Page 7 of After Midnight

I strut back out into the club, but I don’t immediately head for the VIP booths. That’d be too desperate. Just like with James, I’ve learned it’s best to make a man wait, make him think you aren’t going to give him the attention he so badly craves.

And besides, the booth is already teeming with half-naked girls. I’m not going to throw myself into the swarm. Best to bide my time.

An hour passes as I work the room, giving lap dances and making conversation—a lot of people come here for that, wanting to talk to someone who’ll actually listen, and boobs are just a nice addition. Finally, close to three a.m., I glance up and find the crowd around the VIP booth has dispersed, and both men are still sitting there. Seems none of the other girls were successful.

Now’s the time to make my move.

I extract myself from the woman I was just dancing on, then head across the club, weaving through the teeming crowd, making my way slowly to the booth.

When I get there, the blond one has a girl in his lap. But the big brown-eyed one doesn’t. And he looks startled by my direct approach.

What kind of rock star is spooked by a stripper?

It almost makes me smile.

“Do I know you?” I ask as I slide into the booth next to him. Immediately, he tries to scoot over to give me more room.

And again, I almost smile.

“Uh, no.” He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s a shame,” I say. “Because I’d like to.”

His thick brows arch toward his buzzed brown hair. “Really?”

I tip my head and nod, then offer him my hand. “You wanna go talk somewhere more . . . private?”

His brown eyes widen a little more. But he hesitates. Maybe this is what he’s been doing all night, gently turning girls down when they offer him private dances.

Across from him, the blond one glances over at us and sighs. “Dude,” he says, reaching across the table to jostle the big one’s arm, “just go already. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

The girl in his lap—Shania—meets my eye. Then she whispers something into his ear, drawing his attention back.

Slowly, like he’s still not sure about it, the big guy reaches out. His hand finds mine, and I wrap my fingers through his, guiding him out of the booth after me.

“Where are we going?” he asks as he trails me through the club.

“To the private rooms,” I say, then glance back over my shoulder. “Are you always this adorable?”

Apart from the lights swirling overhead, it’s dim in here, but I can still see the color rise to his cheeks. And immediately, I get the feeling that he doesn’t do this very often. Which somehow endears me to him, even though it shouldn’t.

He’s just another rich guy in a strip club. If I can get him into a private room for an hour, that’ll be good money for my shift.

As we walk to the private rooms in the back, the other girls shoot me looks—some scathing, some impressed. The dynamic in the club is always changing. Some girls get along, and others treat one another like the worst type of competition.

When Fantasique catches my eye, she smiles, then lifts two fingers in a V and sticks out her tongue.

I roll my eyes.

The music from the main room starts to fade into a dull thump as I lead the way down the hall lined with doors leading to private rooms. A few of them are already closed, but my preferred room is open.

“Come on in,” I tell the guy. He steps up to the threshold, glances into the room, and hesitates. I don’t want to lose him now—not when I’m so close to getting him alone. So I flick a glance up at him through my lashes and say, “You’re not afraid, are you?”

He smiles, revealing dimples in both cheeks. “Terrified,” he says.

But he steps into the room anyway.

Finally.