In Too Deep, Book 1, Part 3

[image: VitalikRadko]

Chapter 5 - Schmoozing

I’ll be honest, I was proud of myself for not going to the strip club. In the unsympathetic light of Saturday morning, I realized what a huge mistake that would have been. 

Ty said that I needed to trust Amanda to do her thing. On paper, sure. She was a warrior. I believed that she was capable of doing anything that she put her mind to.

But there was one issue that was overlooked—our marriage. Amanda had always been fiercely independent, but she wasn’t single anymore.

I played my conversation with Ty over and over again. Could she be spreading her legs undercover? It depends. And, it happens. And, especially when going deep. None of that helped calm my fear or allay the slowly spreading sense of betrayal. Then again, what did I expect when I sought out those answers? For him to tell me that infiltrating the criminal underworld was as easy as picking flowers in a spring meadow?

When Amanda and I had fucked the last time she’d visited, she was hungry for it, more passionate than she’d been in ages. Had she learned some new tricks on the job? Had she developed a taste for a harder, rougher sort? She’d shaved her pussy. Was that just to accommodate her small, stripper g-strings? Or because that’s what her clients expected?

Fuck, there was no way to escape this downward spiral. Around and around I went in my head, going insane. I needed something to distract me. I tried the movies, but I don’t think I could have told you the plot. I tried video games, hoping the run and gun mechanics of Call of Duty could take my mind off things. Instead, I ended up getting rolled over and over because I couldn’t focus. So I shut that off, too.

I discovered the Gold Club’s website, which wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of modern web design. Flash animations, animated gifs, an insipid techno beat, browsing the site was like being transported back to the early 2000s. 

After rifling through PDF cocktail menus and a poorly executed virtual tour of the club itself, I found what I was looking for. Sort of. A schedule of dancers for the next week, with a note at the bottom to check back weekly. No photos of the dancers were shown, but reading the name Raven was enough to tighten my chest every time. She worked four nights a week with a couple day time shifts. Busy girl.

Seeing that schedule made it real—as if it somehow wasn’t before. Amanda had a schedule. She had shifts at a strip club. Shifts that I could track. For instance, Sunday night, as I tried to watch an older episode of the Global Odyssey, I knew that she was working the night shift.

In a weird way, knowing where she was brought me comfort. It didn’t stop that gut-wrenching foreboding that was ever-present, but at least I knew something about what was happening. On the flip side, the times when I knew she wasn’t working became even harder. What did she do during those times? Presumably she had an apartment somewhere—what was that like? How did the stripper version of my wife decorate her place?

Before this gig, Amanda was a creature of routine. She’d get up early and go for a run every morning. On Mondays, she went to yoga. On Wednesdays, we watched Castaway together. Every first Friday of the month, she went out with her girlfriends. Every second Friday, we went out to dinner somewhere. Did she have something similar now? Based on her schedule, I couldn’t see much regularity. That must have killed her.

Or maybe she just spent all her free time hanging out in some guy’s bed. It was the wrong thing to think, but I couldn’t stop thinking it. She’d been sent undercover as a stripper to get close to some bad men—men who had certain expectations of what strippers did in their free time.

Could she really do that? Could she really just ignore our vows, our love, our history for what was essentially a job?

I thought about how angry she’d been, back in Miami, after her big bust. It wasn’t just that her superior officer had taken credit for the work she’d put in—although that certainly didn’t help. It was that she thought that the raid had been premature, that she wasn’t being heard. It had worked out, but Amanda was a perfectionist, and even as she was celebrating, she saw all the flaws.

 Could she not see her own flaws, now?

By Monday, I was fried. I don’t think I got much sleep and apparently it showed as I dragged myself into the office. “What the fuck happened to you?” Brandon Cruise said. He threw himself into a chair opposite my desk, making himself right at home.

“Just a little under the weather, I think. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Well, Jesus, go home, man. Don’t go bringing that shit in here. That’s why you’ve got sick days.”

The thought of spending another day home alone was terrifying. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m contagious anymore.”

Brandon shrugged, moving on. “What are you doing Wednesday night?”

I thought of Castaway and Amanda and the prospect of watching television by myself. It was pretty pathetic. “No plans.”

