“Ohh-kay,” she said slowly. What the heck does that mean?
“So my schedule sort of got filled up,” he completed, looking miserable. “For…er, the foreseeable future.”
“Oh.” She stiffened. “Okay.”
“But I really do like you.”
“Sure.” Can I just slink away now?
He ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
She shrugged. “I…”
He leaned down and kissed her.
She froze in shock. Then after a few seconds, her body reacted instinctively, ignoring her paralyzed mind. She kissed him back.
Not surprisingly, he tasted like chocolate and caramel and macadamia toffee. He held her tightly, and she smoothed her palms along his bare chest, loving the feel of all that heated skin beneath her fingertips.
The kiss was meant to prove a point, she felt sure. She wasn’t sure what point exactly, nor did she care. As long as this chocolate kiss continued, he could be proving the theory of relativity and she’d just go ahead and let him.
His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her flush against him, and she let out the tiniest moan of pleasure.
Just like that, he released her, looking dazed. “Whoa. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, her voice breathless.
“I just… I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Oh?” She had no idea what the right idea was at this point.
“So, I guess I’ll see you.” He blinked, then shook his head. “Later. I mean, around.”
With that, he retreated into his apartment and shut the door, leaving her standing there, completely confused.
He’s into something, she thought. Something mysterious. Maybe even something dangerous. She wondered, abruptly, if it had anything to do with those weird nocturnal guys in the alley.
She started to walk to his door, to knock, to ask…no, to demand to know what the heck was going on. Any man who took her brownies and kissed her really ought to have the decency to say why he was turning down what she was so obviously offering. If she were Jackie, she’d probably be taking the door down with an ax.
But I’m not Jackie.
She stepped back, then frowned, picking up a small white business card. Probably something Scott had dropped.
She read it. Then reread it. Then gasped as she put two and two together.
“No way,” she murmured. “No. Freaking. Way.”
3
THE PLAYER’S CLUB.
Amanda savored the idea, holding the card in her hand. She’d heard stories about the secret underground society for a few years—from customers, friends, the occasional blog or newspaper article. Nobody could prove its existence: the Players were an urban legend who occasionally popped up after an infamous party or strange, over-the-top prank. They were suspected of hanging a Smart car off the Bay Bridge. There were rumors of the “Nekkid 5K” through Golden Gate Park. They apparently played tag on Machu Picchu, swam with turtles off the Galápagos, BASE jumped off the Eiffel Tower.
If she was searching for an adventure, this was one with a capital A.
And Scott’s in on it.
She’d sat across the street in her car, waiting to see Scott leave. He had taken a cab, and just like those cheesy movies, she’d followed it, trying to keep a careful distance—although, considering it was two o’clock in the morning and there wasn’t any traffic, she still looked like she was following him. She just hoped that he wasn’t paying attention. She got increasingly nervous as his cab started to take her into the heart of the warehouse district, a confusing tangle of darkened, empty streets. Factories loomed sooty and vacant, silhouetted against the San Francisco nightscape. The whole scene looked like something out of a noir movie.
Her skin tingled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this nervous—or this sheerly excited.
She heard the music before she saw the lights. Pounding, driving bass and a throng of people. Her eyes widened as she turned the corner and found a warehouse, crowded with people. There was a bouncer at the door.
She smiled. Well, well, well. Seemed like Scott was going to some sort of rave. She wondered who these “Players” were.
She parked on the street, behind some other cars, and she watched as he got out of the cab and walked up to the bouncer. He said a few words, and the bouncer let him in.
Okay, Sherlock. Now what?
She set the parking break, then took a deep breath and got out of the car. She needed to be brave. She could at least ask what was going on, right? Maybe fake her way in?
She sauntered up to the bouncer, belting and adjusting her trench coat. “Excuse me…”
He took one cursory look at her. “Strippers in the back,” he said, gesturing to the left.
Her eyes bugged. “Sorry?”
