Tis was not the season to be jolly. Not with this freakin’ traffic.
Pressing her spine against the lower lumbar rest, she straightened and massaged her nape, fruitlessly attempting to relieve the tension setting in there. Bright flashing lights blinked in the peripheral of her vision. Craning her neck slightly, she squinted at the neon marquee sign situated above the doorway of the building across from her.
Sinners. Frowning, she tried to puzzle out why the name rang a bell. Judging from the number of vehicles in the parking lot, the place was popular. Definitely not a restaurant though. Most of the establishments in this part of town were night clubs and the occasional strip—
“Oh my God.” It hit her with a reverberating jolt of awareness.
“I was only going to suggest that you should come watch me at Sinners Friday night.”
It was Trig’s club. Where he danced. Mostly naked. On Friday nights.
It was freakin’ Friday night.
She gulped. “No. I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.”
But you want to.
Aw hell.
CHAPTER SIX
Trig powered through the last dozen chin-ups before releasing his grip from the bar and dropping to the mat for a round of stomach crunches.
“Campbell, you fucking pretty boy, you’re on in ten. Better get suited up.”
Tightening his abs until the burn curled through his belly, Trig gritted his teeth at Frank, the stage manager. “Hell, we’re all pretty compared to you, you ugly motherfucker.”
Hoots of laughter rang out behind Trig. Frank grinned, his gold-plated grill competing in the shine department with his shaved scalp. “Keep it up and I’ll find a real bowser to call up on stage for you tonight.”
Trig lowered his back onto the mat and shrugged. “All women are beautiful in their own way.”
“Especially when they pull out the Benjamin’s,” one of the guys cackled. His observation incited additional guffaws from his cohorts.
Trig only rolled his eyes. Yeah, he was just as desperate for money as the rest of these yokels, but he didn’t believe in being mercenary about it. The day he saw his customers—or women in general—as nothing but a walking bank would be the day he’d leave this place behind him and never look back.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, he finished out his remaining crunches. By the time he was done he sported a fine sheen of sweat. None of that manufactured spray bottle shit for him. He hefted to his feet and strode to his dressing area. After patting the excess dampness from his skin with a towel, he peeled down his track pants and exchanged them for his custom-made tear-away pants. He situated the suspenders before tugging on his fur-collared jacket and buttoning it up. Bending at the waist, he snagged the final touch to his costume—the requisite Santa hat. This one came with an attached white beard. He wouldn’t put it on until the last minute, seeing how the damn thing was ticklish as all get out.
Frank slapped Trig on the back and handed over a huge candy cane. “Try not to have a size complex.”
“That was meant for the candy cane, right?” Trig shot back.
The door to the dressing room opened, allowing in some of the noisy din from the front of the house. Their newest guy, James, ambled inside and accepted the bottled water Frank automatically passed his way. The kid swigged two-thirds of it down before glancing at Trig. “Dude, the chicks are on fire tonight. Best tips I’ve gotten all month.”
Trig stuffed the candy cane in his pocket. “They’re full of the Christmas spirit.”
“Yeah, well, there’s one out there I wouldn’t mind filling with some Christmas spirit.” James waggled his eyebrows. “I’m half tempted to go visit her table and offer that suggestion. Though I guess that’d be a better line coming from you. Feel free to use it on her.”
“Appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.” He never hooked up with any of the women in the club. For one thing, you didn’t fuck your money.
Pressing her spine against the lower lumbar rest, she straightened and massaged her nape, fruitlessly attempting to relieve the tension setting in there. Bright flashing lights blinked in the peripheral of her vision. Craning her neck slightly, she squinted at the neon marquee sign situated above the doorway of the building across from her.
Sinners. Frowning, she tried to puzzle out why the name rang a bell. Judging from the number of vehicles in the parking lot, the place was popular. Definitely not a restaurant though. Most of the establishments in this part of town were night clubs and the occasional strip—
“Oh my God.” It hit her with a reverberating jolt of awareness.
“I was only going to suggest that you should come watch me at Sinners Friday night.”
It was Trig’s club. Where he danced. Mostly naked. On Friday nights.
It was freakin’ Friday night.
She gulped. “No. I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.”
But you want to.
Aw hell.
CHAPTER SIX
Trig powered through the last dozen chin-ups before releasing his grip from the bar and dropping to the mat for a round of stomach crunches.
“Campbell, you fucking pretty boy, you’re on in ten. Better get suited up.”
Tightening his abs until the burn curled through his belly, Trig gritted his teeth at Frank, the stage manager. “Hell, we’re all pretty compared to you, you ugly motherfucker.”
Hoots of laughter rang out behind Trig. Frank grinned, his gold-plated grill competing in the shine department with his shaved scalp. “Keep it up and I’ll find a real bowser to call up on stage for you tonight.”
Trig lowered his back onto the mat and shrugged. “All women are beautiful in their own way.”
“Especially when they pull out the Benjamin’s,” one of the guys cackled. His observation incited additional guffaws from his cohorts.
Trig only rolled his eyes. Yeah, he was just as desperate for money as the rest of these yokels, but he didn’t believe in being mercenary about it. The day he saw his customers—or women in general—as nothing but a walking bank would be the day he’d leave this place behind him and never look back.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, he finished out his remaining crunches. By the time he was done he sported a fine sheen of sweat. None of that manufactured spray bottle shit for him. He hefted to his feet and strode to his dressing area. After patting the excess dampness from his skin with a towel, he peeled down his track pants and exchanged them for his custom-made tear-away pants. He situated the suspenders before tugging on his fur-collared jacket and buttoning it up. Bending at the waist, he snagged the final touch to his costume—the requisite Santa hat. This one came with an attached white beard. He wouldn’t put it on until the last minute, seeing how the damn thing was ticklish as all get out.
Frank slapped Trig on the back and handed over a huge candy cane. “Try not to have a size complex.”
“That was meant for the candy cane, right?” Trig shot back.
The door to the dressing room opened, allowing in some of the noisy din from the front of the house. Their newest guy, James, ambled inside and accepted the bottled water Frank automatically passed his way. The kid swigged two-thirds of it down before glancing at Trig. “Dude, the chicks are on fire tonight. Best tips I’ve gotten all month.”
Trig stuffed the candy cane in his pocket. “They’re full of the Christmas spirit.”
“Yeah, well, there’s one out there I wouldn’t mind filling with some Christmas spirit.” James waggled his eyebrows. “I’m half tempted to go visit her table and offer that suggestion. Though I guess that’d be a better line coming from you. Feel free to use it on her.”
“Appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.” He never hooked up with any of the women in the club. For one thing, you didn’t fuck your money.
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
