A multitude of squeals from across the crowded room catches your attention, the bridal party you’ve been invited to join already stationed at a table closest to the stage.

“You made it!” one chimes, while you just laugh and shrug.

“Barely. What is this place?” Glancing around, you take in the various people, trying to gain some semblance of understanding. There are no stripper poles, but there is a large stage, and beneath the buzz of the crowd is the steady hum of music, a playlist no doubt intended to keep everyone occupied until the performers take the stage.

“My bridal party.” The bride beams, wearing a sash and chewing on the straw of whatever fruity drink she’d been sipping.

“No, babe. She means what’s this place, as in the club,” another of the group corrects, to which the bride to be just shrugs.

“All I know is there’s naked men.” She giggles, wriggling the fingers of her free hand and groping at the air before reaching for a stack of bills. “And Mama is ready for a show!”

“I’m going to get a drink and catch up to however many she’s had.” You laugh, excusing yourself and turning toward the bar.

“A vodka cranberry.” You place your order as you reach the bar, your eyes drifting down to the flyer resting on the countertop. It’s a group photo similar to the poster you’d seen outside the club, each performer’s stage name printed above them.

When your gaze lands on Animal, it lingers. Your finger reaches out, brushing against his bare chest on display in the photo, tracing the tattoo of a bald eagle clutching a trout. The corners of your mouth twitch with amusement at the sight. Out of all the tattoos featured in the picture, that one certainly has a way of drawing your attention, and when your eyes flick up to his face, the hint of a cheeky grin sends an unexpected flutter through your stomach.

That sensation is quickly quashed when a tattooed hand enters your periphery and sets a glass down on the bar in front of you.

For a second, panic rises in your chest, your mind immediately jumping to the conclusion that one of the dancers has caught you staring, but as you follow the sleeve of tattoos up the bartender’s forearm, the wave of panic breaks, replaced by relief. You’re greeted by a soft smile, tired looking eyes, and tattoos that just barely peek out from beneath the collar of the grey sweater he’s chosen to wear.

“Are you hoping to be picked?” he asks.

The question doesn’t quite reach you, your attention caught instead by the single unruly curl of his otherwise perfectly neat haircut.

“Hm?”

“The guys.” He nods toward the flyer, your fingers still resting on it. “They pick someone from the audience each show.”

“Oh, no, no.” You quickly shake your head, reaching for your drink and taking a small step back. “No, I just came with my friends. One of them is getting married, so if anyone should be chosen—”

“We’ll see.” He cuts you off with an unmistakably cheeky grin, one that not even his well groomed facial hair can hide.

Just as you open your mouth with a witty comeback, you catch sight of the badge pinned to his sweater: World’s Greatest Best Bartender.

“I think there must’ve been very few people in the running for that,” you tease, gesturing toward the badge.

His gaze drops to it before he puffs out his chest dramatically. “Still the world’s greatest.” He clicks his tongue and offers you a playful wink.

You simply shake your head, laughing as you turn away and head back to your group, drink in hand and slowly sipping through the straw.

Upon taking your seat, the house lights dim, and the crowd’s attention is drawn to the still empty stage, now slowly filling with smoke and illuminated by various overhead spotlights. Over the speakers, the low hum of background music abruptly changes, transitioning into a new song as the crowd falls silent, the buzz of anticipation still lingering in the air.

Tonight, Jolly opens the show.

He struts out and takes centerstage, introducing himself as Mr. International before beginning the slow dance of stripping himself layer by layer. First comes his jacket, accompanied by a sensual sway of his hips as he slips it from his shoulders. Then comes his shirt, tossed into the crowd in a balled up heap of fabric, sending the excitable, ravenous women scrambling for it. The sea of phones pointed in his direction does little to distract him. If anything, it seems to boost his confidence as he shows off beneath the spotlights, which only serve to highlight the scatterings of tattoos across his skin.

From the crowd, you watch as a lucky audience member is chosen by Jolly, beckoned onto the stage with hooded eyes and a seductive grin. The expression bleeds seamlessly into the slow, provocative dance that follows. It’s a rhythmic grind that could easily be mistaken for dry humping if not for the careful precision with which he avoids direct contact with the lucky woman.

