She holds my gaze, parts her lips, then hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“Hypothetically speaking, if you were having a bachelor party, would you want it at a strip club? Or is that where you’d want to go for a ‘night out with the boys’?”
“I don’t deal in hypotheticals, Shelby. Ask me what you want to ask.”
“I just did.”
“No.” A genuine shudder of revulsion washes over me. Have a bunch of sweaty, glittered-up girls grind all over me for dollar bills to celebrate marrying my little chickadee? No fucking way. And why the fuck would I spend time at one instead of with my girl? “No,” I say again.
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m sensing that it would bother you.”
Her face remains neutral.
“For another, I meant what I said. I got it out of my system years ago. You know that saying about seeing how sausage is made makes you never want to eat sausage?”
“I think so.”
“It’s kinda like that.”
“Ew. Don’t compare women to sausages.”
“I’m not. I mean the whole environment. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
SHELBY
I can’t believe I’m in an honest-to-God strip club. My band thought it was hilarious that I tagged along. Dawson seemed nervous or maybe embarrassed. Not sure why he cares what I think. He and Dex seem to be getting along, which is good since he’s continuing on the tour with us until the end.
Trent’s nervous big brother eyes keep darting my way. No need to look out for me, buddy. I’m fine. Or maybe he doesn’t want me to see how many lap dances he plans to splurge on. Either way, he better knock it off before Rooster notices.
As we’re led through the back entrance—a long, dark hallway with faint yellow lighting—I dare to peek at my surroundings. Posters of girls on the walls. Both regular dancers and special guests.
Lord, I hope no one assumes I’m a ‘special guest.’ My momma would freak if I told her about this outing.
We enter the main floor of the club. A large, mirrored stage with two shiny poles takes up the center of the room. Two smaller round stages take up the corners but those don’t seem to be occupied.
If I had to label the rest of the decor, I guess I’d call it western-bondage-bordello themed. I’ve never seen anything like it. My mind’s spinning as I take in the jewel-toned curtains and black leather furniture. Even the walls have what looks like some sort of sapphire colored wallpaper flocked with ornate designs. Mirrored panels strategically placed on the walls give the room the appearance of being larger than it actually is.
“Except for the stage, I feel like we traveled back in time,” Trinity whispers to me.
“To a kinky Wild West?”
“Yup.”
“I kinda dig it. If I ever headline my own show, I think I’d do sets and costumes exactly like this.”
She laughs, instantly putting me at ease. “I can see it. A little more western flair, though.”
Because we’re such a large group, the manager escorts us to a space they’ve set up in the back. Several tables have been pushed together surrounding two large, circular booths. I glance from the booths to the chairs.
Trinity seems to be as indecisive as I am.
“Where would you rather sit?” Rooster asks me.
“Which one’s less likely to have cum stains crusted on the upholstery?”
Rooster chokes on a laugh and just stares at me.
I pat the back pocket of my fancy new jeans. “I wore my Diamond Tough Denim tonight.” Miranda had come through with the sponsorship deal. We’d done a quick photoshoot before one of the shows and I have another one scheduled. A stack of brand new jeans too and a fat paycheck to boot.
He steps away, speaking to one of the girls dressed in the bedroom version of a saloon girl’s outfit. She quickly wipes down the booth and smiles at me.
Ugh, why’d I have to complain? I used to be a waitress. I know how hard it is to keep up on everything. “You didn’t tell her what I said, did you?” I ask Rooster.
“No.” He curls his arm around my waist, tucking me against his side. “Relax.”
A big, burly guy with a long, scraggly black and gray beard sidles up to us, holding out his ham-sized hand to Rooster.
“Digger, how you been, brother?” Rooster engages in one of those intricate, manly secret handshakes with the older biker. He hugs me to his side. “This is my old lady, Shelby. Shelby, Digger’s the president of our charter here in Deadbranch. Royal Dolls is his place.”
His gaze roams over my body in a long, slow slide. The icky sensation is too much like spiders crawling over my skin. Or maybe it’s the environment giving me a skeezy feeling.
Finally, Digger opens his mouth. “You’re the singer. The one that got nabbed near Ice’s place?”
Huh. Maybe it’s because I recovered at Ice’s clubhouse, so I feel more loyal to him, but I don’t like the way this guy seems to be subtly implying Ice is somehow at fault for my abduction.
He turns to Rooster. “Hell, brother. You shoulda warned me. I woulda called in extra security.”
“I thought I mentioned it,” Rooster says in the special way he has that borders between respectful and ‘fuck off.’ “I think we’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
“Shit, bro. You brought three SAAs in my joint. I should put ‘em to work.”
Rooster glances over his shoulder. “You can give it a try.”
Digger slaps Rooster’s shoulder. “First round is on the house. For you and all your guests.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I insist. First hour in the champagne room’s on me too. For the whole party. Just make sure they tip the girls.”
“All right.”
Maybe we arrived early and the night hasn’t really started yet. The club’s half full. Men at different tables. All laser focused on the stage in the middle of the room. The smaller side stages appear empty for now.
Suddenly the lights dim and the music zooms up to a punishing throb. At least eight girls of varying shades of blond and tan slide onto the stage.
“Not a whole lot of variety in their look, huh?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me and tugs on one of my braids.
“Yeah, yeah.” I swat his hand away. “You know what I meant.”
“The night’s still young.”
We approach our tables and Rooster relays the information about the free drinks and bump-n-grinds to everyone. A round of tequila is ordered and a few minutes later a shot glass is handed to me.
“I can’t remember the last time I drank tequila. I don’t think it ended well.”
Rooster clinks his glass against mine. “I’m having this and one beer, so drink whatever you want.” He cocks his head and seems to reconsider. “Just not so much you’re gonna fall off the bike.”
“Very funny.”
“Holler and swaller!” Trent shouts his favorite toast.
The liquid burns all the way down and I squeeze my eyes shut to tolerate the sting. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing for my throat. When I open my eyes, Rooster’s holding a wedge of lime in front of my face. I take my sweet time sucking the fruit from his fingers. The spark in his eyes shifts from playful to hungry.