Page 18 of Cursing My Cheating Husband

“But does this really… reflect coven values?”

“Oh, so you have a thing against strip clubs?” Brie raised an eyebrow playfully.

“I… I guess I’ve never really thought about it before just now.” It was true, I hadn’t. Strippers and the men who patronized them were something I had given precisely zero thought to before that moment. “It just surprises me that the leadership would allow it.”

Brie took my arm again and angled me toward the door. “Come on, we’re going in. You’ll love it.”

“Oh, no, I’m not in a strip club mood tonight,” I protested.

“If nothing else, say hello to the owner. She’s dying to see you.” Off my quizzical look, Brie answered the obvious question. “It’s Nina!”

“Nina?” I repeated blankly. “Not Nina Ashleaf?”

Brie’s grin widened. “The very same.”

I almost stumbled over my feet. Quiet, mousy Nina, who had spent nearly our entire childhood with her nose buried in textbooks? The most studious and intellectual of all our classmates, who color-coded her notes and cycled through the same seven plain, sensible outfits every week? The friend who had been most baffled by my boy craziness? That Nina had started Nightshade Cove’s first strip club?

“I don’t understand...” I trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the building.

Brie laughed. “Callie, relax. I promise you’re going to love it.”

I surrendered to Brie’s determination as she pulled me toward the door.

She marched us straight past the line of waiting men, heading directly for the entrance. A petite young witch in a sleek black pantsuit stood manning the door. Beside her loomed a massive security guard, taller than even Maddox and twice as broad. With an intimidating scowl, he crossed his arms, biceps straining against his shirt sleeves.

As we approached, one man in line whistled sharply at us. “Hey! Are you a dancer in there, sweet cheeks? Am I gonna get to see those tits inside?”

Heat flooded my face as I stopped and turned, ready to tell him I was not the witch he wanted to fuck with right now.

But before I could say any of that, the impossibly large man bellowed, “Security!”

I was momentarily baffled. If this wall of muscle wasn’t security, who was?

All became clear when the tiny young witch in the pantsuit stepped forward and casually flicked her wrist toward the catcaller.

For half a second, I saw shock twist the catcaller’s face as he felt the magic seize his body, and then he vanished with a soft pop.

The tiny young witch gave the surrounding men a sharp look of warning as they shuffled nervously, wondering if they might be next.

The doorman stepped in to calm the crowd. “Relax, guys. He’s only been sent back to his hotel room, with a door that won’t let him out until he’s sobered up and can explain what he did wrong. As long as you all save it for inside and behave out here, none of you need to get locked in for the night.” He then turned to us, immediately all warmth and smiles as he unhooked the velvet rope. “Brielle! Good to see you again, go right in.”

We entered a small, shadowy foyer containing the next checkpoint: a desk where a group of three men were being handed documents by a witch attendant. She wore a form-fitting black cocktail dress that showed some cleavage and leg, but nothing as revealing as what I’d been expecting. Somehow that made me feel marginally better about all this.

“Gentlemen, before you proceed, you’ll need to sign our standard waiver, which articulates how things work here at The Naughty Nightshade,” the witch was explaining to the men, who looked ready to jump out of their skins in horny anticipation. “It outlines the magical services you’ll be receiving, the limits of⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll sign whatever you need, just get me in there,” one of them said rapidly, reaching for a glittering gold pen. The other two followed suit, scrawling their signatures on their own waivers without even glancing at the words. As soon as their signatures were down, they suddenly all seemed much calmer, dopey smiles spreading on their faces.

Before I could ask what was going on, Brie was already pushing through the inner doors.

The sight of the main floor stopped me cold.

I’d been bracing myself for the obvious: witches in various states of undress, pole dancing on a stage while men hollered and tossed dollar bills at them.

Instead, I found myself in a room that didn’t contain so much as one actual stripper. The floor was packed with men perched in plush leather chairs or curved booths, all of whom appeared to be receiving lap dances from invisible women.

The men released aroused moans as they ran their hands through empty air, caressing phantom curves. They leaned back with glazed, ecstatic expressions, their attention fixed on breasts only they could see. Visible erections tented their pants as they moved their hands up and down the bodies of women who did not exist.

“They’re glamoured,” I breathed.