Secrets and Seduction Las Vegas (Sexy Italian Imports Book 1) (37 page)

That afternoon, Valerie’s seven girlfriends arrived. It would be awkward deceiving her friends, but, since Antonio didn’t know yet, it was necessary to keep it a secret. Plus, this was Sloan’s weekend, and she didn’t want to steal the spotlight.

At eight, the party bus arrived. Sloan carried a duffel bag onto the bus with her and mysteriously promised a surprise later in the evening. Sloan had a quirky side, so anything could happen.

They ate dinner at Nobu at the Hard Rock Casino then hit the hottest clubs: Ghostbar at the Palms, XS at the Wynn, and The Bank at the
Bella
gio. They had a riot, and no one noticed Valerie didn’t order wine with dinner, dumped her shot of tequila into an empty glass, and was too tired to keep her eyes open by eleven. She slipped into a posh ladies room and caught fifteen minutes of sleep before one of the girls found her and dragged her back to the party.

At two o’clock, Sloan gathered everyone. “Let’s go to the bus. One more stop.” They left the
Bella
gio and climbed into the party bus, and Sloan gave the driver directions to head north. Once on the road, she stood and faced the girls. “I didn’t ask Valerie to set this up because she hates these places, but we’re going to see the male strippers!”

The girls cheered. Valerie grimaced. She disliked the strip clubs because so many of the runaways she counseled ended up working there, or worse, hustling outside the clubs.

Sloan grabbed the duffel bag and unzipped it. “To keep our identities secret—Valerie especially—we’re going to wear wigs and sunglasses.” She pulled out a flippy, blonde, shoulder-length wig and a pair of huge sunglasses with red dice on the frames and handed them to Valerie. “No one will recognize you. I promise.”

“Lovely.” Valerie wound her hair up in a bun and pulled the wig on.

Sloan helped her adjust it. “If you really don’t want to do this…”

“I’m happy to go along. It might be a good research opportunity, to see what really goes on inside a strip club.”

“Are you sure?” Sloan gripped Valerie’s hand, a worried expression on her face.

Valerie forced a smile. “I’ll even try to have fun too, for your sake.”

Sloan kissed her cheek. “I love you, Valerie. You’re the best.”

She laughed. “Sounds like you need another drink.”

“Oh, yeah…” Sloan waved her arm above her head. “Time for a shot!”

Valerie took the shot glass, toasted with the group, and dumped the liquor in the ice bucket. The only person who saw was the driver in the rearview mirror, and he winked at her.

They arrived at the two-level strip club. The women danced on the main level, the men on the upper. Valerie looked at the sign on the door. The women danced 24/7, but the men danced Thursday through Saturday and only in the evenings.

The inside of the club was barely lit, but Valerie kept her sunglasses on. If anyone saw her here, she didn’t think the “research” excuse would work. The loud music thumped, and strobe lights flashed wildly. They walked past a line of smiling men, most of them wearing only shorts, all of them very muscular and handsome. The men greeted them and offered to spend a few minutes alone in a corner, and her tipsy girlfriends giggled like virgins.

All the seats along the L-shaped stage were taken so they sat in a big booth as close as they could get to the action. A young man danced on the stage—Valerie hadn’t noticed him at first because he was lying flat, doing some kind of gyration for the women who put dollar bills in his—“Ohmigosh.”—g-string? Her mouth hung open, and she snapped it shut.

The waiter came to their table, and she ordered a non-alcoholic beer while her friends ordered cocktails. She offered to watch their purses and the girls ran up to the stage and covered the dancer in dollar bills. Evidently, they’d done this before, because they knew exactly what to do.

Sloan stuck a five in her cleavage and made the dancer take it out with his teeth. Valerie watched, mesmerized. When a hand touched Valerie’s back, she jumped. An extremely handsome man, bare to his waist, smiled with perfect teeth. His long, blond hair reminded her of Fabio.

“You don’t enjoy the dancers?” he asked.

“My first time. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Ah, I like first-timers.” He slid in next to her in the booth.

She looked toward her friends, but they weren’t going to save her—they were focused on the dancer.

