Calm Down, Max. You Can’t Go Back to Jail.
Max
When I hear the term “strip club” or even “gentlemen’s club,” I picture sweat, regret, and desperation clinging to the walls like old, knock off Calvin Klein cologne. So when Eli and I walk into thePeppermint Elephant, I’m bracing for the worst—sticky floors, shady lighting, and half-naked women with thousand-yard stares.
But no. This place?
This place isclassy.
Velvet drapes. Ambient lighting. Jazz playing softly in the background like we’re in a Bond film, not a gentlemen’s club. The women are fully dressed—sleek black cocktail dresses, not thongs. They’re poised, polished, and honestly? They look like high-end companions hired for conversation, not lap dances. It’s giving luxury, rather than lust.
I blink, taking it all in. “You come here often?” I ask, watching as Eli gets waved through the crowd like he’s royalty. No ID check. Just a nod from this man and doors open.
“No. Rarely, if ever,” he replies, his voice clipped.
“Then why does it seem like everyone knows you here?”
“Because they do.”
“But—”
“Max.” He stops and turns slightly, that low warning tone curling around my name like smoke. “Just walk.”
Then, he grabs my hand.
Correction: heenvelopsit.
The heat of his skin shoots straight up my arm, and the way he pulls me through the crowd? Possessive. Commanding. Like I’m his and there’s no question about it. It’s panty-melting, stomach-flipping, rom-com-montage-worthygood.
We weave through the plush lounge until we reach a private area tucked behind a velvet curtain. Inside, six men and four women lounge around an oversized curved booth. Low lights. Expensive drinks. It smells like cigars, sophistication, and power.
We’re led into a private section where a small group of people is already seated, and it’s immediately clear they know Eli. One of the men rises as soon as he spots us. He’s tall, bald, and bearded, the kind of presence that reads alpha at first glance but still feels easy and approachable.
“I guess you weren’t lying when you said you had a hot date, huh?” he teases, flashing Eli a grin.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Eli mutters, clearly annoyed.
“Well, what—orwho—is it then?” the man asks, taking me in.
Eli gestures toward me with a sigh. “Max, this is my boy Drake. Drake, meet Max.”
I cough. Then laugh. “Yourname is Drake? And you’re light-skinned? Do you also happen to like them young?”
And oddly enough, that gets a smile out of Eli.
Drake chuckles, shaking my hand. “Yeah, becausethatjoke never gets old.” He clears his throat. “It’s actually Thaddeus Drake, the Fourth. My family doesn’t believe in middle namesor mercy, apparently. It was either go by Thaddeus, Tad…or Drake.”
I nod in mock sympathy. “Wow. Yeah, no real winners in that lineup.”
“Exactly.”
Drake asks how we met, and Eli launches into the story of my near-death elk encounter and myuniquehandling of Canadian border patrol. I interject where necessary, mostly to defend my choices or add dramatic flair. But by the end of it, the entire crowd is laughing. Even Eli, which, even though I’ve only known the man for a couple of hours, feels like a rare solar event.
Everyone else is drinking and laughing, settling into the night, but Eli barely loosens up. He stays on his feet, tells Drake he’s only here to drop off his wallet, nothing more.
Drake immediately gives him hell for it. “You are such an old man. Rarely drinks, never has fun, never lets his nappy hair down.”
“My mom says I have good hair,” Eli fires back, dead serious.
