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“Tell you what.” Mitch watched him take another sip of his drink. “If you finish that cocktail before my clothes are on the floor, I’ll entertain the idea.”
A man like this would chug the whole drink before Mitch found her bra straps. Which was exactly what she counted on as she resumed her show on the raised table in front of his seat.
The empty glass slammed on the table before Mitch’s thumbs were in her underwear. “There,” he muttered somewhat triumphantly. “You wanted me tipsy? It won’t stop me from performing for you, darling.”
Mitch hopped off the table. She leaned down on his chair, hand on her hip and one heel kicked to the side. She was close enough to grab.
Which was exactly what he attempted to do.
Mitch could have handled this even without the drink in his system, but she needed a decent alibi for why she ducked beneath a client’s arm and kicked his feet out from under him. When he fell in slow motion to the table, hands bracing himself against where Mitch had stood only a few minutes before, she almost felt sorry for him.
The door opened. At first, Mitch worried it was Candace coming to check on what was taking so long.
It was Missy. Her ditsy, people-pleasing demeanor dropped like a stone.
She quickly closed the door and dropped her serving platter. Mitch stepped on the client’s back, but the angle was too awkward for her to maintain the moment he fought back. When he snatched her by the bare ankle, she was compelled to whip her other foot into the air and delicately cartwheel over his back.
Missy caught Mitch’s fall when the client inevitably overpowered her with weight and size alone. Before both women ended up on the floor, Mitch leaped back up, and Missy shoulder-checked him in the chest.
He unnaturally stumbled to the floor, as if the air were molasses and his body made of bricks. Mitch didn’t have time to contemplate how this happened. All she knew was that Missy wrestled him into submission as easily as Mitch took on an unsuspecting Luke when they messed around in the gym.
“You okay?” Gone was the put-on accent Missy had displayed those past few weekends. The woman before Mitch was as serious as Agent James when she heard the details of what went on in Club Night. “You can trust me.”
Mitch curtly nodded.
“Grabby bastard.” Missy checked the client’s pulse. “Not the first time he’s done that with a girl on my watch. I heard you guys out there, and I know your deal, so…” She gestured to the empty glass. “Good thinking. He’ll be out for a while. Let’s give it a few minutes before telling anyone.”
Mitch looked at the client crumpled on the floor one more time before responding. “He thought two grand was enough to put up with that shit.”
Missy let out a low whistle. “Damn, girl, how much would it take?”
She didn’t answer that.
“Look…” Missy grabbed the napkin beneath the empty glass. She used the pen in her belt to write down the name of a bar in the Castro Mitch was familiar with. “Safehouse. Tell your girlfriend to meet you there one hour after you’re outta here. I’ve gotta go and get this taken care of. Guy can’t hold his liquor, huh?”
Mitch put on the few pieces of clothing she had lost during the show. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Vanessa about this. She’ll lose her mind.”
Missy chuckled. “Maybe she has good reason, huh? What should I tell her?”
“That I know how to take care of myself.”
Candace was not impressed she had this mess on her hands. She didn’t ask questions, though, not even when Mitch explained he “fell out of his chair” after drinking his cocktail much too quickly. Kat was called in to help pull him back into his chair. The bouncer gently slapped the client’s cheek and woke him up. He had no recollection of Mitch’s dance, let alone what happened right after.
Once Mitch was allowed to head home, she waited until she was in her car before texting Vanessa to meet her at the Castro address. When Vanessa inevitably asked questions, Mitch merely told her that “all would be revealed,” as corny as it was.
Castro on a Saturday night, let alone right before Thanksgiving? Great.
The gay bar on the dimly lit street was not as rowdy as some of the others. Mitch parked her car along the street and removed her wig. After fluffing her natural hair in her rearview mirror, she stepped outside, where a middle-aged man sat slumped over a podium. He supposedly checked IDs, but the quietest bar in the Castro had sent him to sleep. Mitch helped herself inside. She barely noticed the bartender on duty jerking his thumb toward the private room in the back.
Missy was there. So was someone else.
“Of course it’s you,” Mitch said with a snort toward Kat, whose face was much more feminine looking without the sunglasses permanently attached to her face. “You’ve got FBI written all over you.”
“Actually,” Missy said, dressed in a heavy cardigan that covered her up much more than her hostess uniform at Club Night, “I’mthe agent. She’s the arm candy.”
“Former agent,” Kat curtly commented. “We’re doing Agent James a favor.”
“That we’re getting paid good damn money for. Like, retire and have babies money.”
