than not.
Joey glanced away, asking for a second cup of water from the barman, and chewed the ice of his first as he quickly brought his attention back to his friend. Here she was, dancing the routines and moves that she was always so smug about, telling him how all the men died little deaths for her, how they clamored to show her appreciation with their wallets, how she was the hottest thing on the floor, "the most prestigious Prestige." And though Miho was the type to talk big, Joey realized as he watched her, for this at least, she had ever reason to do so. The woman was just possibly sex incarnate. And it helped that she was his type. Ohhhh, she was his type. He watched every curve as it flashed in front of him - hip turning toward him, ass, small of the back, shoulder; her arm twisted around as she twined herself around the pole, and the soft strength of her upper arm revealed the pert softness of her breast, nothing but its tip obscured by the glittery green bauble taped to her skin.
Miho's teeth flashed bright in the dim lighting as she grinned, licked her lips, and kicked one heavily-shod foot into a demonstrative stance. The white tips of her nails drew his eye next, flashing out in a curve that led down and in as she settled her hand over her groin, fingertips spanning the distance between her thighs. She flexed into a partial crouch, then out again; the tendons of her inner thighs, the muscles of her ass, tightened and cast shadows in her skin, advertising Miho's fitness, youth, and firmness.
For one second, Joey let himself remember what it was like to have a woman - to touch her curves, her softness, to be the bigger and stronger and supportive partner. To wrap her around himself, and himself around her, in a definitive yin-yang relationship.
Then Miho was Miho again. Not an anonymous, available, on-the-menu woman he would like to have sex with -- but his friend. Whom he was going to tease as soon as she got offstage. Cellulite? No, he knew enough from Red that that could get dangerous. Hm. Probably the pasties, then. Or - He scanned the stage, looking for the cast-off parts of her costume. Oh. That hat. That'd do it. For your sake, girl, I hope you tossed that thing off quick-like, Joey laughed to himself.
Then he downed his water, set the cup on the counter, and pulled out his wallet. He didn't have any twenties or fifties - which seemed to be the clientele's currency of choice at the moment - but he did have a two. Pinning the uncommon bill between his fingertips, Joey pocketed his wallet and sauntered, confident as anything, right up to the edge of the stage, where he stood between two seated patrons, just far enough back from their seats that they would neither notice him, nor be upset by his presence (upset customers meant fewer tips for Miho, of course) - but more than close enough for Miho to notice him as soon as she finished her rounds on the other side of the stage and came back over to the pole. In prepartion for her approach, Joey folded the $2 into fourths, then in half again, and held it casually at about shoulder height.
She could feel the eyes on her, and the part of her that hated it reviled the sweeping glances, the appreciated stares but the second part of her that reveled in this, thrilled at the prospect that if Joey didn't show up she'd at least get the chance to chat up one of these gentlemen and then maybe her bed wouldn't be so empty...so lonely. She'd had many partners in the past but they'd dwindled in the years. Now she was looking at a ratio of every third or fourth week, she'd have a man in her bed to warm her. Then, afterwards...she always felt like she betrayed something inside of herself.
She would never swear off the men, not for anyone unless it was becoming dangerous, but no one would make her suffer nights in a huge empty bed. Nothing could make her survive that. She felt her body protest at a move, muscles stretching and she felt the pressure in her calves, as if the points of her heels were driving into her physically. She'd been at this for almost an hour now, teasing men, stroking egos with a single smoldering look, and occassionally dipping behind the curtain to slip her money into a drop safe - somenights required it. Nothing was tackier than waddling around with bills stuffed in your undies. With a secretive dip backstage she dropped her second round of cash off, wiped the sweat off her face and then returned for the final 15 minutes of her performance. This was when the pasties would come off - she almost, almost, bared everything at the end.
It wasn't done to bare everything, so the thong would stay on but the heels and tights would go, then she would fling off the pasties and give a couple more spins off the pole. Her body coiled around the pole, looking around the crowd - she spotted a hand up, a bill between its fingers. She did not notice the face, not until she sank to her knees before the man with the bill - and her heart almost stopped. She stared in slack jawed surprise at Joey, with his money between his fingers, and she felt a shake go through her. She offered her hip to him, trying hard as hell to look coy and sexy, and not embarrassed. "...Say...handsome..." She said, briefly brushing her hand across his arm. "...Would you help a pretty girl with her shoes, and stockings?" She asked, shifting to sit in front of him, offering him one slender tawny limb, the stilettos gleaming temptingly in the lights.