“Great. We’re taking a potential client out, you and me.”

“We are?”

“Yeah. Guy’s flying in from Spain. Says it’s his birthday Wednesday, so I figured we could help him celebrate.”

I had an inkling of what Brandon had in mind for “celebrating,” and suddenly wished that I’d told him I was busy. “You really think it’s his birthday?”

“Who the fuck cares? He says it is, so it is. You know how this works.” Brandon picked up one of my business cards from its tray and folded it into quarters.

“So what’s the plan?”

Brandon unfolded the card and put it back where he’d picked it up, now thoroughly creased. He grinned. “The Gold Club again. Figured that was pretty successful last time.”

Part of me must have been expecting that, because I didn’t feel totally stunned by the suggestion—just mostly. Now I really needed to get out of this. I couldn’t go back. It wasn’t an option. I just needed to figure out a way to gracefully decline.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, do we even know the guy?” I knew how fruitless this argument was with Brandon, but I figured I’d try.

“He’s a guy. That’s all I need to know. I mean, fuck, you’re about as straight as they come, and even you were like a kid in a candy store.”

I felt a flush climb my neck and willed it back down.

He went on. “But it’s good that you’re concerned about the client. We wouldn’t want to bring them anywhere that’s anything less than top shelf.”

I saw a glimmer of hope. “Good thought. Maybe there’s somewhere higher...class or something to take him?”

Brandon nodded. I felt relief. I could suddenly breathe easier again. “My thought exactly. So I did some...research, shall we say?” The grin was back, along with that tightness in my chest. “Went to all the classiest joints in the area. The Gold Club is definitely top end. They have the hottest pussy around.”

I swallowed. It was hard to do. “Yeah?”

“Oh, and remember that chick you couldn’t take your eyes off of? The brunette with the big, natural tits?”

Oh, God. Things got tighter and tighter. I had to consciously take breaths. “I don’t remember. That night was a blur.”

“Her name’s Raven. She’s got this sexy ass tramp stamp of a raven—naturally.”

“Okay, what about her?”

“Took her into the backroom for a private dance. Damn, dude. Fuckin’ sweet.”

“No.” I uttered it before I could stop myself. Brandon could have punched me in the gut and it would have felt better than hearing what he was saying now.

Brandon smiled, nodding. “Oh, yes. She was expensive, but it was so worth it.”

Did my coworker just have sex with my wife? I had no words. I didn’t know how to react. “You slept with her?”

Brandon laughed. “I fuckin’ wish. Nah. I offered, but she declined. Said it was against policy, which is total B.S.”

I masked my relief like a fucking poker player. I sat back in my chair, silently releasing a breath. “So just a dance?”

“Dude, if you’d have been there, you wouldn’t have called it just a dance. That’s like saying the Mona Lisa’s just a picture. Not only does she have a killer bod, but she knows how to use it, man. She was so soft. I don’t know how these chicks do that. I got her to strip all the way and damn, man. I swear, she was wet.”

“But you didn’t get to check yourself?”

Brandon laughed. “I wish. But seriously, looking was worth it. Totally shaved bare. I love that look.”

I thought of my first experience seeing my wife like that and how stunned I had been. Now I knew I wasn’t alone in seeing it.

“Anyway, she’s working Wednesday night, so maybe you can see exactly what I’m talking about. Best $200 I’ve dropped in a long time.”

“Sounds good.”

Sounded horrible.

*

I felt like I'd had too much coffee on an empty stomach—jittery, restless, a brick sitting at the bottom of my stomach. Only the feeling didn't go away after food. Or sleep. Or anything. If anything, as Wednesday closed in, it got worse.

I took comfort in knowing that Amanda wasn't turning tricks in the back room, but how seriously did I really believe that she was doing that in the first place? There was nothing to be gained from compromising herself like that. Amanda was pretending to be Raven—she wasn't actually Raven.

I was racked with doubt and guilt and apprehension. If Amanda was just doing her job without actually compromising herself, how would this look to her? That I didn't trust her? That I needed to check up on her because she couldn't take care of herself?

I couldn't go. I wouldn't. I didn’t want to! Walking in to work on Wednesday, I had every intention not to.

Then I got summoned into the boss's office and learned that I had no choice.

