By JA Huss
Fletcher Novak is Sexy.
Fletch has charm, Fletch has charisma, and Fletch has moves. He turns dreams into reality two nights a week, baring his body to lonely women, bored housewives, and bachelorettes looking for that one last good time. He’s into one-night stands, one-time things, and he never, ever gets serious.
Tiffy Preston is looking for commitment.
A billionaire’s daughter with the world at her fingertips, Tiffy’s in Lake Tahoe to take over her father’s hotel and clean up the Mountain Men Male Revue Show. She’s well-bred, polite, and hates everything Fletcher represents.
But Fletcher offers Tiffy something she can’t refuse—total satisfaction and the man of her dreams. All she has to do is… everything he tells her.
Because Sexy doesn’t sell… it’s for sale.
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“Mr. Novak,” Amy, the resort manager, says in her businesslike tone, “there was a meeting this afternoon. I had it on your calendar and you missed it. I’m sure, as always, you have a good reason for that? I expect to hear it tomorrow at nine AM sharp.” She pauses for a moment to sigh. “And Fletcher, just so you know, it had better be monumental.”
There’s a click and the computer voice starts giving me options before I can disconnect the call.
Fucking management. I hate that corporate shit they do. And I hate these monthly meetings even more. But I have a show to do, so I push it away and head back downstairs. The ordinarily quick lift takes a few minutes and is filled with rich, drunk gamblers by the time it gets to my floor, so when I finally walk back through the stage door, Chandler is already calling my name.
“Fletcherrrrrrr…” he roars above the crowd of cheers.
“You’re late again, bro,” Bill says, walking by with his costume in his hand, sweat falling down his face after his dance routine. His hard body is rippled with muscles and his wet-look thong is stuffed with dollars.
But I’m a professional, remember?
I take the small set of stairs two at a time and push the curtain aside, just as Chandler says my name again. His expression is one of annoyance as he looks at the curtain, but then he realizes I’m here and it turns to relief. “Novakkkkkk…” he says, placing the mic in the stand and walking off stage on the opposite side.
I throw up my arms, allowing the tight white t-shirt to stretch across my chest and rise up from the waistband of my tattered jeans a little. The spotlight flashes directly overhead—just one brief tease of what’s to come—and the audience goes wild at that little bit of skin. But before they can do anything else, the stage goes dark again and the music starts bumping.
I don’t talk on stage. No one wants to hear what I’ve got to say. They only want to see what I can do with this body. Hardened from years of sports and diligent gym visits. Lean muscles accentuated with a grace that you only get with a decade or more of martial arts training. That’s all they want. That’s all they see. I’m just something to look at when I’m up here.
So I give them exactly what they expect. A show.
I start dancing, my hips moving to the beat of the song. Another flash of light from above. Another round of screams. And then silence as I freeze.
Whistles and catcalls start. But I hold my pose—fingertips on the back of my shirt, ready to oblige their insatiable need for the sight of bare flesh tonight. Then another flash. I drag the shirt up in that brief glimpse, and then darkness mimics my pause. The next flash they see my abs, the dream six-pack that’s mostly genetics, but I do my share of crunches. Then another flash and I give them the pecs, flexing the muscles and making them dance a little. And in that final flash, I rip the shirt over my head.
The front row stands, waving their dollar bills in the air, begging to shower me with money.
I twirl the shirt several times, taking in the throngs of women with their hands up, ready to catch the prize, and then throw it to a little redhead just as all the lights come on to the beat of the bass. I train my eyes on the crowd, ready to start the real show, and then the lights switch from me to them, lighting up their faces—red with the heat of five hundred woman jostling for position in the room. All of them there for me in this moment. It pans to the left side, and I use those three seconds to search for my star. Then down the middle. My eyes train on a woman in a light-colored suit sitting dead center before I lose her in the darkness and switch to the right side.
But she’s the one. She’s my star tonight. And she has no idea how hard I’m about to rock her world.
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