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Standing outside the strip club, Chase wondered what the hell he was doing here. Marc had sent him a message last night telling him to hop on the first flight out of Paris heading to New York. He landed two hours ago and had been instructed to come straight to this address.
The Lady’s Touch. The perfect name for a sleazy strip club—not that he had been inside yet, but no doubt they were all the same. Probably filled with coked-out strippers willing to suck you off for a tenner.
He didn’t like this. Being summoned to the other side of the world with no explanation other than to make sure that Levi didn’t come.
Good thing he trusted Marc. Otherwise, he would have assumed that this was a trap and that he was either being set up to be arrested or lured into the open to be murdered.
Alright, time to see what the fuck is going on.
Chase pulled open the door and stepped into the club.
All around him, women danced and laughed, topless and shoving their tits into smiling guys’ faces.
At least the music was pretty good.
“Hi, welcome to The Lady’s Touch. Is this your first time joining us?” a pretty, young redhead greeted.
“Umm, yeah. I’m supposed to be meeting a friend of mine.” He looked around the room, hoping to spot Marc somewhere in the sea of titties and lace.
“What’s your friend's name?” the woman asked, her friendly blue eyes batting a mile a minute. Her pale white skin and hint of a slight accent suggested that she hailed from Ireland.
“Marc Bodin,” Chase replied, still scanning the crowd, hoping to be rescued from this gorgeous temptress.
“You’re looking for Marc?” a deep voice asked behind him.
Chase turned around only to come face-to-face with the fittest man he had ever laid eyes on. His biceps bulged, and his shirt looked like it was about to separate at the seams. Chase was pretty sure that the man’s muscles had muscles underneath that shirt.
The human embodiment of Hercules pulled back his red and black hair and smiled at the young woman.
“I got this, Amy,” the man said, nodding for her to leave them alone.
The woman smiled before disappearing into the sea of nipples.
“I’m Mickey, owner of this establishment.” He stuck out his hand and almost broke Chase’s fingers while shaking his hand.
“That’s some grip you got there,” Chase chuckled, rubbing his sore fingers and trying to save face.
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that. My husband insists that I keep in shape. He keeps threatening to leave my ass if I ever get soft. So, I hit the gym six days a week.”
“It definitely shows,” Chase noted, following the man as he led him across the club and into the back.
“Marc’s waiting down here,” the bulging red-haired god of muscle said, nodding toward an open door and stairs leading down to the basement.
Yup, not suspicious at all.
“So, how do you know Marc again?” Chase figured he should probably ask some questions before blindly following some tattoo-covered beast into his creepy stripper club basement.
“My husband, Seth, used to work for him. I think doing what you’re doing now.”
He highly doubted that the man’s husband was hunting bad men and giving them their just desserts.
“He’s the one who gave Marc that fucked up journal you’re using to hunt down fucked up assholes.”
Okay… perhaps this man knew more than Chase originally suspected. Either he was friends with Marc, or he had captured Marc and was now seeking revenge against all those who worked for him.
“Chase? You up there?” Marc called from down in the basement.
“Come on. This way,” Mickey said, turning and walking down the metal staircase.