"Gladly," Joey answered smoothly, not betraying his worry on his face - he had not meant to break Miho's game face, and if the last fifteen of her act went down the tubes because of him, he'd - he'd - something. Moving past that, he tucked the bill gently under the strap of her thong that she had lifted for him, then, as she smoothed it down again, put one fingertip on the hard resin sole of her Mary Jane. "But am I gonna have problems with Jacques at th'door if I touch you?" He'd never heard of a strip club that let the patrons touch the dancers during the floorshow.
"All part of the dance, my good sir." She said, smiling. "Jacques won't touch you...its the last 15, you know...?" She smiled, gave him a giggle and gently wiggled her foot. "You should be honored...lotta men would kill for this little indulgence of mine..." She said, her voice rougher than it was usually, a little huskier. She knew Joey teased her about her weakness to him, but the sword swung both ways. With a coy look, and her voice an octave lower, she could be completely different woman on stage - and Joey was toying with Deadly Miho, who had no qualms with teasing him. She'd gotten in trouble the first time she'd let a patron do this, but when the revenue went up, cash flowed harder and more men came by to try and be the one to take off the stocking, or shoes...her manager let her keep this little side show. 'Make it sexy, make it money.' Those were his words.
"Lotta men would kill," huh? Joey could feel the glare from his left. No shit. Well, he was wasting Miho's time, and the rest of the room was going to get impatient if they delayed. Maybe he could help her make the best of the rest of her show.
So Joey curved his hand around the back of her ankle, caressing all the way up her calf, then back down, and supported her ankle while he unbuckled her Mary Jane and lifted it gently from her foot. The shoe - heavy as FUCK, how the hell does she walk in these? - was set aside, and then Joey - very hesitantly - walked his fingertips up Miho's leg to her thigh. He could only hope that she kept doing...whatever it was she did best...with her upper half, so that the customers on the other sides of the table were still entertained, and could still see enough of a show, as he hooked his fingertips (square, a little rough from picking at his cuticles) under the edge of her stockings, knuckles brushing her skin, and began tugging downward.
She shivered visibly at the touch of his fingers on her. Oh yes, a little bit of a guilty pleasure and a tool of evil to use this part of routine for a fancy touch from her friend. She felt bad, but his hands, though rough, felt amazing on her skin which prickled beneath his fingertips. The arousal she let flow onto her face was not played, nor forced but trapped inside of her - the tension was always there, and to have Joey practically undressing her was enough to keep her dreams busy for nights to come. The man beside them - the one not glaring daggers at Joey - whooped as she arched her chest up, sliding her hand along her stomach and against the curve of her breasts as the stocking slid down. The thrill of it sent shivers through her - and she knew she had one shoe left. One stocking left. Would she'd be able to stand up at all once he finished? His money burned her hip, singing its guilty song at her as she watched him through hooded violet eyes. "Your hands feel strong..." She suddenly sat up, sliding her foot playfully against his hip. "You must work hard for a living." She purred, staring at him from her lashes.
Joey shook his head and ignored the question, and tried to ignore the foot. Miho was shameless. And -- he was perhaps in too deep, too - this might get too interesting, in the next minute or so. It might - Tristan might -
Oh, calm the hell down and strip the woman, Wheeler, Joey chastised himself, halfway laughing, halfway frustrated. It's not cheating to help her earn a couple extra fifties. He scraped his nails up Miho's leg, teasing the back of her bare calf and thigh, and then switched to the other leg, trying to disguise the way that his hands automatically leapt away from her skin as soon as he heard her breathy gasp. Then he stopped thinking about whether the other guys in the room were still having fun - stopped thinking about the performance - just undid the buckle on her platform shoe, set it aside, and wrapped both palms around Miho's stockinged leg. Warm, hard pressure against her skin as he ran them both up the length to the lacy top of her stocking, moving with her as her leg flexed, toes curling, foot pointing and lifting until her heel was hovering just over his shoulder. The DJ looped the music, replaying five or six bars, building momentum. Joey's gentle, questing fingertips tucked under the lace edge, gripped, and tugged down. His knuckles traced the sides of her knee, the dips in her ankle, as he went. The song moved forward.
Joey lifted his eyes to find Miho's - and instead of finding them, found her throat instead. The woman had arched back where she sat, elbows bracing her on the raised stage, head thrown back. Joey couldn't tell what faces she was making, but he could see that her mouth - lipsticked - was hanging open in an O that was either very well acted or...
He stopped that thought cold.