Whoops, cheers, and whistles erupt around you the second he kicks things up a notch. He lifts his chosen dance partner onto his waist, her legs wrapping tightly around him while his hands settle against the backs of her thighs. Carrying her across the stage with ease, he lowers them both down, kneeling between her thighs as he lays her back and continues the same steady rhythm.

It’s enough to leave you giggling and flustered, even as a bystander.

When the music finally begins to lull, signaling the end of the performance, he rises to his feet, lifting her with him before carefully setting her back down. Taking her hands in his, he bows, pressing what appears to be the brush of a kiss against her knuckles in thanks before sending her offstage.

Just as you expect him to make his own exit stage left, the music erupts once more.

Jolly grins and launches into another dance, this one accompanied by the slow unbuttoning of his pants. First the button. Then the zip. Until, finally, he whips them off entirely.

That’s the moment you nearly choke on your drink.

The timing couldn’t have been worse, taking a sip at the exact moment he flings the pants aside, leaving very little to the imagination as he stands there in a pair of tight black briefs.

A slap lands squarely between your shoulder blades, catching you off guard while simultaneously helping to clear your throat. Tears sting at your eyes as your friend leans close enough for you to hear her over the music and jeering crowd.

“He’s not even the biggest one yet.”

“Wait until you see Viper!” another calls, grinning over the rim of her drink.

“Vi—what?!” you sputter, eyes widening.

Before anyone can answer, your attention is pulled back to the stage as another song begins to play.

Over the speakers, ZZ Top’s Gimme All Your Lovin’ begins, signaling Folio’s entrance—the elusive Animal, drumming away like his namesake, bouncing in sync on his stool with each heavy slam of the drumsticks as the drum kit descends from the ceiling. He’s been waiting for his moment all night, for his turn to put on a show for the screaming crowd.

The combination of the stage lights’ heat and the relentless drumming has left him coated in a glowing sheen of sweat, droplets rolling down his bare, tattooed chest before disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Across the stage, Jolly joins him, still half naked and barely covered by the guitar strapped across his front, accompanying his fellow entertainer in the performance. Your gaze barely lingers on him before flicking back to Animal, who surveys the audience from behind the drums, searching out his prey, ready to pounce from his perch and onto the main floor.

Though you don’t want to jump to conclusions, you could swear his eyes narrow in on you, darkening as his mouth curves into the same cheeky grin from the flyer you’d been staring at by the bar. Twirling a drumstick between his fingers, he pauses as though contemplating something before extending his arm and pointing in your direction.

Your heart hammers in your chest. You try to dismiss the idea, until he rounds out from behind the drums and heads for the edge of the stage, where he jumps down and makes a beeline straight for you.

There’s no chance to think or respond. Your friends are already squealing around you, urging you to go with him the second he offers out his hand. You attempt to swallow, but your mouth has gone dry. Your lips part and close several times, barely able to form a coherent word.

Somehow, your hand finds its way into his.

A knot of excitement and nerves twists tighter in your stomach as he pulls you closer, flashing that same mischievous grin. Then, in one swift motion, he lifts you from the floor and settles you on his waist, drawing a multitude of gasps and screams from the audience around you.

Your own eyes widen, caught somewhere between shock and delight at how effortlessly he makes the maneuver look.

“And your name would be?” he asks, carrying you over to the stage. The heat of his hand against the back of your thigh seeps through the fabric of your clothing, sending a tingle racing along your spine.

“Oh? Do you usually wait until you have someone like this before asking their name?” you tease, earning a quiet laugh from Folio.

“Good point.”

Peering past you, he settles onto the stool, sitting you in his lap before leaning closer. The warmth of his breath brushes against your ear as he quietly explains what to expect, reassuring you with reminders to hold on tight and that ‘you’ll be safe while you’re with me’.

Beneath you, he bounces his leg, causing you to shift slightly in his lap and drawing you unmistakably closer.

“I bet you didn’t imagine this is how your night would go.”

“Riding a shirtless stranger while he drums? That’s just a regular Saturday night.” You bite your lower lip, trying and failing to hide your smile.

“Spend a lot of Saturdays with shirtless strangers, do you?” he asks, one brow arching.

