Ace grins again. “Don’t worry, we’ve got very inventive ways of passing along bad news.”
Jack’s brow furrows for a second, then he grins too. “Enjoy your night, gentlemen. The place is yours.”
Out in the hallway, Ace and I tap fists. “Looks like we got ourselves a strip club, brother.”
“First thing we do after we get some money out of this place is fumigate. Fuckin’ place smells like shit.”
“Dog shit.”
Ace and I laugh all the way back to Fist and Scratch, who greet us with questioning looks.
“How’d it go? Fist asks.
“The Kings are now the proud owners of the Royal Flush.”
Fist holds up a bottle of Jack, then pours shots for all of us before raising his glass. “Here’s to the Kings.”
I shoot the shot, then sink into the booth and turn to Scratch. “First thing tomorrow, get over here and get the keys and all the passcodes and alarm codes from Jack.”
Scratch not only handles our money, but he’s a computer genius who can basically hack any system around.
“Right, Boss.”
The same women from before surround me, and this time, I don’t resist. Especially when one slides onto my lap like she belongs there. She smells like smoke and whiskey. Another flanks my other side, and I pick up a trace of vanilla. Why does it have to be vanilla?
Her mouth brushes my jaw. Her hand slides over my shoulder.
I don’t stop her.
I don’t move either.
My eyes focus in front of me. On nothing. Except the one woman who isn’t here.
Liquor keeps coming. Noise piles on noise. The girls try harder when they realize I’m not responding the way they want.
One of them whispers, “You don’t look like a man who wants to be alone.”
I finally glance at her but say nothing.
She blinks, waiting, then pulls back just a fraction.
The club pulses around me, alive with want and hunger and cheap promises. The Kings laugh. Money flows. The girls glow brighter, hopeful. Always hopeful.
Knowing the grapevine of gossip in a strip club, they probably already know we’re the new owners and want to cash in on it. They think this is what power looks like. I don’t blame them, especially since more than half of them will be gone by tomorrow.
Scratch runs a tight ship, and anyone with a hint of a drug issue gets kicked to the curb. It has nothing to do with his moral fiber, and everything to do with the bottom line. Users and druggies can’t be trusted around money. They’ll steal from their grandma for the next fix.
The guys order more booze, but I slow down ‘cause it ain’t helping anyway. No matter how loud the music gets, no matter how many bodies press close—all I feel is Sammie’s body cuddled into mine, her eyes hooded, her lips parted . . . fuck.
And that’s when I know this place won’t save me, but I’ve never been one to give up easily.
The women are still draped over me. A blond and a redhead. I purposely pick two women who look the least like Sammie. And, yeah, they’re strippers, just with me ‘cause I’m sticking money down their G-strings, but I don’t give a shit if it clears my mind of all the static.
“I’m thinking we could use a little privacy in one of the champagne rooms.” The redhead giggles in my ear. Hate womenthat fuckin’ giggle. Sammie would never giggle. Nope, when she laughs, it’s out loud, filling her whole body.
“Mmmm, yeah, I think getting private is an excellent idea,” the blonde agrees.
I pour myself another shot of tequila, and the smoky liquid burns down my throat even though I know it won’t be enough.
