The clock ticked and ticked and ticked—and suddenly, it was midnight. Beau took a deep breath and looked directly up at the stars. He’d done it. All those sleepless nights, the hours upon hours of coding and reading and applying—he’d fucking earned all that money, and nobody could have a single dollar of it unless he deemed them worthy enough.
Neon flashed in the corner of his eye. He looked down at the building he stood in front of. On the brick wall was an LED sign, pulsing hot pink, the wordGirlstaunting him.Don’t you want a girl tonight?The sign could’ve been a figment of his imagination, a hallucination his body had dreamed up. Cat Shoppe was real, though, a small but somewhat famous strip club on Sunset Boulevard.
Twenty-seven years old, and he’d never even been inside one. Didn’t see the point. He liked to touch the things he paid for—he liked to flirt with girls who blushed, smiled and flirted back because they wanted to, not because they were paid to. But it was midnight on the dot, and the most thrilling moment of his life yet, so walking into that club seemed like the logical next step. So Beau paid the cover charge, and the bouncer pulled aside the red rope, gesturing him inside.
4
Beau stepped into a hallway that was pitch black, except for some blinding lights flickering from behind a curtained doorway. Music thumped, vibrating his shoes. Beau walked closer, drawing the fabric drape aside. The club was gaudy, a mishmash of neon colors and questionable-looking people. There were multiple platforms with dancers on them. The girl on the stage closest to him was topless, writhing against a pole. He watched for a second and looked away.
It wasn’t his scene. He thought about leaving, but a waitress approached him with a tray in her hand. “Drink?” she asked. Her upper lip disappeared when she smiled. “Or something else, handsome?”
He looked her over, her costume covering only what it had to. He stuck a hand in his jacket and got his wallet, reminding himself it was midnight and he was filthy rich. One more drink, just to toast himself, would put him in a good place after the three he’d already had. “Scotch,” he said. “Neat.”
She took his cash and walked away. The music slowed, and the lights stopped flashing. Some of the girls got off their platforms. The announcer called everyone’s attention to the main stage. Beau looked, since he was just standing awkwardly near the entrance. A beaded curtain acted as the stage’s back wall, and when the spotlight hit it, it twinkled with little white reflections.
He inclined forward slightly, waiting. The beads parted, and a girl stepped out. He noticed her body first, couldn’t help himself in the state he was in. It was hard not to with her long, svelte legs. She wore a pair of furry cat ears on her head, the same black color as her hair, which curled past her shoulders in soft waves.
Beau had to shield his eyes. She shimmered when the spotlight hit her. Her bikinimust’ve been millions of little diamonds, she was so bright. The music boomed suddenly, loud and obnoxious, but the girl calmly took the pole and moved her hips side to side, hearing something else.
She turned her head slightly and looked directly at him. Her hips slowed to a stop, her mouth slackening. He could see, even from there, how piercingly blue her eyes were. She didn’t move an inch, as if waiting for his direction.
Beau’s chest swelled with the urge to tell her to come to him. Now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been looked at that way, and it was going to his head faster than any Scotch could. She lowered her chin, glancing at the floor briefly before she continued her number. Beau watched her every move, unable to remove his eyes from her glossy black hair, her perfectly round, buoyant tits. He wanted to spread his hands over her flat stomach, see how her small waist felt in his grip, and those lips—plump and cherry-colored. She didn’t smile. He liked that. He liked a girl who made him work for her smile.
“Sir?” The waitress stood there with his drink.
He took it without looking away. “I want that one.”
“Huh?” she asked.
He held up his drink and pointed a finger at the stage. “Her. Get me that girl.”
She cleared her throat. “You want a lap dance?”
He tore his eyes from the sultry kitten.Hissultry kitten. “I want to be alone with her. Whatever it takes to make that happen.”
Her shoulders dropped a little. “Well, we have private rooms—”
“Yes. The best one you have. The most privacy. I’ll pay. Now.”
She took a step back. “Let me see what I can do.”
Beau gave them the last of his old self. He split the cost of the VIP room between two credit cards, leaving enough cash in his wallet to tip her. He could go to the ATM if he needed more time with her. He bought an hour to start, worried she might think more was strange.
In the VIP room, he paced as he waited. He was already thrumming from the look she’d given him, and he tried to keep his cock in check. It wouldn’t look very good if he was already hard when she came in. The room was round with plenty of seating. Was it a room where this girl had danced for other men? She seemed young. He didn’t want to think of it. He loosened his tie, took a swig of his drink. Damn her for making him wait. Themanager’d assured him his time would start once she got there, but he wanted her now.
The door finally opened, and she entered. She was in the same bikini, the bottoms tied high on her hips, elongating her white, gazelle-like legs. She stood there a moment, not speaking. All those nights he’d spent alone came rushing back to him. This was what he’d worked for—to have a woman like her look at him that way, the whole night ahead of them. Money had made that happen. His cock pulsed.
“You can sit,” she said.
Everything she did was directly at him. Like she’d been waiting in this club all of her—what, eighteen, nineteen years?—just for him to show up. He put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t trust himself. “Who are you?”
She hesitated. “What do you mean, who am I?”
“What’s your name?” He took a step closer, balling his hands into fists. “The real one. I don’t want anything fake.”
“It’s Lola,” she said. “I don’t have a stage name.”
Beau wanted to believe she’d tell him the truth. He wasn’t just another guy. He couldn’t be sure she knew that yet, though. “Is that safe?” he asked. “Using your real name?”
