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Shrugging with a shit-eating grin, he hands me one of the bags.
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
Grimacing, I shiver at the thought. The bathroom is probably gross as hell. However, I wouldn’t put it past him. Diesel glances down and snatches one of the neon fliers from my hand.
“Interesting.” He studies it. “Amateur night at a strip club.”
I give him a pointed look, and before he can even say a word, I dare him to enter the contest.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s no way in hell.”
“Really? You gonna turn down a dare and finally pay up?” I taunt and burst into laughter when he scowls.
“I’m not dancin’ half naked in front of a bunch of strangers,” he whines. Ironic, considering he banged someone he just met in a restroom.
I shrug. “Alright…” I hold out my palm with a shit-eating smirk. “That’ll be eight hundred bucks then.”
“Piss off.” He rolls his eyes, walking ahead of me.
“Should we resort to the old rules then? Drop your pants and get moonin’.”
“I’ll get arrested,” he throws back. “That’s just stupid.”
“One or the other.” I smirk, knowing I have him by the balls.
Diesel swallows, then narrows his eyes at me. “Fine. Let’s go to this goddamn club, but just know, I’ll get you back when you least expect it. And it will be monu-fuckin’-mental, Bishop. Just wait.”
“Ooooh, fightin’ words. I like it when you’re all riled up. And you know I’m always up for a good challenge,” I admit. Actually, everyone back home knows never to dare a Bishop. The tradition goes back decades.
Once we’re back in our room, we crack open the whiskey and start drinking. I stand on the balcony and continue to pregame as Diesel showers. Eventually, he comes out dressed in his best, and we’re already buzzed when we take an Uber to the strip club. Amateur night is for both men and women, but not surprisingly, the woman’s prize is heftier. But if Diesel pulls it off, he could be five hundred dollars richer tonight, which could buy a lot of beer and lap dances—his words, not mine.
The parking lot is full of cars, and the line is fifty people deep. Our driver drops us off, and I’m grinning like an idiot. It hasn’t left my face since he accepted the dare. I fucking live for making his life hell.
“I fuckin’ hate you.” Diesel groans, leading the way. Eventually, we make it through and meet a big dude guarding the door with a smug look, checking IDs. Diesel gets in free because he’s participating in the activities, but I have to pay thirty bucks. Worth every damn cent to watch him embarrass himself.
“See, that’s one perk,” I tell him with a nudge in the ribs as I pull the money out of my wallet.
He narrows his eyes. “I need tequila for this.”
I grin. “The first few are on me. You deserve it for being such a champ. Plus, you’re gonna need it to shake your ass up there.”
“I’m convinced you just wanna see my huge dick.” He lets out a booming laugh as we walk through the club.
“Nah, I just wanna see what humiliation looks like,” I counter. A long bar splits the room into two separate spaces, and the male and female performers are in different areas. I’ve never seen a strip club this large and have only ever been to one little hole-in-the-wall in San Antonio with a few friends. Vegas is magical.
We push our way to the bar, and two shots quickly turn into four. At some point, I lose count, but Diesel keeps them coming. When I look around at the crowded room, I notice a group of gorgeous women in the corner, obviously here for a bachelorette party. They all have sashes across their bodies, and one’s wearing a bride-to-be crown. Sitting as close to the strippers as possible, they look up at the half naked man with googly eyes, giggling their asses off and throwing money like confetti. I can’t help but notice one of the girls with blond hair and sun-kissed skin wearing the sweetest fucking smile I’ve ever seen. Damn, she’s so beautiful, it nearly takes my breath away.
“Fuck,” Diesel says, pulling my attention away. He stands and wobbles, and I realize we drank too much. We’re doomed. Especially Diesel, considering he still has to put on the performance of his life. After two more shots, all the contestants are called to the far stage. Glancing at him, I nod toward his competition, who are all standing by.
“Imma get you back, Bishop,” he tells me between gritted teeth, and I don’t doubt him one bit. Diesel begrudgingly orders a beer to take with him and stumbles to the large group of participants eagerly waiting for instruction. He hates losing so much that, combined with all the liquid courage, I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually tries to win.