"We need to make this guy happy, understand, David? I know you're not a big fan of Brandon's...methods, but trust his instincts on this one. ‘Kay?"

Well, fuck me. "Got it, sir. But in that case, maybe it's best just to let Brandon take him around."

My boss was already shaking his head before I finished. "No, this needs to look official. We need the two of you there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, you’re new, and I know this isn’t how you guys do things on the East Coast. I promise, it’s not always how it’s done here, either, but despite Brandon’s… ways, he’s actually a brilliant negotiator. Watch him. Maybe you’ll learn something from him.” 

And that was that. There was something freeing now that the choice had been made for me. I thought about some way to warn Amanda ahead of time, but I had no way of getting in touch with her. This was going to happen, and I needed to be flexible.

Deep down—way, way deep down—a part of me was excited for this return. Horrible, I know, but how often does a guy get an opportunity like this? To see his wife at the center of all that attention. I never thought I'd like the idea, but there was definitely something flattering about having a wife who could command so much undivided attention. Even thinking about the things that Brandon had said about her got my blood pumping once I was able to get beyond the discomfort of it happening at all.

*

We picked up Javier Garcia at LAX, dropped his things off at the Regency, and then immediately went out to dinner. Javier was a quiet guy, not at all the brash Spaniard I'd mostly expected. He was about my age—late 20s, maybe or early 30s—but already had gray in his week-old scruff. He struck me as an artist more than the representative of a foreign defense contractor looking for legal guidance.

Dinner flew by in a flash. Brandon did most of the talking. The boss was right, Brandon really was good at negotiating, and I may have learned a thing or two had I not spent most of the time looking for an excuse to get out of this shitty scenario. I ran out of time.

"So what do you have planned for my birthday?" Javier asked in accented English.

"We have a treat for you, my friend. We're going to take you to one of the finest gentlemen's establishments in greater LA."

Javier smirked, the first real emotion he'd shown since we'd picked him up. "But what if I don't feel like being a gentleman on my birthday?"

Brandon grinned. "Then we can accommodate that as well." He looked at me and I caught a moment of hesitation from my brash coworker. It seemed out of character. Then, he pushed on, returning his full attention to Javier. "Ever tried jasmine?"

"Like the herb?" Javier asked.

"No, man. It's this new designer pill. Has the same euphoric high as Ecstasy, with that empowering feeling of coke."

Since Ty had mentioned it, I looked into it. The LA Times had an exposé on it a couple months ago, and apparently it was making the rounds in the clubs. Suddenly, I felt the rising dread about what Brandon was about to suggest.

"Sounds fun," Javier said.

Brandon paused dramatically. "Want to try it?"

He pulled out a little ring box and set it in front of our new client. I looked at it like a bomb. Javier's smile widened. "Happy birthday to me."

He cracked it open, and inside was a little purple pill.

"You're not going to make me take this alone, are you?"

Brandon was ahead of him. From his inside coat pocket, he retrieved a couple more pills. My stomach was tight and swarming—and for the first time in days, the feeling had nothing to do with Amanda's assignment. I felt like I was back in high school, being pressured into taking a joint.

Brandon handed me the pill and I took it from him without thinking. He winked at me, popped his into his mouth, and washed it down with the last of his wine. I briefly considered turning it down, but as Javier followed Brandon's lead, he met my eyes and nodded. We were in this together, just three guys ready to begin a night of debauchery. Partnerships lived and died on this kind of thing.

I palmed the pill and pretended to take it. I'd never done a drug in my life—including the pot that my so-called friends had tried pressuring me back in high school. No way was I going to start for some contract—not to mention being married to a federal agent who fights this stuff. But I could fake it with the best of them.

Javier got up to use the bathroom. Brandon leaned over to me and held out his hand. "If you're not going to take that, then I'd like it back. This shit's $50 a pop."

So maybe I couldn't fake it as well as I'd thought. I handed it back. "Think Javier knows?"

"Nah. But I didn't expect a boy scout like you to take it anyway, so I was watching closely." Brandon settled the check. "You know, though, you really should try it. It's fucking amazing."

I wondered what he'd do if he knew that my wife worked for the FBI, or that she'd worked counter-narcotics a few years back. "I'm good."