“Um, I don’t know—”

He took her hand and kissed it, running his thumb over her palm. “I’d like to spend some time with you. Just twenty dollars for a song. And if you like how I dance, you can tip me.”

She wrinkled her brow then the term popped into her head. “Oh, lap dance?”

He laughed, probably surprised by her naivety. “Yes, that’s what it’s called, honey.”

“I’m sorry.” She dug in her purse for a twenty and handed it to him. “I’m really not interested in…that. No offense to you at all. You’re a very nice looking man.”

He set the twenty back down on the table and kissed her fingers again. “Thank you, but I’m rather touchy about rejection.”

“Sorry. Really.” She eased her hand from his. “Wait! What if—can I buy a lap dance for someone else?”

“You sure can. We actually encourage it.” He winked at her. “Which one?”

“The redhead with the green dress. Sloan.” Valerie pulled out another twenty and handed both to him. “This is her bachelorette party, and she wanted to come here.”

“And I’m guessing you didn’t?”

She made a sour face. “No.” She could do some research while they waited for Sloan to come back to the table. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“You can. But I may not answer.”

“Why have you chosen to do this?”

“Stripping?”

“Yes. I’m curious why you would choose this form of dancing over others.”

He shrugged. “The hours are easy. The money’s good. Lots of women. Lots of sex.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot. She hadn’t thought of the sex. “I heard a rumor that—”

“That all male dancers are gay?”

She nodded.

“I know some are, but a lot of us aren’t. We get offered room keys from women all the time. Sometimes it’s the bride-to-be looking for one last fling.”

“A lot of one night stands?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“So, you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“On and off. I’ve dated, but a lot of women are too jealous to become serious with a male dancer.”

“I can imagine.” Another dancer was announced, and, when he took the stage, Valerie watched him for a minute. “Do you practice this dancing, or does it just come naturally?”

He laughed. “Not natural at all. There are certain steps, certain things we have to do to really get the women juiced up.”

“Fascinating. It’s like a science.”

“And it’s deadly serious. We practice every Thursday noon, and no one can get in except the dancers. High-level stuff. If you miss a practice, you’re stage time is cut short.”

She laughed, but a memory tickled her brain. Thursday noon. Why did that sound familiar?

Sloan and the girls came back to the booth, and the man—she didn’t even know his name—stood. “Sloan?” He looked her up and down like she was a prime piece of beef. “I’d like to show you something.”

Everyone screeched with anticipation as he sat her down and began dancing for her. Or more accurately, on her. He placed her hands on his body. She laughed and ooohed at his moves. He got very personal, and Sloan let him and even pulled his head down into her lap.

It was a good use of Valerie’s money, making Sloan happy, but she felt bad for the young man. She couldn’t imagine how demeaning it must be for him.

When he finished, he kissed Sloan’s cheek then winked at Valerie and moved on to the next table. The girls teased Sloan, asking if she was still going through with the wedding.

Sloan fanned herself with her hand. “Thanks for the lap dance, Valerie. Now you pick a guy, and I’ll buy one for you!”

“Seriously, Sloan, if you do, I’m out of here.”

Sloan threw her hands up in surrender. “No fun, Valerie. Your frumpy, unsocial writer has you all conservative and boring.”

Valerie knew better than to argue with a bunch of liquored-up, sexually-charged women, so she nodded. “Yup, that’s us. The old anti-socials.”

The girls downed their drinks, ordered another round, and pointed to other women in the club, making catty comments about how trampy or how drunk they were. Valerie smiled, watching her wild girlfriends—each in an odd wig and sunglasses—having the audacity to make fun of other audience members.

Over the speakers, the D.J. announced the next dancer. “The top money-maker for the last two years, from Miami, it’s Carlos.”

Chapter Thirty One

The female audience yelled, “Carlos!” as the D.J. played and instrumental version of the thumping, sexy “Pony” by Ginuwine.

When the women around the stage screamed at an amazing decibel level, Valerie looked over, watching Carlos leap onto the stage. She turned back to talk to Sloan then stopped, completely forgot what she was going to say, and looked back at the dancer.

One of her girlfriends shouted, “Wowwie! Look at this guy! Get your dollars, ladies, this one is hot!” The women pushed their way up to the stage, each carrying a fist full of money and a cocktail.