His deep set eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you a stripper? ’Cause there aren’t any women on the guest list.”
“Oh, right,” she said, shocking herself. “I just…prefer the term exotic dancer.”
He didn’t crack a smile, and he still seemed suspicious. “Whatever,” he said. “The door’s that way, in the alley.”
“Thanks.”
She couldn’t walk away—he’d suspect something. Of course, he already suspected something.
What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve come this far.
She walked slowly toward the door, hoping to buy herself some time to figure out her next step. Maybe she could sneak in, sneak past. See what was going on. And then what? Volunteer? Ask to join?
I’ll figure it out when I get there, she thought fiercely. For a woman who lived by planning and order, this sort of seat-of-the-pants thinking was boggling. Jackie, she thought, would be proud.
She was still mulling over options when she got to the door. It opened in a flash of noise and color. “Tell me you’re a dancer,” a tall, black-haired woman said. “I’m short four girls, and we’re a packed house tonight.”
“Uh…” Amanda swallowed. She’d taken a few dance classes, as a form of exercise, and she’d been on the dance team in high school. It’d been a long time since then, but it was an opportunity. Not what she’d expected—but then, none of this was.
If you can do this, you can do anything.
“Yes,” Amanda said firmly. “Yes, I’m a dancer.”
The tall woman sized her up. “I don’t know you,” she said, and she seemed as suspicious as the bouncer. “Who referred you?”
“I’m just working for tonight,” Amanda assured her. “I overheard a woman say she couldn’t make it at the gym, and I volunteered. I didn’t catch her name, though… I want to say Millie…? Or Sallie?”
The lie sounded hollow to Amanda’s ears, but she played it with a straight face.
“Probably Mitzi. She’s always a flake.” The woman sighed. “If I weren’t so hard up,” she groused, then gestured Amanda in. “Ground rules. No speaking to the clients. You stay on the stage or in the cage. You’ll get a split of the tips afterward. These guys are classy, no dollar-bill stuffing in a thong or anything. You’re just supposed to dance. Okay?”
“Okay,” Amanda said, her pulse rate zooming.
The woman sized her up. “I’m Tina,” she said, holding out a hand. “This is my troupe, the Bettie Pages.”
Amanda smiled, thinking of the infamous pinup girl. “Cool.”
“You’re going to need to wear a Bettie Page wig,” she said, pointing to a row of jet-black wigs on Styrofoam heads. They were uniformly shoulder-length and wavy with a straight bang cut. “And, of course, you’ll need to get in costume.”
“Of course.” Amanda nodded.
Tina stared at her. “Now, I don’t know where you’re used to working, but we are not strippers. We perform burlesque. There’s a difference.”
“I know,” Amanda said. “Sort of a Dita Von Teese thing.” Her first chocolate shop location had been next door to a fetish shop, and she’d learned more than
she ever thought she would. Which is how she knew about Bettie Page.
Tina’s smile was brilliant. “Oh, thank God. I may be glad you’re here and Mitzi’s not. How about the black corset? You’d look stunning.” She sized Amanda up. “Though, with a rack like that, you might want to consider the diamond outfit. Or maybe the tiger-stripe?”
“Um…” Amanda was struck by the choices on offer.
Another girl flipped her head up, her wig firmly in place. “The diamond,” she said. “The corset takes too long, and we need somebody in the cage in the next five minutes.”
The cage?
“Diamond it is. Here you go, kiddo.” With that, Tina dumped a bra and sparkling silver hot pants in her hands, then walked off, speaking into a headphone. “We’ll have a girl ready for the north cage in five, tell ’em to hold their horses, okay?”
Amanda took a deep breath, then sought the changing room. She quickly figured out that this hallway was it. There were half-naked girls hastily getting into costume all around her. She bit her lip.
“First time?” the girl who had suggested the diamond outfit asked.
Amanda laughed nervously. “Is it obvious?”
