I burst out laughing. “Maybe the club’s just evolving.”
“Maybe. I think the point was always to have a good cover to launder money from other activities. Can’t do that with online porn.”
“That’s why downstate has the laundromats.”
He scoffs. “Sway was so literal.”
“What’s up, Rooster,” Digger says. “Everyone treating you okay?”
“Definitely. Erica’s been great.”
“Careful, I think she’s got a little crush on your girl.” He nudges me with his elbow and gives me a dirty old man smirk.
Yeah, not happening.
Since I’m not here to start shit, I humor him with a quick nod I hope doesn’t look too dismissive.
Priest sent me here with a goal in mind, not to take in the nightlife and kick back free drinks. Still, I need to use caution. Club brother or not, I can’t walk into another charter’s territory and start prying into their business.
I lean on the bar and take a sip of the fresh beer the bartender left in front of me.
“How are things?” I ask Digger. “Haven’t been down this way in a while. The area seems more built up.”
“Had a lot of growth in the last few years.” Digger glances around the bar. “Unfortunately, it’s not translating to more traffic here. We’re not as busy as we used to be.”
“Seems to be an on-going decline throughout the industry,” Dex says.
“Yeah? Same for your place?”
“We’ve had a bit of an extended slump.” Dex nods to one of the dancers who strokes her hand over his shoulder as she struts by. “Maybe we can start up an exchange program with the girls. Rotate in new talent,” he suggests to Digger.
Crystal Ball has always prided itself on pulling talent from all over the country. It’s one of the reasons upstate has kept their place as successful as it has for so long. So this isn’t exactly a new and novel concept Dex is suggesting. More like, he’s trying to help me lull Digger into a broader conversation.
While they discuss logistics, I scan the room, searching for Shelby. Wrath and Trinity are in the booth alone. He jerks his head to the right when he notices me.
Oh, Shelby. What the hell are you up to?
I knew I’d let her drink too much. Haven’t seen her touch a drop of alcohol the whole time I’ve been on the road with her. Should’ve known she’d be a lightweight.
It’ll be fine.
The whole point for her tonight was to cut loose and have a little harmless fun, right?
Chapter Forty-Five
Shelby
After their turn on the stage, each dancer walks through the room, sitting in customers’ laps, talking them into buying drinks, accepting tips, and trying to hustle them in the back for private dances.
The men are gross. Constantly copping feels and staring at the girls’ tits. Not much different from waitressing, I suppose.
For the tenth time tonight, I’m thanking Jesus I never accepted any of the invitations I received over the years to “try out” at any of the local strip clubs back home.
Three dancers approach Dawson at once. Two in his lap and one standing behind him to rub his shoulders and whisper in his ear.
The evil bitch in me kinda wants to snap a picture and send it to Glenna Wilson. I’d caption it, “Looks like he’s doing fine without you, bitch.”
But I could never do that. My phone stays in my pocket.
Dawson must’ve reconsidered the private dance because he lets the girls lead him backstage.
“And then there were three,” Trinity sighs. Wrath just shakes his head.
I sip my drink while watching Rooster and Dex at the bar.
“Shelby!” Erica and another girl approach my side of the booth. Together the two of them look like the angel and devil come to taunt me with bad choices. Erica in her blood-red and black corset and the new girl in what looks like the bridal lingerie of a 1960’s virgin, complete with marabou feathered pumps.
The new girl introduces herself as Vanity and holds out her hands to me. “Please, come dance with us.”
“What? Me?” I glance at the stage. “I can’t do any of that.” I play a little air guitar solo for them. “Guitar and singin’ are my only talents.”
Vanity twirls a long lock of ice-blond hair around one finger and pouts. “Please. I’ll show you some moves.”
Why the hell not? How often do you get offered dance lessons from a professional stripper?
Vanity leans over the table toward Trinity, “How about you?”
“I’m good.” Trinity’s amber eyes settle on me. “You sure about this?”
I shrug and finish my paloma, slamming it on the table with a thud. “I think I have just enough tequila in me to give it a try.”
“Yay!” Vanity claps. The sleeves of the filmy white robe she’s wearing slide down her arms. Erica reaches for me, curling her hands around mine and dragging me out of the booth.
“Do you dance too?” I ask her.
“I want to. The money’s better. But I haven’t worked up the courage to take it all off, yet.”
“Oh.” I giggle and stumble, bumping into her. “Yeah, I could never.”
“Why?” Vanity fluffs my hair and studies my body likes she’s measuring me for a new bra. “You definitely have the figure for it.”
Erica pushes her friend. “Don’t you dare talk my favorite singer into another line of work.”
A nervous chuckle spills out of me. “No plans to switch careers.”
“Okay.” Vanity spreads her hands in front of her like she’s about to sell me on the latest multi-level-marketing scheme. “Main stage, you enter from the back. These smaller ones, you gotta haul yourself up onto them and still make it look graceful.”
Of course, I end up scrabbling my way onto the raised platform about as gracefully as a drunk monkey wearing a girdle.
Once I’m on the stage, I stare at the shiny silver pole in front of me. “Can you teach me how to spin around that thing?”
“Easy, breezy,” Vanity says.
She demonstrates the different grips used for tricks, climbing, and spins. I’ll never remember each hand positioning but I nod along, eager to get through the lessons and give it a whirl. So to speak.
“It might be easier with bare feet,” Erica points out.
I plop down on the stage and tug my boots and socks off, setting them to the side.
The two girls share a look. “Let’s start you with the attitude spin. That’s a good beginner one,” Vanity says. “Okay, first you start with the half-bracket grip I showed you.” She demonstrates by curling her hands around the pole with one above her head and the other about chest-level. “Keep your core tight and shoulders back.”
“Lemme see you do it,” I say.
She executes the moves in a slow, fluid motion, then stops to explain. “Step forward with your inside leg.” She pats her thigh. “Swing your outside leg in a wide circle around your body, hooking the back of your ankle onto the pole—”
“You lost me.”
Her mask of patience slips for a second.