It took Valerie a full minute to recognize him.

He grabbed the collar of his skin-tight T-shirt, ripped it down the front, and yanked it off, circling it above his head before throwing it into the crowd. A tattoo of barbed wire ran around one perfectly muscled bicep. His other arm bore a Harley tattoo. His shoulder-length black hair was greased back and tied with a leather strap. He wore black military boots and a pair of black satin basketball shorts.

It was the man in Antonio’s condo the morning she brought the birthday cake.

Her head spun a couple times.

No. It was Antonio.

She sucked in a breath and moved a shaking hand to the sunglasses, pulling them off her face. Her man, her lover, her love, danced for women. For money. The father of her baby. Her hand moved to cover her stomach, as if protecting the tiny one from seeing his father doing something so unbelievable.

When “Carlos” ripped off his shorts, revealing a black g-string that covered only his package, the women went berserk. His turned and shook his completely bare bottom. She looked at his beautiful back, his strong thighs. This was why he was the biggest money-maker in the club. He was perfection.

She watched him dance, making eye contact with women. It all fit now. His noon appointments on Thursdays, they were the practice sessions. He worked here Thursday, Friday and Saturday until early morning then slept the rest of the day—when she thought he was writing the whole weekend.

This was his demon. And probably the reason his anger lay so close to the surface. And it had to be why he was being blackmailed. He’d tried to talk to her about this, on numerous occasions, but he had to have been afraid she wouldn’t understand. Afraid she’d leave him.

Her mind spiraled as she tried to separate her emotions from the facts. In her line of work, she studied and counseled people who participated in much stranger—and scarier—activities. This wasn’t too bad, was it? Even so, she couldn’t imagine a future of her sitting home alone evenings knowing he was out doing…this. She closed her eyes. To hell with keeping her emotions out of this. She’d leave him if he wouldn’t quit dancing.

Then her eyes popped open again. How could she leave him? She was pregnant.

She couldn’t concentrate. The music pounded into her brain, painful like a hammer. The smell of her beer nauseated her. She looked toward the stage. Women grabbed him, put money deep into his underwear. One made him fetch a bill out of her cleavage, and he kissed her neck.

“Oh, God, no, not my friends!” She needed to get out of there before she saw any more. She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her face.

A hand touched her arm, startling her. She looked up into the lap-dancer’s concerned face.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Can I help?”

She blinked, focused on him. “I’ve just had some bad news. Would you please ask my friend to come back to the table? I have to leave.”

If he thought it odd that she didn’t go to her friends herself, he didn’t say so, he just went. Sloan came to the table, a worried look on her face, and Valerie spoke in her ear. “I just got a call from a patient. I need to go. I’m going to have the bus drive me then I’ll send it back for you.”

“No, we can go, too—”

Valerie grabbed her wrist to keep her there. “Sloan, really, stay. Have fun. Don’t worry about me. I’m a workaholic anyway.”

“True. Are you sure you feel safe? Do you want me to ride with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll leave the house door open for you and see you when you get up.”

“Okay, thanks again for the really fun night.”

Valerie took one more look at “Carlos.” How could he keep this a secret from her? Why had he never felt he could confide in her? What did that say about her personality? About her career choice?

She left the building and surprised the bus driver with her request to be driven home.

When they were on the road, he looked at her in the rearview mirror. “How far along are you?”

“What?”

“I just assume you’re pregnant but don’t want your friends to know.”

“You’re perceptive.”

“No. But I am a father of three.”

“About a month.”

“Morning sickness?”

“Morning, afternoon, and evening.”

He laughed. “It’ll pass. And it’s worth it. I love my little angels.”

They talked about his family, about which hospital in the valley was the best to deliver a baby, and it was good to have her mind off of Antonio for a half hour.

Once home, she ripped off the wig and took a long, hot shower, chills racing through her every time she thought of “Carlos.” Why did she feel dirty?

She slipped into bed, exhausted, but it would be a long time before she fell asleep. She called her therapist’s non-emergency voicemail and left a message asking to see him as soon as possible next week. He’d love this new development. Hopefully, he’d have some concrete suggestions, because she had no idea what to do next.