“Don’t worry. This is the best gig you’ll ever find,” the girl said. “There’s no groping, for one thing. The guys are all rich, and strictly hands-off…which disappoints a lot of the girls who go in looking for some side work.”
“Side work,” Amanda repeated, feeling slightly nauseous. She slipped out of her jeans and T-shirt, then replaced her bra with the glittery “diamond” one, a flesh-toned feat of lingerie engineering that made her full breasts look enormous.
“Tina doesn’t approve. She’s trying hard to push the troupe as part of the burlesque revival, but I don’t know how well we’re going to do.” The girl sighed. “Sorry, I’m going on and on, and I’m supposed to be on the main stage in a minute. I’m Janet, by the way.”
“Amanda,” she replied, shaking Janet’s hand. Then Amanda pulled the shorts on, and pulled on a wig. She checked herself in the mirror, then grinned. She could barely recognize the face looking back at her. Especially not with the impressive boobs underneath that face.
“Wow, you’re stunning,” Janet said with approval. “You’re going to need makeup, though. Bombshell-red lipstick, don’t forget.”
“Oh, yeah,” Amanda said, remembering the pictures she’d seen of Bettie. She quickly applied twice as much makeup as she normally wore, then added an extra coat for good measure.
“There are some boots over there,” Janet said. “Don’t be nervous, you’ll be fine, see you out there!”
Amanda rooted around in a large trunk until she found the only pair in her size. Unfortunately, they were knee-high, lace-up, platform heels in a white patent leather.
“Hurry up!” Tina called, glancing at her watch. “I need you in that cage!”
“Uh, okay,” Amanda said, hurrying with the laces. She took a few experimental steps. If she stayed on the balls of her feet, she could maintain her balance. Walking normally was definitely not an option, though. In fact, she noticed that the heels made her whole gait into a sexy strut.
She made it to Tina’s side, who gave her a quick once-over. “Fantastic,” she said, shoving her toward a door where the music increased a notch. “You’re in the cage on the right.”
Amanda looked. There were two “cages” suspended against the wall. She would have to climb what seemed like a twenty-foot ladder to get inside hers. The other cage was already occupied by a young woman wearing black lingerie with matching black boots.
“Go to it,” Tina said, with another nudge.
Then, ignoring the men cheering, Amanda strutted over to the ladder with more confidence than she felt.
“WOW,” SCOTT SAID, SITTING in the VIP area of the hip club. “I didn’t even know this place existed.”
“It’s really exclusive. Not many people know about it,” Lincoln said casually. Of course, Lincoln did everything casually. He was wearing a tuxedo, but the tie was undone. He looked like George Clooney, or maybe a member of the Rat Pack. He was occupying an expensive red leather chair. “Ever since you found us out, we had to change location. I have a friend who runs this place, and he gave me a deal on it for the next few months, until we find a better spot.”
“Why don’t you have somewhere permanent to meet?” Scott asked.
Lincoln shrugged, getting up and pouring himself a Scotch from behind the bar. “Some of us are trying to keep this thing a secret.”
“I noticed,” Scott said wryly, taking a sip from his own gin and tonic. “Sheer genius, hiding your website by creating a fake golf pants store, then giving us private log-ons. Brilliant.”
“Thanks,” Lincoln said. “One of our members, Tucker, is our resident computer genius. It’s all his work—the only work he does anymore.”
“Why all the secrecy, though?”
Lincoln’s dark eyes bored into Scott. Scott didn’t look away, even though the intensity made him uncomfortable.
“Let’s just say there are certain parties that would rather not see us operating at all,” Lincoln said with all the delicacy of a diplomat. “Reporters would love to write about us, and then we’d get all sorts of people wanting to join. People who frankly wouldn’t fit in with our culture. Then, we get hit with lawsuits for discrimination because we turned down somebody who takes offense. What starts out as a friendly group of guys having some adventures turns into a bureaucratic and legal nightmare. And as you may know, the chief of police is none too thrilled with us, either. Some misunderstanding about a Smart car.” Lincoln shook his head. “Nope. Better to keep ourselves the way we are. Quiet.”
