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She says ‘bad guy’ like most folks say yummy cake, and I wonder exactly what is going on between the two of them. Part of me hopes it’s not what I think. Allie’s the kind to let her heart get broken in a futile quest to redeem the bad guy.
Before I can question her further, she gives her boobs a little shake and blows me an air kiss. “Anyway, off for my first set. Make sure you clap for my back walk-over move.”
I smile. “You know I will. It’s really a brilliant hook for your routine. I’ve seen guys’ eyes just about bug out of their heads when you do it. Well done!”
She gives me a high-five and sashays out to wait backstage for her music cue. I quickly join her out on the floor while she’s just getting her hips rolling for the crowd, immediately realizing that my section is already nearing capacity. Tossing a quick wave to Marco, I hustle over, jumping into the routine of getting orders and drinks.
As I work, I scan the room, sensing a vibe of tension for some reason. Usually by now, there’s an ambiance of wicked abandon, wild chaos barely restrained. Too many guys are looking around the room too, ignoring Allie even as she hits her sexiest moves.
But instead, everyone is on edge, sitting up and looking over to the right, even as Allie comes off stage and the new girl takes over. Her approach is a different style from Allie’s elegant grace, but the confidence and sex appeal are all there and should be garnering the crowd’s attention.
Hmm, something’s got to be up. I wonder what’s over there? I try to look surreptitiously, especially since it’s not my section and I don’t want to be seen as a table poacher, but I just have to know.
Holy Mama Llama! That’s Jimmy Keys, all six-foot-eight inches of millionaire himself, here at Petals, not at Club Noir like he was rumored to be last night. He’s sitting back, two girls already hanging out with him, a bottle of very expensive bubbly sitting on the table.
The devil on my shoulder wants to tell Jeanine to suck it because this waitressing cover just might pan out after all. Mr. Basketball getting his drink and dance on at a regular club without his wife is one thing. Getting his jollies off at a strip club with a table full of what totally looks like his boys is another.
I can definitely use this for a story in The Daily Spot, but I need pictures as proof. I move to the far end of the bar, calling out an order to Marco and staying back to wait while he makes my drinks.
I pull out my phone, which is against the rules, but I need to take the risk. Acting like I’m checking my messages on my phone—yep, nothing to see here, folks—I quickly pull up my camera and fire off a burst of pics rapid-fire style. Score! Knowing when to cut and run, I don’t even check the pics before shoving my phone back in my apron pocket. If they’re fuzzy, well, it’s not the first time we’ve run with unfocused photos, and these aren’t even of UFOs or Bigfoot.
I’m just in time as Marco sets my drinks down. “One JB on the rocks and one draft beer for table nine,” he says, grinning. “Good times tonight, huh?”
“I’m guessing you mean the bar tab?” I ask, and Marco nods. “Yeah. Good times.”
I deliver my drinks and check in with my tables, my eyes flashing back to Jimmy every few minutes. I hear some guys cheering and laughing and look over to see his boys all riled up as Jimmy stands from his seat. He’s grinning but not seeing a damn thing as his eyes read one thing and one thing only. Lust.
I can easily see why as Sasha, a stunning blonde from Russia, takes his hand and leads him straight into the back hallway where the private rooms are.
Not just a score, this could be a jackpot! Family man basketball star getting a private lap dance. I can see the headline now.
Once upon a time, I’d have been ashamed of peddling gossip like this. I would have been even more ashamed that a public person like this is acting so . . . dishonorably, but after a few years of tabloid work, you get numb. It feels like there’s a sense of justice to it sometimes, at least. Jimmy trades and exploits his image as a family man, banking millions on his mantra of ‘being a real man who treats his woman like a queen,’ with endorsements, speaking fees . . . heck, the man spoke in front of a ten-thousand-seat church once. But something tells me his wife won’t be too happy with her husband getting a private, one-on-one show from another woman.
