AllFreeNovel
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Glass in hand, I do a small circle, taking in the club. For a Friday night, it’s not too packed. It’s definitely busy, but nothing crazy. Dancers are spread out around the large space, treating the clientele to shows either on the smaller side stages, the swings, or right in their chairs with tame lap dances meant to induce blue balls. This is the only place blue balls are a good thing because they lead to larger purchases, larger tips, larger deposits directly into Cyrus’s pockets.
In the middle is the main attraction, a circular stage called the Merry-Go-Round. It’s a revolving stage with five poles on it, one in the center that reaches the ceiling while the other four surrounding it are free-standing.
Right now, it’s just Pearl up there by herself, and she’s spinning around upside down on the floor-to-ceiling pole with only a teal bra and matching G-string. Hundreds of dollar bills litter the stage inches below her long mermaid-colored hair as she twirls to “Na Na” by Trey Songz. Pearl gives a hell of a lap dance and an even better blow job, so the mountains of cash piling up for her aren’t surprising in the least. I’d add to it if I thought she’d actually get to keep it. Without breaking speed, she pulls herself up to stretch a leg out under her, hooking the other knee around the pole to continue spinning with her head thrown back and her hands massaging the tits threatening to spill out of her push-up bra.
The girls who work here, workhard. They’re the female versions of Cyrus’s men, meaning they do whatever the fuck he tells them to. It took me a while to understand that, but once I did, I stopped sticking my dick in anyone on his payroll. If I pay for a BJ, I wanna know the money goes to the mouth sucking me, not Cyrus’s. He’s gotten enough out of me already.
Pearl slides down the pole, her platform heels landing on the stage with an audibleclackthat gets everybody’s undivided attention, including mine. Bending over, her ass cheeks spread wide in my direct line of vision, that little string tight in her crack covering exactly nothing.
Damn. A backshot sounds pretty fucking good right about now.
Upside down, she spots me from between her knees and gives me acome-hithersmile, and since it’s been a long motherfucking while, I obey. One foot steps forward, only to move right back to avoid a body breezing by. I don’t even look, just wait for them to pass as I keep my gaze locked on Pearl running two fingers—middle and ring, none of that trigger-finger bullshit—back and forth between her pussy and ass, andgoddamn, I need to get my dick wet.
I finally break my stare, checking around me for any unfamiliar faces. There’s gotta be at least one woman in here that doesn’t work for the same motherfucker I do.
Immediately, my eyes snag on the person who just cut me off. Their hair? It’s white. And their body? It’s young. She’s dressed in a black lace gown—it’s more than a dress, it’s a gown—with no back whatsoever except for a long train of see-through fabric starting at the bottom of her spine and billowing out behind her like a bride walking down the aisle at a goth wedding. Loud clicks from her high heels announce her every step as she strolls confidently through the most infamous building in Fox Hollow like she’s been here before. Like she’s comfortable. Like she’s home. But the way she’s dressed…it’s not her home. There’s no way it could be. This place isn’t for her or people like her. Fox Hollow isn’t just the town’s name, it’s a classification. Here, you’re either a fox or a hollow, and if you’re not sure which one you are, you’re a hollow.
This woman, she’s got hollow written all over her, from her gown to red-bottom shoes to her walk like she could own this place and everyone in it if she wanted to.
Her man probably talked her into coming here to spice things up in the bedroom. I see it all the time. What I don’t see all the time is that hair color.
Two women with the same white hair in the same week. What a fucking coincidence. It must be a new trend among the hollows or something. With all the money they spend trying to hide their age, I would’ve assumed having their hair white is the last thing they’d want.
But what the fuck do I know? I’m a fox.
I’m just about to tear my gaze away when she twists her head to the side, revealing her profile.
It’s her. It’sher. Kordin’s wife, Lenox.
What’s she doing here? I’ve been coming to The Playground since I started working for Cyrus and I’ve never seen her.
After a quick scan of the club to make sure her husband isn’t here, too, I’m back to watching her.Is she here for me?
No. No, that’s wishful thinking coming straight from my own blue balls. She couldn’t have known it was me that night in her house. She couldn’t. I’m good at what I do. Really fucking good. I’ve never left a single shred of evidence behind before, and even though I spoke to both her and her husband, I disguised my voice. I kept my mask on the entire time and I was too far away for her to see my eyes, so there’s no chance of her being able to identify me. None.
All the blood that was heading toward my groin goes cold as she faces forward again.Why the fuck is she here?
“Where’s Cyrus?” I ask Oksana, setting my full shot glass on the bar while keeping my attention on Lenox.
“Did you check Lost and Found?”
Lost and Found…exactly where Lenox appears to be heading. Fuck.
“You done with that?” I hear Oksana ask with a heavy dose of annoyance.
“It’s not the drink,” I assure her. “I just…”
Lenox disappears into the hallway leading to the private rooms and I leave without finishing my sentence, except instead of following the white-haired hollow, I beeline for the employees-only door, choosing to cut through the dressing room.
“Reece!” several of the dancers screech when they see me, but I don’t stop to apologize, I just make my way through the half-naked women as quickly as possible before pushing out the door on the opposite side, into the same hall Lost and Found is located.
I catch the tail of her train fluttering into one of the Lost rooms before the door closes shut, leaving only me and a dancer turned key girl named Promiscuous.
Lost and Found is made up of a dozen private rooms—six are “Lost” and six are “Found.” Each Lost room has a loveseat, a table with a box of tissues, lube, condoms, some frilly shit to make it feel homey like a candle or a vase of fake flowers, individual audio systems, as well as a large clock the dancers inside rarely take their eyes off of. Every Lost room shares a wall containing a large piece of smart glass with a smaller, darker Found room where others can watch what’s happening. It’s up to whoever’s paying to be in a Lost room if they want to be watched—found—or not. They don’t get a say in who watches, but they can choose if they want to see who watches by flicking a button on their side to make the normally opaque glass transparent.
Since no one’s around, I use her real name. “Hey, Promise, who wants to be found?”
“Who’s asking?” Promise asks without looking up from her romance novel. I know it’s romance because there’s a shirtless man on the front.
