Page 9 of Sexy

I throw a pillow at him, but he dodges and jogs away to his end of the penthouse suite.

He’s wrong about Cole. And Cole is not fat. Not even chubby. He’s just thick, that’s all. He’s muscular, but instead of being lean, he’s got some extra weight on him. I kinda like it. When he puts his arm around me it feels soft and comforting.

Fletcher Novak is nothing like Cole. And I don’t mean that in a good way. He’s crass and he sells himself on stage every night. What a stupid way to make a living.

And after reading through Amy’s reports on him, I just know he’s up to something. She didn’t have any details, but she said she’s heard rumors that he’s some sort of pimp.

Imagine! A pimp working in my father’s casino. He’d definitely have a heart attack if that got out.

No. Fletcher Novak needs to go. And I have plenty of reasons lined up to fire his ass tomorrow.

Chapter Four

I toss and turn in bed as I imagine how tomorrow might go. Cole’s reservations are playing on my mind. I fluff up my pillow and close my eyes for the millionth time.

But the only thing I see is that stupid Fletcher Novak. I know I’m right about him. And asking him to come inside my room wasn’t a proposition. He was the one propositioning me.

I fling the white cotton sheet off me and pad out to the living room in my bare feet and nightclothes to find my laptop. He’s up to something here, I just know it. So I’m going to do what I should’ve done straight away. Google him.

I settle down at the bar with my laptop and put in his name. And oh, yeah, baby, he’s there. Pages of results for Fletcher Novak. And all of them seem to have something to do with the Mountain Men Male Revue Show.

I scroll down and make a face. This asshole has a Wikipedia entry. How can he be that big? He’s a stripper, for Pete’s sake. I click on it anyway. Who wouldn’t? And up comes his face.

Fletcher Novak, no middle name. Hmmm. He’s two years older than me and grew up here in Lake Tahoe, on the North Shore—in Incline Village—and his parents worked at one of the resorts while he was growing up. Mother and father both died when he was eighteen. Brother, unnamed, three years later.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

Went to Berkley. Really? He does not look smart enough to go to Berkley. Majored in psychology. Dropped out senior year.

I do a quick date check, and yup, that’s the year his brother died.

The next thing on his biography is the Mountain Men show here in Tahoe. But the years between are missing. Another red flag. He was probably in prison. I wonder if we did a background check on him before he was hired? You’d think the Wiki geek who wrote this up would’ve found a little more info.

But maybe no one is that interested in him?

I’m certainly not. I just need to know what I’m up against. Because there is no way Fletcher Novak will still be part of this show after I get done with him.

I grab a glass and some ice and then pour myself a little bit of Scotch. Maybe a drink will calm my nerves and let me sleep. Get this asshole off my mind.

I sit back down on the barstool and click out of Wikipedia, going back to my search results.

He even has videos and all of them seem to be of the strip show.

My finger hovers over the pad of my laptop. Don’t click those, Tiffy. You do not need to see him in action to get the info you need.

Truth. But I can’t help myself.

I click and the video opens up. The music is loud, so I scramble to turn it down and look over my shoulder, hoping I didn’t wake up Claudio. He would never let me live this down if he caught me.

The MC of the show, Chandler something, calls out the names of each Mountain Man, and they appear on stage one by one, lining up along the back curtain as the women in the crowd start screaming. Then the music thumps, the dancers do some fist-bumps, and they start walking slowly forward on the stage, each one unfastening buttons down their dress shirt.

Wow. That’s sorta sexy. Not Fletcher, per se, but the whole act. There’s smoke and lights. The film quality is good too, like this might be a paid promotion. And the guys seem focused and serious.

When they get to the edge of the stage, the shirts come off and are thrown aside. Then they all reach down, grab their pants, and pull them off in unison.

The crowd of crazy lust-filled women goes wild.