Page 69 of For Your Eyes Only
“Gia,” I groan, and she leans in closer.
Rising on her toes, she traces her lips along the side of my neck. “Please let me, sir?”
How the fuck can I say no to that?
* * *
This is a bad idea.
I’ve circled the perimeter five times, checking for uncovered ways in or out. Franco has tripled security, even hiring guys from one of the neighboring clubs.
We managed to capture “hoodie guy” on the security cameras last time, but the image isn’t very clear. The black hood obscures his face, and all we know is he’s tall, slim, and somehow manages to elude us. I remember last time he dropped and crawled through the fighting crowd—hell, I did the same, and it wasn’t a bad escape route.
This time we’re prepared for everything.
Hoodies are not the preferred wardrobe of our patrons. Most of them are in flat-brimmed caps and skin-tight tees that show off their overdeveloped muscles and tribal bands. They’re practically the same guy over and over.
Our troublemaker should stand out, and we’ll be ready when he does. Ready to nail him if he makes a move.
I’m sitting in the VIP section, and as much as I urged everyone to keep tonight’s performance on the QT, the place is packed. It seems all of Palm Beach knows Glitter Girl is back, and even if they’re not fans of strip clubs, the notoriety of her last performance made the rumor mill. Someone also leaked it’s her farewell dance.
My chest is tight as I take another drink from my second vodka of the night.
Otherwise, it’s a regular night at The Rhino. Shula warms up the crowd with her standard, no-holds-barred dance to “First Class” by Jack Harlow. Her costume is a too-small flight attendant’s dress, and her oversized tits bounce, her duck lips blow kisses, she bats fluffy lashes as she twirls and shakes her ass-length hair extensions to the song.
As unappealing as her cartoon-character persona is to me, she’s got a decent-sized following. I have to hand it to Franco. He knows this business better than I do.Gia, or Glitter Girl, might be packing the house tonight, but Shula will pick up the slack when she takes her final bow tonight.
I’ll be glad for her to pass the reins. This entire setup makes me uneasy. The standing-room-only crowd is one wrong move from a fight, and I don’t like Gia being the center of attention, the target of their lust.
Shula, by contrast, seems to be exactly where she wants to be. She skips and blows kisses, lifts and shakes her boobs, and holds out her hands to the rain of bills falling all around her. The song winds down, and she has cash fanning from all possible elastics on her body.
The stage manager appears to quickly help her sweep the dollars thrown on the stage into bags she can take backstage. She blows kisses and skips away on white platform tennis-boots.
Tension grows in my chest with the end of her dance. The house music kicks on, and the crowd seems to ripple to the thumping 808 drumbeat.
I don’t know anything about her dance tonight—other than she wanted to do it just for me. She wouldn’t let me see her costume or even know her music.
I’m on my third vodka drink, but as the time gets closer, I’m on my feet. The packed crowd on the floor stomps in time to the music, ready to start the show. Scanning over their heads, I see DJ at the door leading to the dressing rooms. I make eye contact with Franco, who gives me a nod.
We’re ready.
The house lights dim, and a roar filters through the crowd. I drop into the chair positioned in front of the railing, and I can’t deny the bubble of pride growing in my stomach. She’s right, none of us are allowed to touch, but she’ll be in my bed tonight.
Smoke machines flood the stage with fake smoke, and neon-green laser lights shoot through the crowd, floor to ceiling. The music belches out in an aggressive, grinding rhythm. It begins with the intro to “Pony” by Ginuwine, but two measures in, just as the spotlight hits, Britney Spears’s “Toxic” mixes on top of it.
The curtain is gone, and standing in the center of the stage in a sheer bodysuit with only specks of rhinestones from neck to torso (matching the one Britney wore in the video), is my girl.
Shouts fill the house, and she moves her hips, dancing in a jerky fashion to the stripper back-beat of “Pony” while lip synching the words to “Toxic.” A metallic face mask appears to be painted on, and it’s impossible to take my eyes off her.
Rhinestone clusters cover her nipples, but her breasts bounce and move with every step of her performance. The bottom is a thong, so her luscious ass is completely exposed—except for specks of rhinestones glued to her skin.
Her curls are blown out and styled in oversized 1960s-inspired waves. The fans again drop down from the ceiling, so nonstop wind sweeps it all back. A bent-wood chair is her only prop, and she works it hard.
She takes a seat and leans over backwards, popping her head to look directly at me. My stomach tightens. Single diamonds are placed on the tops of her cheeks, in the cupid’s bow of her mouth, and her full lips are high gloss.
Turning her back, she moves her hips and ass in a circular motion that summons muscle memory. My dick is wide awake and hard as a rock. Following every turn, she whips her head and looks straight in my direction.
I’m breathing fast, my lungs heaving in and out. I want her so much right now. I want to push all these assholes aside and tell everyone she’s mine, only mine. They can look, but only one man in this room can have her.Me.