If The Seas Catch Fire(20)

He paid a cover charge to a stony-faced bouncer, strolled inside, and—

Stopped dead.

He’d been bleeding and half out of his mind the first time he’d seen him, but looking at him now through clear eyes with a lucid mind… holy shit.

He was indeed a stripper, and he was good at what he did. At least a dozen men were crowded around the table-stage, staring up at him as he writhed against a metal pole. He was wearing—barely—black leather this time, and it left little to the imagination, especially when he lifted himself up off the stage, bent, twisted, showed off his mouthwatering strength and flexibility.

Dom forced himself to look away while he took a few slow breaths. He wasn’t here for that. This was business. And not the kind of business that usually went on here.

He collected himself, and then turned toward the stripper again. By this point, the dance was over, but the stripper wasn’t done yet. He’d come down from the stage, and he beckoned to a sleazy-looking bald guy with a lecherous grin on his lips. The client rose. As they started toward a hallway guarded by a pair of burly bouncers, Dom pushed himself away from the bar.

A few paces shy of the hallway, Dom stepped in front of him. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”

Their eyes met, and the stripper halted, his eyes widening for a split second. An instantaneous Oh shit.

Quickly, though, he schooled himself, every trace of surprise—was there some fear in there?—vanished in favor of annoyance. Those piercing blue eyes narrowed. “I’m working.”

“Whatever he’s paying”—Dom nodded toward the bald guy—“I’ll double it.”

The stripper’s lips tightened. “You want to talk, you wait out here.”

“Triple.”

The stripper laughed humorlessly. “Offer accepted, but wait your turn.” He didn’t wait for a response, and sauntered into the back with the other guy.

After they’d disappeared, Dom swore. Irritated—and yet impressed by the kid’s cojones—he went to the bar to wait for him. He ordered a Coke, and while he sipped it, desperate to cool down despite the air conditioning, Dom couldn’t shake the image of the stripper in the bald guy’s lap. He’d never had a lap dance from a man before. Women, yes, but the idea of a man undulating and writhing on top of him took his breath away. The thought of the stripper in his lap took him back to the frantic f*cks he’d had as a teenager and in his early twenties.

He’d put all of that behind him, though. Sworn off his dangerous tendencies.

But something about this place and the sharp-tongued stripper brought those desires right back to the surface.

If he was even remotely smart, if Floresta and Mandanici hadn’t knocked every last fragment of common sense out of his skull, he’d get the f*ck out of this club right now and forget he ever saw the blond stripper.

But he didn’t. He stayed there, nursing his Coke, his heart thumping and his palms sweating, until the bald guy staggered out of the hallway. The man disappeared into one of the restrooms. Probably to jerk one off. Dom supposed he’d have been in the same state if he’d just had an up close and personal dance from—

Oh mio Dio. Him.

The stripper sauntered out from the same direction, a hint of sweat gleaming on his forehead. His platinum blond hair was straight again, as if he’d taken a moment to make himself presentable before coming out here.

He walked right up to Dom and leaned on the bar beside him. “All right. You wanted to talk.” He paused to make a sharp gesture at the bartender. “Cough up the cash and talk.”

“Not here.” Dom swallowed. “Someplace private.”

Those slim lips pulled back across straight, gleaming teeth. “That can be arranged, but”—the stripper winked—“I charge extra for that.”

Dom suppressed a shiver. He was here for business. For information. Not for a chance at putting his hands all over that slim, powerful, lithe—

He cleared his throat. “I’m here to talk. Nothing more.”

The stripper’s expression suddenly hardened, all traces of humor gone so quickly Dom wondered if he’d imagined them. The bartender materialized and set a bottle of water in front of him, then disappeared again, but besides picking up the water, the stripper gave no indication he’d even seen him. “Look, I know what you are.” He eyed Dom. “My boss doesn’t want your kind in here, and I don’t want to do business with you unless it involves—”

“I’m not asking you to do business.” Dom leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “But we’ve met before, and I need to know what else happened that night.”

He didn’t get defensive. He also didn’t get nervous. Dom did, though—this guy wasn’t stupid. He knew what night Dom was talking about, and if he knew who and what Dom was at a glance, then he know he was in a dangerous spot. But he held his gaze like Dom couldn’t have intimidated him if he’d wanted to. No fear whatsoever. Just icy indifference.

The stripper sighed with theatrical boredom. “What happened that night? I rubbed my ass all over a couple of dicks. Some Italian guy showed up in the alley with blood all over his fancy suit. And I rubbed my ass over some more dicks.” Another shrug as he brought his water bottle up to his lips. “Isn’t much else to tell.”