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“It’s the only place near Fox Hill that doesn’t card. A twelve-year-old could get a lap dance here,” Lincoln informs me from the driver’s seat.
“Oh, goody.”
The club is on the opposite side of the wide, empty street. There’s not much else to be found on this stretch. A few other warehouse-like buildings are visible down the road, but they’re dark—either closed down for the night or abandoned entirely.
For fuck’s sake. I can’t believe I’m about to infiltrate some skeezy-ass strip club in a skeezy-ass part of town dressed like a cocktail waitress. Some weird shit has happened to me since I got to Fox Hill, but this has to at least make the top five.
“Okay, so what do I do?” I ask.
“Just get inside. That part will be easy. Like I said, they let anyone in. Then grab a tray or something and wait till Trent heads to the private rooms on the second floor for a lap dance. They don’t have doors, just curtains—something about security for the dancers. So it’ll be easy enough to nudge the curtain aside and get a video. We need at least thirty seconds. If his cock is out of his pants, even better.”
My stomach turns, but I just nod. I’m not getting out of this, so the sooner I get it over with, the better. I slip my jacket off, keeping my phone and wallet with me, and then shove at Chase’s shoulder. He grins down at me and winks before opening the door and sliding out of the car to let me out.
As he climbs back in and slams the door, I turn to Lincoln, who’s rolled the front window down. “Where will you guys be?”
“Around the corner.” He jerks his chin toward a small side street that intersects the one we’re on. “We’ll pull down that street a little way and wait. Call if you need anything.”
He rattles off his number, and I hurry to punch it into my phone. I don’t really want his contact info, but I do want to be able to reach them in case something goes wrong.
“All right. See you in a little while.”
I don’t wait for a response, turning on my heel and striding quickly toward the building. It’s cold out here, and the dress I’m wearing isn’t shielding me from the elements at all.
They were right about how easy it is to get inside. The guy at the door does a very thorough inspection of my boobs but doesn’t even ask to see my ID.
One obvious hitch in the guys’ plan that none of them chose to dwell on is that Trent knows who I am. If he sees me and recognizes me, it’ll make sneaking up on him getting a lap dance a lot harder. Luckily, the club is dimly lit everywhere except for the stage, where bored looking women with nipple tassels and g-strings gyrate on poles.
My heart beats hard in my chest as I hang back toward the perimeter of the room, trying to check out the patrons without being obvious. Trent’s pretty easy to spot. He’s wearing a plastic crown, and he’s surrounded by several big guys I
recognize as other football players. It looks like they’ve been here for a little while, and I hope he hasn’t already gotten his birthday lap dance.
They’re close to the stage. He waves a bill at the woman closest to him, and she crawls over, turning around to put her ass right in his face as he tucks the dollar into her g-string. The song ends, and another one begins, and it occurs to me for the first time that this might take a while. I see a tray on a nearby table and grab it, then lean back against the wall, hoping no one will actually mistake me for a waitress here and try to order a drink.
It takes four songs, but finally, the crowd of guys around Trent begins whooping and cheering loudly. They clap him on the back and force him out of his seat as one of them gestures to get the attention of a woman coming offstage. She nods and heads upstairs.
Fucking finally.
I perk up, pressing away from the wall. I should probably give him a bit of a head start so he doesn’t see me. I just have to make sure I don’t loose track of which room he goes into. God forbid I record the wrong guy getting a private lap dance.
But before Trent reaches the stairs, a loud scream cuts across the music in the club.
“You fucking asshole!”
My head whips toward the door, and I blink in surprise.
Iris? What the hell?
She storms toward Trent, furious and wild. Her mascara is a little smeared, and it looks like she’s been crying.
“This is why you couldn’t see me tonight? Fuck you!” Her voice is high pitched and breathy, and I see several of the dancers shoot annoyed looks her way. I’m sure they’ve witnessed scenes like this more than once before.
Trent freezes for a second, like a deer trapped in headlights, and then he holds out his hands, moving toward Iris as she storms toward him. “Baby, I…”
I can’t hear the rest of his response because he’s not screaming like she is. But whatever he says doesn’t placate her. She shoves his chest with both hands, and a second later, the bouncer is between them, speaking urgently to them both and pointing toward the door.
Trent makes some gesture to his friends, who are hanging back, having obviously decided not to get involved—then he storms toward the entrance with Iris on his heels.
Shit. So much for a fucking lap dance.