Her thighs and shoulders were both spread, stretching her body out - though Joey had carefully not looked any higher than the lace at the mid-thigh tops of her hose, and had no intention to look that far. He vaguely knew that she was wearing panties. But to focus on them - or on what they didn't cover - that much would be too far, crossing his own personal lines. Still, he couldn't avoid seeing the smooth valley of tawny skin formed by her breastbone and her breasts, and the skin stretched taut by their weight. The glittery green shamrock pasties twinkled gaudily in the stage lighting, and they, an abstract, artificial element of the very organic woman in front of him, felt like the 'safest' part of the whole experience. So he focused on them as the stocking slipped free, and with delicate touches of his fingertips, Joey folded Miho's leg down, tucking her bare heel onto the stage, and leaned slightly forward to chastely kiss her knee, before stepping back from the stage, out of her reach. Putting her out of his own reach.
Shit. Shit.
When his fingers finally left her skin, the agonizing fire trails cooled as she moved on autopilot. She gave him an artificial smile, though the heat in her eyes burned brighter than anything. She pressed her forehead against thepole trying to take in the coldness of the metal, wanting to calm herself down. She was beyond aroused, and she knew it was wrong to think like this. Joey loved his man, and she was only his friend after all. She forced hurt upon herself, emotional hurt, in order to slow down the raging ache inside of her. She didn't mean that much to Joey, and he was only playing into her selfish whims anyway - she sort of forced it on him. Her body was moving seductively, though her eyes were half unfocused, but she still made a good final performance - she slid her hands up over the pasties on her breasts, and peeled them off, exposing herself more fully.
But even as she looked at the direction Joey was in, she purposely skipped looking at him - her body moved around the pole, sliding up and down it like a well known lover, gave the men a few more spins before she grabbed up what little bits of her costume she could and exitted the stage, feeling more embarassed than when he mother had caught her with a boy in her room.
*
It took Joey most of the time that Miho spent backstage, presumably getting dressed and gathering her things, to get himself under control. And that was a more complicated process than it seemed. His arousal had been entirely physical - and that was easily enough dealt with. (Margaret Thatcher Naked On A Cold Day was his favorite.) But the emotional turmoil - guilt that he'd fucked up her big finish, guilt that he'd felt anything in the first place - guilt that he was guilty over his own healthy body - guilt that he'd probably ended up giving Miho fuel for more frustration that he didn't return her feelings - guilt that he'd probably just fucked up stripper-clientele protocol - it just went on. And Joey Wheeler was very good at giving himself the workover.
He walked up to the stageside while the other patrons were filing away from their seats, closing their tabs and collecting their things now that the evening was over. The lights came up a little, suggesting departure, and some of the novice dancers came out to start cleaning up. Some collected used drink cups; one walked out onto the catwalk Miho had used and gathered up the rest of her costume, as well as all the money that had been tossed right on the stage by patrons in the last minutes of her act, while she did her pole work. Joey approached the girl, who had a large, dark tattoo of a leaping rabbit on her upper thigh, and who was wearing nothing except a Playboy Bunny collar, heels, and thigh-high hose with one garter belt for money.
"That's Mi-- Deadly Miho's money, isn't it?" he asked, trying not to sound aggressive but getting testy despite himself. Cold shower when he got home, cold shower not because he'd still be aroused - hell, he wasn't now - but because he was so fucking pissed at himself. Cold shower because he didn't deserve hot water.
"That's hers, innit?" he pressed.
"You telling me how to do my job, Mister?" the girl snapped back, propping her elbows on her knees and spreading her knees for balance as she crouched in front of him. Joey blinked, resisted the urge to put up a hand to shield his eyes - that would be rude, and she wasn't unattractive, it was just -
"I don' know how your job goes, Miss, I ain't been in this club before," Joey answered, trying to stay on topic.
"For a newbie, Miho sure's got a shine for ya." She paused, contemplative, then went back to collecting fifties and benjamins from the floor. "I could smell it from the side ramp, for fuck's sake, n' she never gets wet on the job, normally. You better pay 'er good after you fuck 'er."
"Jesus Christ!" Joey cursed, stepping sharply away from the girl. "I am not sleeping with Miho, isn' that against you guys' rules or - or - Jesus bloody Christ. Just - just - have a good evening," he managed, marching quickly away from the stage. He took up haven by the bar, ordered two cups of Dr. Pepper, and had drained both before Miho finally reemerged.
