I fall in step beside him as we head for the elevator he only walked out of ten minutes ago.
“Please tell me this is a gay thing,” I say dryly, still eyeing him with suspicion. “Because, honestly, I have zero interest in watching women dance on poles. I’m gay now, remember?”
He laughs instead of answering as we step inside. When the elevator opens into the garage, he takes my hand and leads me toward his ridiculously expensive SUV.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Looks like I’m going to see a strip show after all.
2
ELIJAH
The windshield wipers fight a losingbattle against the rain, smearing light across the glass in quick silver strokes. If I’d known a storm was coming, I would’ve had Steven drive.
I coast to the curb where Napolitano’s waits. It’s nothing much to look at—just rusted red brick and a tired black awning. Inside, though, it’s another story. Warm lights, velvet drapes, that easy charm of a place that wants to feel like Broadway and almost pulls it off.
With a flick of my hand, I motion for Alex to get out. Valet parking isn’t available for this show, and God only knows how far I’ll have to drive before I find a decent spot.
He side-eyes me, unimpressed, while impatient drivers lay on their horns in typical New York fashion. With an exaggerated sigh, he glances out at the rain, then opens the door and makes a dash for the canopied entryway.
I can’t help but laugh. Honestly, I think he still expected me to take him to a strip club.
I’ll save that for next time… just to fuck with him.
Inching back into traffic, I spot a car about half a block ahead pulling out of a metered space.Please, dear God, hold that spot for me.I cross my fingers and hold my breath until I finally reach it—and wouldn’t you know, it must be my lucky day. I slip right into the narrow space with surprising ease and let out a long breath of relief.
Even the rain has stopped—a miracle in itself—so I skip the umbrella and head up the sidewalk toward the venue.
In the distance, I spot Alex skeptically eyeing the guests arriving for tonight’s show. The crowd is a nice mix—straight, gay, trans—a living patchwork of the city that warms my heart. And the fashions on display don’t disappoint: bold, tailored, unapologetic. I’m certain Alex’s interest is piqued by that alone; he lives and breathes style.
My smile only broadens as I watch him take in his surroundings. Judging by his expression, he’s still trying to make sense of the fascination with pole dancing. He makes me laugh, and I love that I managed to surprise him with this date night—even if there’s a bit of a hidden agenda behind our little rendezvous.
“I can see you, Elijah,” he snickers, hazel eyes narrowing as I slip out of the shadows. I swear, it’s impossible to sneak up on him. Ana’s mastered the art of spying, but apparently, I still have some work to do.
Shaking my head, I take his hand and lead him out of the cold, into the dimly lit foyer, where impeccably dressed ushers in sharp bow ties greet us. They take our tickets and politely escort us to our seats—an intimate corner tucked away in the balcony’s reserved section.
“I’m impressed,” Alex murmurs, taking in the view as he slips off his navy-blue sports jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. He looks incredible in cream-colored linen pants and an athletic-fitpullover—cream with navy accents and a deep V-neck that hints just enough.
“Were you expecting anything less than the best?” I toss back, flashing him a grin.
He smirks. “Honestly? I was still half expecting a strip joint.”
Yeah, that much was obvious. I chuckle, hang my blazer next to his, and slide into the seat beside him. I catch the waiter’s eye and signal for two top-shelf bourbons, already tagged to our section. Then I reach over, thread our fingers together, and toss him a wink.
“I fucking love you,” he says, finally letting himself relax, his shoulders dropping as he sinks into the plush leather seat.
Grinning, I turn my attention to the stage. The layout is simple, yet undeniably elegant. Rich hickory-toned hardwood stretches across the floor, with three stainless-steel poles staggered at the center. A backdrop of satiny black fabric moves ever so slightly in the shifting air, catching the light in a way that’s both seductive and chic.
Our drinks arrive just as the overhead lights dim and soft music hums through the concealed speakers. Pale-pink twinkle lights sweep across the stage, casting a gentle glow on the polished poles, as six dancers pirouette and leap with effortless grace.
“Iknewthis was ballet,” Alex mutters under his breath.
I lean in, smirking. “Pretty sure you said you were expecting strippers.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh but keeps his eyes on the stage. I smile and do the same—watching the dancers, yes, but also stealing glances at him.
ALEX