"Your loss. Ready to see some pussy?"

*

The first time I’d walked into this club, I hadn’t known what to expect. We’d all been drunk from the night of schmoozing. I’d never been to a strip club before. And I certainly hadn’t known that my wife would be there dancing. I walked in without any baggage.

The second time, I had all the baggage.

With the jasmine crisis behind us, all I had in front of me was spending the night watching my wife take her clothes off for strangers.

"Fuck, you feel that, Javi my man?" Brandon said, slapping the Spaniard on the back. His smile was particularly wide—both men, in fact. I put on one of my own.

"It's good," Javier said with a nod. Then said it again, like the feeling deserved twice the praise. "It's good."

"I want you to remember this, Javi," Brandon said. "When you start thinking about who you'd rather work with each time you come over here, I want you to think about tonight."

Why did I need to be here? Brandon had this one wrapped up in a neat little bow. I'd barely said a thing all night. I hadn't needed to.

We walked up to the entrance of the Gold Club. Gold stanchions held up yellow velvet ropes, marking off a small line of perverts waiting to get inside and ogle my wife. I looked each one of them over, judging them.

Brandon bypassed the line and walked right up to the bouncer. Dressed in a black suit, the bouncer was a bruiser of a man, his shaved head made him look like an overgrown baby. At first, I was almost embarrassed for my colleague for presuming he could even talk with the strip club security—clearly the jasmine shit was impairing his judgment. When the bouncer greeted Brandon with a bro's handshake—more highfive than shake—I second guessed myself.

"Yo, Brandon, what up, bro?"

"Nice crowd for hump day," Brandon said.

The bouncer shrugged. "You know how it is."

"So these are the guys I told you about. Javi here just got off the plane from Spain. And that there's my man, David. This, guys, is Griff."

"Nice to meet you," Griff said. Then, to me: "Now spread 'em open."

I stared at him. "What?"

"Need to search you. Club policy."

Policy or not, there was just something humiliating about being frisked. There was the invasion of personal space, the subtle acquiescence of control, not to mention another man's hands patting up my thigh. Then I thought about what Amanda had to put up with on a nightly basis and felt even worse that I was here, about to witness that.

Griff patted down Javier, then moved on to Brandon. "Sorry man, rules are rules."

"No worries." As Griff patted the insides of Brandon's pockets, my coworker said, "There's a present in there if you're interested in jazzing up the night."

Griff paused, reached into Brandon's pocket, and removed the small baggie with my lone and rejected pill. His face hardened. The friendly facade was gone just like that—apparently it was a facade. He quickly sized Brandon up, then the two of us. For an uncomfortable moment, I wondered if he was about to call the cops and Javier Garcia would be trading his room at the Regency for a jail cell.

Griff seemed to find what he was looking for—or he didn't—and tucked the pill away. "Can't, I'm afraid. Club forbids it. And I'm sorry, but I can't let you take it in, either."

Brandon played it cool, although for the first time since I'd known him, I could tell he was freaked out. "It's cool. Keep it for later then."

Griff neither nodded nor shook his head, but I got the feeling that that pill would be flushed before long. The bouncer lifted the radio to his mouth and signaled for a table for three.

"Well, that wasn't awkward," I muttered to Brandon as the thumping music of the club washed over us. "You know the bouncer?"

"Met him Sunday. It was pretty dead in there, so we got to chatting. It always pays to play nice with security."

"Well, that friendship may have been short lived."

Brandon grinned toothily. "We'll see."

The strict club policy actually took a weight off my shoulders that I hadn't realized was there. It meant that the management was interested in running a clean shop. That could only make things easier for Amanda. Thinking about Brandon's complaint about no sex in the back room, that fit, too. It was very possible that "Raven" wasn't sleeping with anyone after all.

All of this washed over me as blissful and euphoric as I'm sure that Brandon and Javier were feeling from the drugs. I decided that it was okay to have some fun tonight. Hell, this was cause for celebration. 

The club opened up as before—the twin stages, the low couches, the sexy ambiance that permeated the joint. Since it was a Wednesday, I'd expected it to be less crowded than the last time I'd been here. Maybe it was, but I couldn't tell. Most of the seats and tables were filled. Girls mingled through the crowd, barely clothed, flirting from one group to the next. I searched for Amanda but couldn't find her.

