“Now, you will stay for lap dances.” Babushka clapped her hands like she was a majorette in the Fourth of July parade.
Linx chuckled. Lap dances and cake. She was a riot.
“That’s funny,” he said because it was. “I’m here for cake.”
Becca gripped his arm harder. “I’ve heard the Babushka stories. I think she’s serious.”
No, she wasn’t serious. Although, there was the lesson going on in the center of the—
Shit. That lesson was over.
“What stories?” He kept his words even. Level. Not relaying the fear bubbling in his gut.
Because… uh… if this wasn’t a joke, then lap dances at a retirement home party didn’t seem like such a good idea. He was certain the Life Alert policies wouldn’t cover that activity. Not that he’d ever looked into it. But he didn’t want to be the reason for anyone to fall and break something.
“Maybe we should go,” he whispered to Becca.
They should definitely get out of there. He had a personal rule ever since other people got interested in what he did with his spare time. That rule was, when somebody talks about stripping or lap dances, he left.
Unless he was alone with them, and he wanted a striptease or a lap dance. Then it was fine.
But not in a public area. No champagne rooms. When a woman started grinding on you for money, odds were not in your favor that some entertainment website wouldn’t get ahold of the footage.
Yeah, there were too many unknowns as soon as anyone mentioned a lap dance. Especially when a guy only showed up for cake. The potential for spiraling here became a genuine concern.
“I kinda want to stay,” Becca whispered. “I’ve always wanted to know how to give a proper lap dance.”
He had no time to think about that statement because two Solo cups were thrust into their hands. Reluctantly, he took the beverage. The contents smelled like a little fruit punch with lotsa vodka.
He eyed the ginger ale can Becca had stuffed back in her purse.
“What’s floating on top?” Becca sniffed the liquid and tilted the cup, examining it closer.
He gripped his own cup tighter and examined the contents. Becca wasn’t wrong. A thin sheen of oil seemed to separate into the top of the cocktail.
He used that word, cocktail, lightly. This seemed like something he’d create on accident with fruit scented shower gel and rubbing alcohol.
“What is that?” he echoed Becca’s question.
“C.B.D. oil.” Babushka over enunciated each letter. “For the joints.”
“How much did you put in here?” Becca sniffed her cup and immediately moved her nose away from the opening, coughing.
“Keeps the internal processes in working condition.” Babushka patted her stomach. “One moment, I vill return shortly.”
He gave Becca his best, hey-help-a-guy-out look.
She smirked and said nothing.
“This is the last time I bring you here,” he whispered.
“Because it’s the last time you’re coming?” she said with a lilt in her voice that implied she enjoyed this scene entirely too much.
He gave a low growl.
She laughed.
He was screwed.
