Dancer (The Good Guys Book 2)(5)

By: Jamie Schlosser


Travis nodded because he knew my dad as well as I did. “Or he’d tell you that line about the broken clock.”

Then at the same time, we both said, “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

Chuckling, I cracked the first real smile I’d had in a long time.

Travis cleared his throat. “What about when you’re… by yourself?” he asked.

“It’s better then, unless I think about it too much,” I admitted.

“You want to know what I think?” he asked and I nodded. “I think your dick is smarter than you.” I huffed out a laugh and he continued. “I’m serious. I think you just haven’t found the right girl yet.”





CHAPTER 2

COLTON

“What the hell are you doing?”

I glanced up to see Travis standing in the living room, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at me as if I’d grown two heads.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I held up my beer and gestured toward the TV. I laughed out loud at the funny home-video show. They were doing a special segment on dogs biting people on the ass. That shit never got old. The screen suddenly went black. “Hey!” I glared at Travis. “I was watching that.”

“Go get ready. We’re going out,” he announced, tossing the remote onto the chair.

“I don’t feel like going out. I’m comfy,” I grumbled and pointed down at my favorite sweatpants.

He shot me a look. “It’s your birthday. Angel’s getting home any minute and she volunteered to be our designated driver for the night.”

I sighed and ran a hand over my face. “Where are we going? She’s not even old enough to get into any bars.”

“She can get into Caged. They’re 18 and up,” he replied.

My eyebrows went up. “Angel wants to go to a strip club?”

“It’s not a strip club. They have, like, go-go dancers or whatever, but they’re not naked.”

I just grunted and sat back into the cushions.

“Plus,” he continued. “It’s the only dance club she can get into and she wants you to have a good birthday. It would mean a lot to her if you came out.”

I groaned. “You’re really gonna play the guilt card?”

“I’ll say whatever I can to get your ass off that couch.” He grinned. “Cheer up. Get some clothes on. It’s a dance club and you love dancing.”

“Fine.” I sighed, knowing I wasn’t going to get out of this.

Travis wasn’t wrong—I used to love dancing. I used to love a lot of things, but having a non-functioning dick had done some serious damage to my self-esteem.

Trying to shake off the depression I felt, I went to my room and put on worn jeans and a gray long-sleeve Henley T-shirt. I opened the top drawer of my dresser and saw the little orange bottle of pills staring back at me.

Mocking me.

After grabbing a clean pair of socks, I slammed the drawer shut a little harder than necessary. I slumped down onto the side of my bed and put my head in my hands as I tried to snap myself out of the funk I was in.

Get yourself together. It’s not the end of the world if you can’t get a boner.

I let out humorless laugh. Because it was the end of the fucking world. What good was I if one of the most important parts of my body wouldn’t function?

How was I ever supposed to have a healthy relationship? Marriage? Kids?

Maybe I didn’t want those things right now, but I definitely wanted them someday.

The first few times I had problems with performance anxiety I wrote it off as a fluke, but over the past few years it happened again and again. The more it happened, the more it fueled my anxiety. And the worse my anxiety got, the more it fueled the problem. It was a vicious cycle I couldn’t seem to break.

I heard the front door open and shut, followed by the sound of Angel’s voice. I didn’t want her or Travis to worry about me. In all honesty, I appreciated the fact that they cared enough to not let me sit at home alone tonight.

Standing up, I took a deep breath and tried to put a convincing smile on my face.

It was time to go out there and pretend I was having the best birthday ever.

*

The drive to the club was about twenty minutes long, so my buzz had started to wear off by the time we got there. Angel looked proud of herself as she successfully parallel parked on the street a block away from Caged.

I still couldn’t believe Travis let her drive his ’72 Chevy pickup truck. That thing was his baby. Hell, he wouldn’t even let me drive it.

“You did real good, baby,” he praised, and she beamed back at him.

Then he kissed her and when they pulled apart, she giggled as she lovingly poked at the dimples in his cheeks.

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