A hostess met us at the entrance, just inside the thick velvet curtains. She was a petite thing with a sharp, dark bob and tits that burst from her tight black top. "Right this way," she said, leading us into the club. My gaze drifted to her ass, encased in a black mini-skirt, and I wondered if she danced, too.

Brandon caught my eye, nodding with a grin. I forced myself to stop ogling the woman, instead doing another sweep of the room.

That's when I saw her. Amanda—or Raven, I supposed—standing at the bar, chatting with the bartender as he mixed up some drinks. All the anxiety I had coming here melted away in the moment, replaced by an ache to go to my wife and hold her. To kiss her. Hell, just to say, Hi again. She was dressed in a pair of silver hot pants that looked painted on, coupled with a metallic halter top not much larger than a bikini. The tattoo was there, about the size of a coaster, black, tribal swirls that formed a stylized raven, one wing up, one wing down, like it was soaring. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and her face was so made-up that I understood why I hadn't recognized her instantly the last time we were here.

She laughed at something the bartender said, reaching across the bar to touch his arm. My gut tightened. He said something back, she picked up a couple drinks, and headed toward the roped off VIP area. Her silver shorts couldn't contain her ass, the bottoms of her cheeks actually peeking out. As she sashayed away from us, I couldn't stop staring.

Brandon stepped up beside me. "Yeah, she's amazing," he said. To our hostess: "Raven going to be free tonight?"

The girl shrugged, and I couldn't help picking up a little attitude in the gesture. "Don't know. She’s working the VIP section now, anyway."

That was a double edged sword. It was comforting to know that our interactions with her were at a minimum tonight, but I couldn't shake the thought that the VIP patrons had bigger expectations of their dancers.

"What'll it take to get in there?" Brandon asked.

The hostess looked us up and down, no doubt appraising the quality of our clothing, our shoes, the way we carried ourselves. Whatever she saw didn't impress her. "Don't worry about that, honey. There's plenty of fun to be had right out here. And if you want to see Ray dance, she'll be on stage like the rest of us at some point."

Again, I heard the edge of bitterness in her voice, but couldn't figure out a way to probe before she left us.

Brandon looked forlornly at the exclusive section. I looked, too, finding my wife sitting in the lap of a well-dressed guy with a nice beard and nicer hair. I recognized him from our last visit, and grimaced. She already had regulars. Tonight wasn't going to be easy at all.

“So what’s your specialty,” I asked Javier, trying to make conversation.

“Excuse me?” he asked, turning his ear in my direction. It was hard to hear over the music.

“Defense contracting, I mean,” I shouted. “Do you specialize in anything?”

At first he didn’t seem to get it and I almost gave up. Then it must have clicked. “Oh, for job? Yes, I…” But between his accent and the music from the clubs, I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, although he was very enthusiastic about it. Something about some kind of proprietary digital something something that may have to do with forensics or maybe micro sticks? 

It didn’t matter. Brandon saw me struggling, pulled in a pair of strippers, and they were suddenly enjoying a couple floor dances as the girls tried talking them into something more private in the back. Javier had attracted a brunette with a cornfed All-American look to her. Brandon had a tawny Asian grinding in his lap.

A third had tried to entice me into a $20 lap dance, but I wasn't feeling it. Brandon gave me a queer look, but didn't call me out—mostly because Javier was right there next to us. What I did instead was start drinking, ordering a double IPA which couldn't be watered down. If I was going to spend $15 on a drink, I was determined that it was going to do the trick.

I'll be honest, I spent most of my time watching Amanda work the VIP section. She spent a long time with the guy with the beard and the nice, salt-and-pepper hair, although she wasn't grinding in his lap like the two strippers beside me. They just seemed to talk. And laugh. And flirt. It was a total nightmare—worse than if she'd just been dancing. My head swam with the crushing jealousy. I wanted to vomit. Twice, I thought about heading for the bathroom to try. 

But I was actually hard—head-spinningly, nauseatingly hard.