The girl who Joey had been speaking to gave a sudden shriek. Miho stood over her in a pair of leather shorts, knee high combat style boots, and a heavy sweatshirt - she had her fist twisted in the girl's hair, with a look of 'i'm about to kill you' on her face. The girl flailed a little harder as Miho forced her head back, fury in those violet eyes. The loudest protest was 'I swear I was only collecting it for you...!' And that's when Jacques stepped in, gently seperating Miho from the other dancer - the dancer handed over the money and Miho shoved it into her small backpack-like purse. The dancer fled from the stage with the costume, and Miho jumped down from the stage - she swept past Joey without a word, not even a smile in his direction - "Billy!" She called to the bartender, "Tell Maury I'm headin' out now. And let him know I won't be doing anymore sideshows for awhile."
A cup of water was handed to her and she drank it down. Then she turned to Joey - "You ready?" She asked, pulling her bag over her shoulder. She'd removed the make up she had been wearing, and pulled her hair back, trying to make herself as plain as possible. "Let's go. And don't listen to those other girls, they'll say what they want. Just make sure you don't follow too closely or they think I'm taking you home to fuck you." She said, almost coldly, as if she was trying to put distance between them vocally.
...Right.
Joey sighed, slumping into his customary slouched posture, and let Miho get a twenty-pace lead before following her out of the club. He didn't even bother to berate himself - stupid, impulsive, foolish - as he followed her at a distance, shuffle-footed, toward the subway stairs. She wanted to pout? Fine. He could pout too. She started this whole mess.
He should have declined to touch her.
Reject her? While she was on stage? Yeah. Right. He had more respect for her income than that, much less her self respect.
He should have been on time, not early.
Right, so now curiosity was a crime, too?
Cut yourself a break, Wheeler. She fucked this one up. Not you.
Not that it made him feel a single ounce better about the whole fucking mess.
Once outside, and good ways from the club she slowed her pace and settled into her customary walk beside him. "Sorry...its the whole Alpha bitch thing.." She stated glumly. "I can't be nicey-nice with the guys unless they think I'm going to give them a bit extra. I don't wanna ruin your reputation at the club that way...and...and I don't want people to spread rumors, and it somehow get back to your man." She reached out to touch his arm lightly..."I got a lot more respect for you then that, Joey..." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt. "Sorry about the whole thing...serves me right. I thought I could handle it. Just shows me how much I can't."
"Messed with you too, huh," Joey muttered, hands shoved in his pockets. He shot a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes, and out from under his bangs - in the slow scrolling light of the streetlamps, her unpainted face looked even more beautiful, and more honest.
I could - I'd be able to - take this woman home and make love -- No. No, it wouldn't be love, but it'd be gentle - it'd be tender. I could do that to her - with her - not just fuck her, Joey thought. The thought stunned him - in a pleasant way - because it was the first time he'd thought that about a woman in...well. In longer than he cared to remember. His previous girlfriends - that is, girlfucks - loomed in his mind as misogynistic demons, and again guilt stabbed him, replaying the time he'd had his hands on Miho's thighs. A minute. That was all.
Feeling more a heel than a gentleman, Joey looked down at the sidewalk again, frowning vaguely, but silent.
"Oh hell yeah. I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight, that's for sure.." She said, knocking her shoulder into his arm a little. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his arm slightly - "...Don't show up early anymore, Joey...I think it'd be better for both of us..." She said quietly. "...Yeah. It'd be the best idea." She told him, leaning her cheek against his bicep. She looked up at him when he looked at the street ahead of them, and once again for the umpteenth time in her life admired the subtle beauty about him. He was pleasantly attractive, with an easy going face that made you want to smile at his every smile, laugh at his every joke and it made you feel like you glowed from the inside out like a lamp when those eyes locked onto yours, made you feel like the only woman - person...in the world that truly mattered. Miho forced her violet gaze from Joey's face, training it on the ground, a small frown settling on her lips - barely noticeable to a normal person who hadn't known her for so long.
"Sorry, Miho," Joey muttered, closing his free hand over her smaller ones on his elbow, and closing his eyes for a few steps. In that temporary darkness, he imagined the warm glow of his partner's hands, which always seemed tawny lion golden in his memory, though in reality they were dusky brown. He remembered the feel of the man's shoulderblades against his own collarbones and chest. Joey hoped fervently that Tristan's night at the Phoenix didn't go poorly...that he would be easily woken enough that Joey could request permission to join him in Tristan's room and bed...that he could explain this night, the awkwardness, his worry...that he could sleep away the morning in Tristan's arms.
Hell, I'll take the day off work, Joey thought. But first I have to get through the rest of the night.
"Don' worry, tho'," he added, just before they headed into the relative noise and clatter of the subway tunnels. "There's not much left of the night to last through."