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He doesn’t say anything further.
He simply leads me back out into the main room where a new group of girls have taken their places on the poles.
I’d thought that coming to a strip club in the daytime would mean the place would be empty, but it’s not. Far from it.
There are several men—all dressed in designer suits, sitting at the base of the stages. They’re lounging in the luxury booths that line the far wall, and I see a couple of them walking out of what appears to be a private lounge.
“Hello, Michael.” A woman steps in front of us and extends a tray of shot glasses. “Is your new friend enjoying the show? Does she need a drink?” She smirks, and I realize she’s wearing nothing but a white thong and matching pasties.
I don’t answer her. I let my eyes continue to roam the room, watching as the women gracefully contort their bodies around the poles—as they make the men squirm and lose control over what they’re able to do.
One man who’s sitting in front of the center pole suddenly stands up and approaches it. He reaches into his breast-pocket and pulls out his wallet.
The dancer wraps her legs around the pole and tilts her upper body backward so he’s standing right above her face.
My vision isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure he inserts two hundred dollar bills into her mouth.
While still hanging from the pole, she extends her arms and touches him, running her hands against the large tent that’s formed in his pants.
“You can touch them, but they can’t touch you.” The shot glass woman follows my gaze, and then she whispers into my ear, “Unless you want them to that is...It’s more money if you do.”
I swallow and look away—letting my eyes settle on a pair of doors to my right. A half-naked woman and a suit are stumbling through them, and he’s definitely touching her—kissing her. I know she’s going to do more than dance for him behind those walls.
I want to ask Michael a number of questions, the main one being “How the fuck is all of this legal?” but I don’t want him to think I want to back out.
After we watch a woman descend from the pole in an effortless flip, he shows me to the bar that extends against the entire back wall.
Behind it, women are dressed in shiny gold bras and black cut off shorts that could reveal everything with one slight tug. Standing tall behind them is a massive wall of lit glass shelves that hold every brand and flavor of alcohol.
My mouth waters just looking at them. It’s been a long time and I figure one shot won’t hurt anything. I can easily drive home after just one.
“We pulled your record from your license plate too.” Michael hands me a bottle of water. “You’re banned from the bar. I’ve got legal issues of my own.”
I sigh.
“If any of the cameras,” he says while pointing at the black orbs that hang down from the ceiling, “or any of my security guards catch you even looking at a drink, I’ll turn you in to the state personally. Clear?”
“Clear.” I unscrew the bottle and slurp as much of it as I can.
He looks at his watch and quickly shows me the DJ booth, the private dance-rooms, and the private “bachelor pads” that feature their own poles. He says a lot more about The Phoenix as he leads me back upstairs, but I only catch bits and pieces.
I’ve been to strip clubs before—a couple ones with Leah and one with Parker in college, but The Phoenix is not a strip club. I don’t know what the fuck it is.
My car is where I left it outside, and when a black Jaguar suddenly pulls behind it I feel embarrassed and out of place.
“For future reference,” he says as he opens my car door, “the employee parking lot is straight ahead and through that black gate.”
I nod and slip inside, twisting my key into the ignition. “How much time do I get to think about it?”
“Friday. Five o’ clock.” He steps away.
I drive off, completely dazed by everything I’ve just seen. I don’t think about the boring country fields or the stupid cows that block the road on my way home. All I can think about is The Phoenix and whether or not I should consider it.
Chapter 6
Three days. Three days to think about The Phoenix and I’m sitting in a bookstore dreaming about things that will never come true.
Every morning for the past six months, I’ve been coming here as soon as the doors open.
I take my seat near the windows in the back, open my laptop, and let the words for my latest story flow freely. Every time I come here, I tell myself that this story is the story, the one that will have the New York publishers calling my phone and begging me to sign with them, even though I know it’ll never happen.