You shrug coyly. “Maybe.”

“I’ll just have to make it memorable for you, then.”

He adjusts himself on the stool and shifts you comfortably in his lap before taking your arms and placing them over his shoulders.

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble doing that,” you murmur, crossing your wrists behind his neck.

“Just remember to relax and have some fun with it.”

With a wink, he begins twirling the drumsticks between his fingers as the music swells, the distinctive opening of Warrant’s Cherry Pie filling the club.

It doesn’t take long before he’s joining in, matching the rhythm pounding through the speakers. Any lingering nerves quickly melt away, pushed aside as your focus settles entirely on him. For a moment, it feels as though you’re the only two people in the room.

As the song builds, you find your own rhythm, moving with the bounce of his leg and the pulse of the music. His foot slams against the pedal while the drums thunder beneath his hands, and before long you’re tipping your head back, swaying with the beat and letting yourself get lost in the performance. Then the drum kit begins to move. 

The sudden sensation makes your stomach drop as both you and Folio start to rise, the entire drum kit lifting back up above the stage.

“Just hold on nice and tight. I’ve got you.”

The reassurance is strangely soothing, even coming from a complete stranger. He doesn’t so much as flinch as you continue ascending, barely missing a beat as he keeps playing.

Instinctively, your hands rise to either side of his head, fingers threading into the thick mass of damp hair. This close, you can see the beads of sweat gathered along his skin. Your gaze drifts downward, settling on the tattoo stretched across his chest, the same one that had caught your attention earlier.

Have some fun with it.

His words echo in your mind, and when you catch sight of the Jesus tattoo on the side of his neck, your gaze follows a bead of sweat rolling slowly along it.

Whether it’s bravery or stupidity that overtakes you in the moment, you have no idea. Leaning in, you part your lips and press the flat of your tongue to the side of his neck, dragging it slowly along the column of his throat. An audible groan escapes him in response, Folio’s head falling back as though in offering, exposing more of his neck to you. Still bouncing in his lap in time with the rhythm, you tease your tongue over the tattoo, tracing it before moving closer to his ear and whispering teasingly, “How’s that for having fun with it?”

When you pull back, you catch the glint of excitement burning in his eyes. His mouth curves into that familiar grin, one that now has your stomach flipping when you see it.

“Aren’t you just a wild ride?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? The quip sits on the tip of your tongue, only to die the second the song comes to an end and both you and the drum kit begin lowering back toward the stage.

It feels far too soon to be over. Three minutes is barely enough time to settle into the thrill of it all, yet excitement still courses through you as you remain seated in his lap, continuing to bounce lightly with the movement of his leg until the final notes fade and it’s time for Folio to follow in the previous act’s footsteps and take his bow.

When he lifts you from his lap, he sets you down between his thighs. His hands settle at your hips, giving them a light squeeze before he rises to his feet as well, his touch lingering at your sides.

“So,” he begins, tilting his head, “are you always this much of a wild ride, or…?”

Pressing your lips together, you consider the answer you’d wanted to give earlier before a smirk slowly spreads across your face. “Maybe you’ll have to wait to find out.”

Turning on your heel, you begin making your way off the stage, only to feel his grip at your side stop you and draw your attention back to him.

“And how am I supposed to do that when I don’t even know your name?”

For a moment, you’re almost tempted to take pity on him as he bats those soft, puppy dog eyes at you.

Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his jaw, leaving the faintest kiss on his cheek as you whisper, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Then you step back and slip from his grasp.

Turning to face the crowd once more, you’re immediately reminded that all eyes had been, and still are, on you. Offering a playful curtsy, you quickly cross the stage and descend the stairs before returning to your table, tucking yourself back into your seat amongst the increasingly drunk bridal party.

Immediately, they’re bombarding you with questions and replaying the videos they’d taken of your brief moment onstage, including the kiss you’d pressed to Folio’s cheek before disappearing.

From your seat, you almost don’t dare look back at what you’ve left behind, fearful of finding that familiar puppy dog expression still fixed on his face. If you did, you’d catch him staring in your direction, curiosity all over his face as he tried to figure out exactly how he was going to find you again.

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