Hey, no one told you to offer the drunk girl dancin’ lessons.
“Let me show you again.”
My eyes follow her movements—grip, grip, step, twirl. She does it a few more times but it still looks like a graceful blur of motion.
“Okay, you try.”
Grip, grip—
“No, grip lower.” Vanity repositions my bottom hand.
Step, jump, nothing.
My body doesn’t magically twirl around the pole.
I try a few more times and finally get my leg high enough.
“Good, good!” Erica encourages. “You’re so flexible. Took me forever to get my leg to bend like that.”
“Yoga, baby.” I slap the backs of my thighs a few times.
Vanity smirks at Erica. “Told ya.”
I try the spin again and end up sliding down the pole, dragging my feet on the floor.
“Slightly better,” Vanity says. “Here, move those hips a little when you come down.” She places her hands on me and shimmies from side to side, encouraging me to do the same.
The music seamlessly shifts as a new group of dancers takes the main stage. An Eighties rock song, Candy Jar, blasts through the speakers. Kinda cliché for a strip club, so not unexpected. I bust out some dance moves with the girls, tossing my hair around like a proper Eighties video queen.
“Nice, Shelby!” Erica laughs. “Try the spin again.”
Grip, grip, step, jump, spin. I almost get all the way around the pole, but my heel slips and I land painfully on my hands and knees.
“Ouch.” I giggle and dust off my hands, jumping up to try again.
“I think your jeans are causing you to slip when they make contact with the pole,” Vanity points out.
I may be slightly tipsy but there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to convince me to strip off my pants in a public place. An uneasy feeling settles in my gut. Maybe trying to spin my body around a pole with all the tequila sloshing through my tummy wasn’t the best idea.
“That’s enough of that, songbird,” a gruff voice says behind me. Strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me into the air and off the stage.
“Stop! I’m gonna puke.”
“A little puke doesn’t scare me.” Jigsaw doesn’t break his stride. Customers barely blink as he carries me to our table, they’re so focused on the main stage.
At our booth, Jiggy gently stands me on the bench, leaving me with a bird’s-eye view of the whole club. “Where’d your boots go?” he asks.
I point to the stage.
“Don’t move,” he warns.
I almost topple over and lean one arm on the back of the booth.
When my vision stops swimming, I search the bar again. No sign of Logan. Where’d he go?
Jigsaw returns with a grim expression. He holds my boots up in front of my face. “Sit.”
I slide into the booth, landing on my rump.
He squats in front of me, shoving my pants leg up while working one sock onto my foot and slipping on my boot. He repeats the process with my other foot, then smooths my jeans into place.
From the corner of my eye, I catch an older man wearing a business suit taking a photo of us.
Oh, that’s not good.
“Jiggy,” I whisper urgently.
“You gonna be sick?” he asks, concern darkening his eyes.
“No…well maybe…but that guy over there is taking pictures.”
He whips around and zeroes in on the wanna-be photographer right away. Leaping into action, he lunges for the phone.
The man jumps out of his seat so fast, his chair clatters to the ground. Instead of running toward the safety of the front door, he tries to dodge Jigsaw and run deeper into the club.
Jiggy sticks his arm out, clotheslining the guy right in the neck. Boom. The man hits the floor with a splat.
Two bouncers who’d been manning the front door come running. Before they reach the guy, Jigsaw grabs his phone, flicking his fingers over the screen, hopefully deleting the photos.
The man struggles as the bouncers drag him away.
“That was close,” Trinity says. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
ROOSTER
Digger waves his hand over his shoulder. “Follow me back to my office so we can talk about this without all the noise.” He follows my line of sight. “She’ll be fine. The girls will take care of her.”
I nod as if I’m not worried but as soon as he turns around, I pull out my phone and send Jiggy another text.
Me: Eyes on Shelby. Now.
We’re already in the hallway leading to Digger’s office when Jiggy responds with a thumb’s up emoji.
Wrath’s out there. He won’t let anything happen to Shelby. But I also know if anything goes down, Trinity will be his first priority.
Dancers scatter out of Digger’s way. Some try to stop and talk to Dex and me. I snarl at a few who put their hands on me or grab my arm.
A young woman dressed in street clothes, carrying a large duffle bag, is waiting outside Digger’s office door. Even though she’s in jeans and a sweatshirt, her teased halo of hair and heavy makeup say she’s finishing a shift.
“What’s wrong, Jenny?” he asks.
“Can you walk me to my car? That guy…” her bottom lip trembles.
Digger sighs. “I’m in the middle of something.” He turns and claps me on the back. “Rooster will walk you out.”
Startled, I don’t say anything right away, which Digger seems to take for acceptance.
“Thank you, Rooster,” Jenny gushes.
Dex shrugs as he follows Digger into the office.
Fuck.
Jenny scans my cut. “You’re visiting from New York, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I want to get up there for Christmas this year.”
“Well, I think that’s what Dex and Digger are talking about if you’re interested in taking a few shifts at our upstate New York club.”
She quickens her steps to keep up with me. “Oh, yes. That would be perfect.”
I push the back door open but ask her to wait, scanning the parking lot behind the building. All the vehicles appear to be empty. No pedo-vans lurking. I motion for her to follow me outside.
“Which one’s yours?” I ask.
She points to a small, red hatchback. “So, should I ask for you if I want to schedule something?”
“Huh? Oh. No. Dex runs Crystal Ball.”
She lets out a throaty laugh. “Will I see you at all if I visit New York?”
Hell fucking no.
“No. I’ll be on the road with my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Her heavily glossed lips push into a pout.
We stop at her car and she hits the unlock button. The alarm chirps and the lights flash. I lean in and open the driver’s door.
“Thank you so much.” She tosses her bag into the backseat. “I had this customer who wouldn’t take no for an answer and he started waiting in the parking lot for me…” her voice trails off. “Scared the hell out of me a few times.”
I scowl and glance at the club. The few times I’ve helped out at Crystal Ball, hell, any of the strip clubs Lost Kings own, we’ve always walked the girls to their cars at night. Too many guys fell “in love” with the girls and acted like dropping their weekly paycheck on lap dances entitled them to more after hours.