Scott chuckled in disbelief. “Well, if you ever decide to abandon all this, I’m sure you could get a job in the mob like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Lincoln’s eyes lit with silent humor. “I didn’t always run this club, you know.”
Scott couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped. Wait, had Lincoln just said he was in the mob?
It would explain a few things.
Lincoln saluted Scott with his drink. “Enjoy the party,” he said, his voice as mild as milk. “We’ll want to talk business with you later.”
He left Scott staring after him incredulously.
George walked up to Scott, clapping him on the shoulder. “Enjoying the entertainment?” he asked.
Scott scanned the huge warehouse. He knew there were men playing poker on the main floor. A few guys were skateboarding on an improvised half pipe in the basement. The music here on the second floor was loud, a remix of something forties-styled and jazzy, laid over a hip-hop beat. It was both classic and modern.
“It’s a scene,” Scott said. Finn joined them.
“Not them, ass,” George scoffed. “The girls, man. The strippers!”
Scott glanced in the general direction that Finn nodded. There were exotic dancers placed strategically around the club. They all wore black wigs, they were wearing various types of lingerie or similar, and they were moving to the music in a very enticing fashion. Several were topless. The men who watched clapped appreciatively.
“Lincoln didn’t strike me as the stripper type,” Scott said. Lincoln actually struck him as a sort of hit man, now that Scott thought about it—ice-cold, supersmart, probably ruthless. He got the feeling that you didn’t want to be on Lincoln’s bad side if you could help it.
George didn’t seem to share the opinion. “Damned goody-goody,” George muttered. “I said, let’s get strippers, and he got these chicks. ‘Burlesque,’ he says. No touching, no dollar-stuffing. What the hell’s the point of that?” He shook his head. “Lincoln might’ve started this club with my little cousin Finn, but trust me, it sucked until I got here.”
Scott saw that several of the dancers were doing the usual strip-club moves, each bump and grind deliberate and blatantly sexual. There were others who were being more artistic about it, he noticed. One woman did a fan dance as she stripped
out of her halter top, only showing flashes of skin. Another used her top hat as a sort of tease.
Whatever. He waited until George had moved on to another bunch of rowdy guys, drinking at the bar, then started to head away. He could see strippers anywhere. The Player’s Club had a reputation for high risk. Adventure.
He was here for that.
A glimmer of light caught his eye, and for the first time he noticed that high on the wall, there were two cages set up, with yet two more dancers performing from their high perches. One woman was moving confidently. The other, he noticed, was a bit out of her element.
No—she was downright uncomfortable. It probably beat the hell out of stripping at a sleazy club, but she still didn’t seem too enthusiastic. She was swaying lightly, barely shimmying. Men were hooting and catcalling at her, making fun of her lackluster performance.
He wasn’t sure what prompted him to walk toward her—to defend her, maybe, or help her leave. By the time he got there, however, the crowd’s reaction to her had prompted her to step up her routine a little. Scott looked up to see her moving with an almost aggressive enthusiasm. The crowd’s whistles and hooting were now appreciative. Even the other dancing girl seemed taken by surprise.
The woman planted her legs in an inverted V, leaning heavily at her waist, her full breasts put on prominent display—and quite a display it was, Scott had to admit. With a scooping, undulating motion, she stretched up and turned, her panties displaying a very shapely backside. She did another quick shimmy, and the guys were riveted. She then reached back gracefully with one hand and reached for the clasp of her bra top.
The men surrounding Scott were clapping and shouting. Scott had never really been a fan of strippers—he was definitely a fan of naked women—but this woman was definitely appealing. She unhooked the clasp, then turned around, crossing her arms in front of her to catch the falling garment. Her pouty, red-painted mouth made an O of surprise, which she then covered with one hand. She looked like the ultimate naughty girl.
The Player's Club: Scott Page 4