If The Seas Catch Fire(24)

Shiiit.

The song changed. The regulars knew what that meant—the table dance was about to become a lap dance for whoever ponied up the most money and got Sergei’s attention. Three guys waved twenty dollar bills at him, but they lowered them when two others started flashing hundreds.

Ignoring Maisano’s looming presence as best he could, Sergei grinned down at each of them, eyebrows up and head tilted. That all you got, baby?

More money came out. They eyed each other, digging into their wallets. Each time one brought out a hundred, the other did too. Sergei’s favorite kind of night—when he had two men equally willing to pay up, and they happened to be sitting right next to each other.

The first was hot—probably mid forties, with a few lines and some gray around the edges. A wedding ring too. Bet his wife had enough expensive cars and trinkets to turn a blind eye to his extracurricular activities. The other was older. Early sixties, at least. He may have looked like Hugh Hefner, but he also appeared to be loaded like the Hef, so… fine.

Sergei plucked the money out of each of their hands, and leaned back to drop it in the center of the table. The bouncers would make sure nobody tried to grab it.

Then he stood over his two customers. “Turn your chairs. Face each other.”

They exchanged wary glances, but did as they were told. As Sergei lowered himself onto the edge of the table, a large shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Maisano standing just a few feet away. He had a bottle in his hand—water, maybe?—and stared at him over it.

Sergei tore his gaze away from that unsettling presence. He had work to do.

He sat in Hef’s lap, straddling him, and Sergei hoped the man’s cardiologist was okay with whatever happened when he started rubbing his groin on his chest. Sergei wrapped his legs around him, then leaned back so his head was in the married guy’s lap. With practiced agility, he slid from one man to the other, teasing each in turn and making sure both got their money’s worth.

As he moved from Hef to the married man, he glanced up.

Maisano was watching.

Intently.

If he’d come here for money, he was at least distracted for the moment—his lips were apart, and his eyes were round.

Staring right back at Maisano, Sergei ground his ass against the married man’s rock hard dick. Over the pulsing music, he heard the guy beneath him whisper, “oh God.”

Sergei tilted his head back, making sure his lips brushed his ear, and murmured, “You haven’t had any attention in a while, have you?” He wiggled his ass, and the man groaned. “Such a shame.” He ground harder, and then turned around and did the same on Hef’s lap, squeezing the married man’s waist with his ankles as he made Hef whimper and moan.

From the sidelines, someone else breathed, “Holy shit.” He had his hand over his own crotch. Fine, let him feel himself, as long as he didn’t whip out here in the lounge.

Sergei got them all—the two men paying him and the half dozen watching—riled up and panting, and then he stopped, lifting himself to his feet. “So who wants that private dance?”

Hef dug into his wallet.

The breathless middle-aged husband tugged at his tie. “How much is—”

“Five large.” Maisano came out of nowhere and held out a stack of hundreds.

Sergei stared up at him.

“I ain’t got that much,” Hef muttered, and took his drink and left.

“My wife would kill me.” The married guy skulked away too. No one even tried to pony up more.

Sergei gritted his teeth. On the other hand, Domenico was offering five Gs for a fifteen minute private dance. Sergei hardly needed the money, but if this guy was willing to cough up that much, Sergei couldn’t help but be intrigued. If Domenico was here to ask Sergei to take somebody out, he’d have even more in his pocket. And if he’d come for the money Sergei had taken earlier…

Keeping his nerves beneath the surface, he asked, “You got the cash?”

Domenico held up the wad of hundreds.

Sergei forced himself not to scowl as he plucked the money from the man’s hand. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner.”

Domenico shivered. That was odd—the Mafiosos were strictly business when they came in here. They’d pay a fortune for a dance that wasn’t really a dance, and if anything, curled their lips at the strippers and clientele.

And suddenly Sergei was fighting a grin instead of a scowl. Maybe he’d been right about Domenico after all. Those little glances. The nerves.

He led Domenico to one of the private booths in the back. Roy the bouncer met his eyes, and Sergei gave him a nod. Code for “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He’d stay close enough to intervene if shit went down, but otherwise he’d keep his back turned and watch the other guys giving their dances. Then he’d get a cut of whatever Sergei made from the against-club-policy activities he’d turned a blind eye to. He got fifty bucks for ignoring a blowjob that never happened, and Sergei got a shitload more than that for taking whatever contract was offered to him in hushed tones behind a curtain.

Or maybe, unlike all his other brethren who came in here with wads of cash, Domenico really wanted a lap dance.

Sergei pulled the curtain across, and didn’t quite know why his heart was beating so fast as he turned to face Domenico.