A pair of strippers took to the stage closer to us—a blonde dressed as a slutty angel, complete with feathery wings and a halo, and a redhead adorned in red lingerie and horns. I hadn't seen two women dance together at the Gold Club, and I sure as hell had never seen two girls kiss each other outside of porn. But when the devil drew the angel into a steamy kiss right up there on stage, I was riveted. Finally something to take my mind off of whatever the hell my wife was doing.

The angel and devil pulled away from each other and began their act. They played coy at first, spinning opposite one another on the pole, one chasing the other. The redhead swiveled first, meeting the angel for another embrace. Her fingers traced down the blonde's back and unfastened the clasp of her bra. The white lingerie fell away, taking her angel wings with it. I didn't care. My eyes were on her tits and the way the she-devil dipped her head and took a hard nipple into her mouth.

"Fuck, that's hot," I heard Brandon say behind me. 

The angel threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth open in a moan. Whether it was an act or not, I didn't really care. I let myself believe that this was why I was hard—even though I’d been fighting back an erection since Amanda had settled into that man’s lap.

The devil spun away but the angel caught her, pulling her close and pulling the red top off. The redhead had small tits, pale and mesmerizing. She turned her head to kiss the fallen angel over her shoulder as she grinded back into the other woman's hips.

Their shorts went next, revealing g-strings that left so little to the imagination. Neither girl could have much hair down there, and when the devil slid her hand into the angel's panties, I caught a quick glimpse of her bare pussy.

It reminded me of Amanda. I glanced back at the VIP section. She wasn't there. I looked around the club, but she wasn't anywhere. My heart jumped. The man with the beard was also missing.

"I thought the rule was no touching," Brandon said. I turned, thinking he was talking to me. He still had the Asian stripper in his lap, although the two of them were watching the girl-on-girl show.

She said, "No touching with the customers. The girls can do whatever they want."

"You and Misty willing to give us a little show?" he asked, looking at the brunette still in Javier's lap.

The stripper considered it. If she was embarrassed at the prospect of a lesbian act, it didn't show. "$500 for the two of us for a half-hour. Your friend can come watch, too." The Asian stripper looked right at me with a smile. I'd all but planned on declining the offer, but that look was so inviting.

"What do you say, Javi? Want to watch a couple chicks dyke it out?"

I laughed inside. In any other setting, that question—right in front of the girls about to "dyke it out"—would have been met with a slap. Here, he earned a pair of giggles.

"Let's go."

"David?" Brandon asked.

I looked at the stripper, who met my eyes with practiced ease. You know you want to, she seemed to say. She'd been trained to do that, to seduce with eye contact alone. To make the man she was with think he was the only one that mattered. Realizing that was enough to snap me out of my spell.

"I'm good. You guys have fun."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Brandon grinned. "Your loss. Lead the way, ladies."

The women rose, threading their fingers together as they led the men toward the back room. I’ll admit that I watched them go wistfully, part of me regretting my decision. I looked toward the stage, where the angel and demon were still in the midst of their show. On their knees, they were making out as they fingered one another. The crowd of men around them was thick.

I sighed. The long, booze-filled night—along with poor sleep the past several days—was finally catching up to me. I yawned, wondering if it was time to get out of here.

“They not do it for you?” The husky voice was tinged with a hint of Eastern European.

I turned to look at one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met—my wife excepted. She was who I pictured when I thought “Russian beauty”—I just didn’t realize it until now. With her high cheekbones, round face, fair skin, and the softness of her beauty, I couldn’t stop staring.

“Maybe I do?” she said, arching a dark eyebrow. It contrasted with her crisp white-blonde hair in a sexy way. “Can I join you?”

“Uh, um… sure?” I hated the sound of uncertainty in my voice.

“I am Irina.” She slipped into my lap, filling my nose with her clean scent. “You are…?”

For a moment, I forgot my own name. “David.”

She had clear blue eyes that never wavered from mine. I was just aware of being subtly manipulated as I had been with Brandon’s dancer, but with Irina, it was easier to pretend that I wasn’t.

“So girl-girl is not something you like.” Her Russian accent made me feel like I was in a James Bond movie. This stripper certainly could have been a Bond girl.

“No, it is,” I said too quickly, then realized what I’d just admitted to. “I mean, it’s nice, I guess. I’m just tired.”

