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He holds the door open for me. “You’re good at math. I like that.”
“You’re not funny,” I say as we step inside, and soon we’re ensconced in a crimson world with rock music so loud it shakes the floor.
The walls, the carpet, and if I’m not mistaken, even the ceiling holds that same sultry crimson hue. A long stage takes up the center of the room, wide and long enough to land a 747, as a handful of girls spin on the poles peppered over it.
Waitresses abound, wearing nothing but G-strings and pasties. Men sit in groups, cluttered near the stage like moths to a porchlight. It’s dimly lit, save for the riot of stage lights that swirl in a carnival of colors.
Jack garners the attention of just about every G-string wearing waitress here, and soon an entire herd of them lands us at a table for two near the stage.
I’m not so shocked by the white glove treatment
With his dark suit, his hair slicked back, and the cold look of a killer on his face, Jackson Stone looks downright lethal.
Women are always drawn to bad boys. And despite the fact Jack leans toward justice, there’s an unmistakable air of trouble about him. I’m guessing the time he put in down in Elmwood had something to do with that.
“Nachos okay? I hear they’re pretty good at places like this,” he says, and I marvel at how he got the words out with a straight face.
“Nachos are fine,” I shout over the music.
We each order a drink to go along with it and the waitress disappears.
“So are you a regular?” My voice is still an octave too loud, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Jack can hardly hear me. I can hardly hear myself.
“Here? No,” he says as his eyes stray to the stage.
“So you frequent other locales,” I mutter under my breath.
But seeing that both of our chairs are facing the action, and the fact the woman in front of us just released her boobs from some sort of a neoprene restraint, I can’t say I blame him. He is a man, and he happens to be free of any romantic entanglements as far as I know. That and apparently he’s got some spare change rolling around in his pockets. He’s basically their dream customer.
While he might be thrilled at the sight, I can’t help but feel as if a couple of alien eyes are looking at me while bobbing up and down.
“I don’t frequent these places,” he continues with a note of defensiveness in his voice. That or regret. “Not as much as I did in my youth.”
“You can quit talking,” I tell him just as a platter of nachos arrives, slathered in orange goo. My favorite kind.
We partake, and true to his word, these are some of the best I’ve ever had.
He scoots in just as the lights dim further and a new crop of girls in plastic heels trot onto the stage.
“So what happened yesterday?” he asks.
Here we go.
“I wasn’t feeling well.” The fact my truck was missing from my driveway comes to mind. He may have noticed. “I ended up going out and meeting up with a friend for coffee. Must have been a bug. Or a bad sandwich.” I wink his way.
I scoured a few of the sights in Denver where those conferences took place, hoping to find a scout out in the wild. But I did have a lot of luck chatting someone up online once I got back. The day wasn’t a total loss. I’m definitely on the right track.
His lips twitch just this side of a smile. “You want to tell me about your sister?”
“You mean you didn’t do any digging?” I tease. “I’m a little offended.”
“Don’t be. I asked around.”
“What did you glean?” Something enlivens in me, hoping against hope he knows more than I do. “Did something happen out there yesterday?” My heart thumps wildly thinking they might have found her.
He inches back and examines me as the lights spasm from pink to blue. “Wait, does your sister have some connection to Paradise?”
My lips press tight as I glance at the stage, but I don’t say a word.
