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Chapter Sixteen
ALISTAIR
Maddox’s number appears on my phone, but I give him the button and shove the fucking thing back in my pocket. Whatever he needs can fucking wait, because right now, I have better things to do.
Smiling, I step out of my Lambo and engage the security system, knowing some crackhead or drug dealer around these parts is going to try and steal it. I love the way everyone looks at me as I saunter toward the front door of the dodgy strip club, Jiggle and Shake.
I roll my eyes at such an obscene name, but I guess there’s nothing more obscene than a place like this. Some people look down at sex workers, as if they are substandard individuals. Not me. Everyone in society has their place. Without custodians, nothing would be cleaned. Without garbage men, our homes would be covered with filth and stink to high heaven. The women who work here are necessary, just like the custodians and the garbage men. They allow people an escape from reality, letting them feel wanted, even if it’s all just an illusion, and they get paid great money in the process. Good for them. My eyes are appreciative of the landscape.
Neon lights shine brightly over the entrance, displaying a glowing pair of pink tits whose nipples flash on and off. As if the place needed neon tits in the first place. Well known around town, Jiggle and Shake is where people like me go to do business, knowing we won’t be spotted by anyone of importance.
Because of course, anyone with a reputation they wish to uphold would not be caught dead in a place like this. Me? I don’t give a fuck.
The bouncers incline their heads as I near the entrance and open the doors for me without frisking me for weapons or checking my ID. They know who I am and allow me to pass without preamble.
Bass thumps in my ears as I enter, the music throbbing as I look for the man I’m meeting. To my right is a bar with a sleek, black counter and blue neon flashing above it in time to the song.
No one is sitting there, because all the patrons have taken up their favorite spots at the many tables littered in front of the enormous stage. Three poles stretch up to the ceiling, allowing three women to entertain the masses at once, depending on the night. Believe it or not, the weekdays are much more crowded. Men frolic here after a long day’s work, looking for a drink and a pair of perky tits to help them relax.
And like most seedy places, this one has back rooms where extras can be purchased. I haven’t visited them myself—no need to, really. When women see the kind of power I wield and the money at my disposal, they offer themselves to me free of charge. Their motives remain a mystery. Perhaps the illusion of a man like me desiring a woman like them is similar to how most of the blue-collar workers look at them. An illusion. An escape from reality. They can look at me and pretend I might offer them a different life, but just like the men here, they will be disappointed.
There’s only one woman for me, and she’s in my apartment complex right now, likely wearing one of the skimpy matching lingerie outfits I filled her drawers with. My cock stirs as I think about perching myself in the corner of her dressing room, making her try them all on for me, a personal show that only I have the ticket to.
So that’s happening…
On stage, her name scrolling across the lightbox behind her, is Peaches. With reddish-blonde hair and a huge pair of fake boobs, the woman makes love to the fucking pole. Fit arms haul her body up with ease as she whips her hair back and forth to the music. Strong legs wrap around the pole, and as the beat drops, she falls back, allowing her legs to hold her torso up as she hangs upside down.
Her tits strain against the small triangles of her bikini that’s desperately trying to hold them back. The men cheer for her, tossing their singles onto the stage in appreciation. Loosening her legs, she slides down the pole slowly, and when she reaches the bottom, she extends her arms, places her hands on the ground, and gracefully unfolds herself from the pole.
The music picks up, and she spins, her back facing us as she rocks her hips from side to side, bringing her hands up to lift her hair. The men cheer as she reaches for the string holding her top, releasing it as the song reaches a crescendo. Whoops and hollers ring out as she turns to face the crowd, her tits displayed proudly.
She walks with a purpose, her heels clicking on the stage as her tits draw more singles as she shakes her shoulders, making them swing back and forth. As much as I love a pair of huge tits, I prefer them smaller if they are real. Fake ones just don’t move the same.
When my woman walks, I want her tits to jiggle seductively. I don’t want to be scared they might pop if I choose to abuse her breasts, spanking them with my hands or even my whip, or squeezing them until she’s shrieking in pain.
Do I obsess too much about tits? Probably.
Do I fucking care? Nope.
My mind drifts to images of Rory sprawled on my bed, writhing below me, her tits glowing red from my palms. She simultaneously begs me to stop and pleads for me to keep going, her wet cunt on display as I use her body as I see fit.
I mean…who doesn’t like a perfect pair of breasts staring them in the face? Apparently, all the men here do. Peaches tugs on her nipples and drops to her knees, her head tossed back and her tits pushed out as money rains down on her like a storm of singles.
Tearing my gaze away from her, I scan the tables until I find the man I’m looking for, the one who owes me but doesn’t know it yet. I finally find him lurking in the far corner, downing a glass filled with amber liquid—whiskey.
Dice roll through his fingers as if he were a fucking magician putting on a show. I haven’t asked him personally, but I think he uses the dice to calm himself, to give his mind something else to focus on.
Next to him, a stripper spins and bends over, wiggling her ass at him, but I know he has no use for her. With a woman like Roxy waiting for him at home, who could blame him?
His black eyes latch onto her, and his scowl deepens as he rests his shoe on her ass, then pushes the girl over. She screams in outrage, but he just smiles to himself, concentrating on the way his dice move through his fingers.
He scrubs at the scruff on his chin when he sees me, his smile widening. He’s always way too fucking happy, but behind those smiling eyes, a viper waits to strike. “Bastard! I wondered if you’d have the fucking balls to show up.”
“And not take your money?” I reply with a laugh, proffering my hand. There are few who would refer to me by my nickname—Bastard—to my face. Though my brothers and I know we’re referred to as the Beast, Brains, and Bastard, we never hear it spoken. People fear us too much and worry about us raining hell down on them for using such a name. But honestly, we fucking like it and relish the nicknames. They invoke fear in our enemies, and there’s nothing better than that.
He stands gracefully—no wonder the strippers are vying for his attention. He always looks like a runway model, the suit he’s wearing screaming money. He buttons it deftly and extends his hand to shake mine before sitting, crossing his ankles as he watches me with a smile. I sit as well, leaning back in my chair. “What are you drinking? Whiskey? Vodka?”
I brush off a stripper who’s wrapped her arms around my neck. “Come on, Kenzo, you know me better than that.”