The idea of a smile tugged at the corners of Irina’s lips. “Why don’t you order an espresso? Mikhail makes them very strong.”

I followed her glance to the bar, where the bartender—presumably Mikhail—was pouring a row of shots. It reminded me of how Amanda had flirted with the guy, which in turn reminded me of Amanda. I looked around again, but couldn't find her. 

"Maybe you're not into me, either." Irina had a good pout. "Looking for someone in particular?"

Part of me almost asked her about "Raven," but I wasn't that stupid. Irina could have been working for the very people that Amanda was trying to take down; blundering in here asking about their newest dancer could only lead to trouble.

"Just wondering where my friends went."

Irina seemed to buy it. She smiled wickedly. "Oh, they're in good hands."

The way she said it made my cock—which had been stuck in a state of arousal since we'd walked in—stir. "Oh yeah? What goes on back there?"

Irina ran her hand along my chest. "Depends."

"Depends?"

"Buy me a drink and maybe I'll tell you."

As if summoned, a server stepped up behind them. "Hello, Aimee. An espresso for David here, and an appletini for me."

"Coming right up," the girl said. I realized that the server was as scantily clad as a stripper. It was scary how quickly I could get desensitized to that. Was that what happened to Amanda? Did the criminal world which she was infiltrating start to permeate her life? I thought about what Ty had said about slipping into personas—of owning the role.

"You're a contemplative one, aren't you?" Irina said. "I bet you're an artist, yes? Or maybe a writer?"

I wonder what she’d think if I told her that I was a lawyer—and a non-litigating one at that—before I realized that it didn’t matter. She’d be “impressed” no matter what; it’s what she did for a living.

“So tell me, David, do I inspire you?” Irina turned in my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her white halter top was no larger than a bra, designed for one reason alone: to showcase her creamy, overflowing cleavage.

“Yes.” My lungs were so tight I could barely get my one-word answer out.

“Then how ‘bout a dance?”

Again, I thought about what Ty had said about owning the role. Only this time, I didn’t think about it in the context of Amanda’s assignment, but my own. I wasn’t here to check up on her, I had to remind myself. I was just like any other patron of a strip club, and I needed to start acting like one.

“One dance. $20?”

Irina lit up. I reached into my back pocket for my wallet and withdrew a crisp bill. She took it, set it on the cocktail table beside us, and turned her thousand watt smile on me. She said, “You know, you’re going to think I say this to all the guys, but I’m going to enjoy this one.”

I was pretty sure that she said that to most of the guys, but at that moment, I didn’t care. As she slipped out of my lap and began undulating in the close space between my legs, I became hypnotized. She knew how to move her body, sinuously weaving it to the drone of whatever stripper song was on at the time. Her outfit, I realized now that I was finally looking, was the most outrageously slutty version of a “Catholic schoolgirl” uniform that I’d ever seen. The plaid skirt didn’t quite cover her ass, and I recognized that the white halter top I’d thought was a bra was actually some attempt at being a shirt.

Irina swiveled, her back to me, I looked her up and down, taking in the lower curves of her ass cheeks peeking out under the skirt, before she reached behind her and unclasped her top. “Relax, David. You’ve seen a naked woman before, haven’t you?” 

I realized how tense I was. I was clutching the arms of the chair like that was the only thing holding me into it. I loosened my hands, but since I couldn’t actually touch her, I left them there. That would have to do for relaxing for now.

She turned, her bare tits swinging into view. They looked great—too perfect and round to be natural, I figured, but they looked better than many of the strippers I’d seen in here. She bent forward, arching her back to bring her tits within inches of my face. I suppressed the instinct to lean into them and suck on her nipples. She pivoted before my oversexed brain could revolt and do it anyway, although her half-smile suggested she knew exactly what I was thinking.

She grinded into my lap, pushing her fingers through her blond locks and piling them atop her head. “Excited, big boy?” she said with a smirk.

Shame cut through my foggy arousal. Shame and guilt. This wasn't me. I wasn't this guy. I looked away, across the room, focusing on anything but the rippling blonde in my lap. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Raven emerged from the back room, once again dressed in her silver stripper outfit—the bikini halter top, the tiny booty shorts.

She scanned the club at the same time that I did, and our eyes met at just the right moment. She lingered on me for just a beat longer than she would any other man before moving on. She wasn’t supposed to know me, and she was good at her job. Still, that pregnant pause felt like a missile strike. I was too far from her and the light was too dim to see her reaction, but I imagined all kinds of things that she must have felt: shock, disappointment, maybe a little anger.

Done with her scan, she sashayed into the room, drawing looks from the men in her immediate vicinity. She swung by the bar, whispering something to the bartender—Mikhail. He nodded, and she moved on, approaching the nearest gathering of guys. Bending at the waist so that her breasts toppled from her top, she asked them something. One of the guys nodded enthusiastically.

She settled into his lap, much like Irina did to me earlier, the flirtation stage of the stripper game just beginning. I felt my chest tighten as I watched her smile at this guy, laugh at what he said, touch his face when making a point. Every one of those mannerisms were Amanda’s—they may have been faked, but they were ones I’d seen Amanda do daily. In this context, they became painful rather than familiar.

But I couldn’t keep looking at Amanda. I knew what kind of danger that would put her in—I knew I shouldn’t even be here. So I forced myself to ignore her, to focus on Irina in my lap and pretend to be some guy that I wasn’t.

“So in the back room? You said you’d tell me more about that if I bought you a drink.” I looked at the side table and was surprised to find that our drinks had shown up at some point while I wasn’t paying attention.

Irina sat up off me enough to hook her thumbs in the band of her schoolgirl skirt and slide it over her hips. Beneath, she wore a thong that barely covered her sex. I could trace the outline of her plump pussy lips.

“I could just take you back there if you’d like,” Irina said in her exotic accent.

"First I'd like to know what I'd be agreeing to."

Irina gyrated against my erection. “Well, first, you’d be getting a half hour instead of just one song, and I can promise you that I’ll make sure every minute counts.”

“Sounds good. Keep going.”

“It’s very private back there. Just you and me. Out here, there’s a rule—no contact. In there…” She finished with a shrug.

My heart jumped. “I thought the rules were still pretty strict.”

Irina had an amazing smile that brought out her cheekbones. “Depends on what you consider strict. Right now, I’m pretty sure that your friends back there are watching Cherry and Misty have sex right now—and those two don’t fake anything.”

In a moment of weakness, I truly regretted turning that down. “But the guys can’t touch.”

“Not the girls,” Irina said with a laugh. “But if the guys are nice enough, maybe they’ll be touched.”

I squirmed at the implication. “How about you? What happens if I’m nice to you?”

Irina smiled. “How nice are we talking?”

I was out of my comfort zone on this one. I barely knew what I was talking about. “It’s $200 to the club for the dances, right? What if your tip matched it.”

"Then things could get very friendly between us," she said. 

"And what if I offered five times that?"

Irina’s eyes flared at that. I practically saw dollar bills in her blue irises. It was a lot of money, I realized. More than she typically saw. “Then I’d say you keep your money and wait for my shift to end. Then I can show you a really private time.”

So that was the game. The prostitution happened off premise, but the deals were brokered here. How much of a cut did the club get, I wondered. And how many of the girls were in on it? Was Amanda?

Heat bloomed through me. It became hard to breathe. I looked across at Amanda. She was now straddling the stranger she’d been chatting up earlier, her long hair flipped back. She was topless, her naked breasts inches from the man's face.

"So what do you say?" Irina asked. "Tempted?"

For the briefest of moments, I considered it. It wasn't hard to imagine Irina's body naked and undulating on my cock, since that's largely what was happening now, but as sexy as that thought was, it was more a reason to not do it. The way I could justify it was that I’d be getting more information on this crime ring that Amanda was investigating, coming at it from a different angle. Maybe if I worked it, she'd bust these guys faster, which would bring her home faster. 

In the end, though, I chickened out. "Maybe next time," I said, adding a lame: "when I come back alone."

Like any good salesperson, Irina knew what that meant; I was a browser, not a buyer. She didn't seem upset about it—she'd already made an easy $20 out of me. She just shrugged and slipped out of my lap. "Have a good night, David." She slipped back into her top with an elegance that I don't think many women could pull off, pausing before she left. "If you change your mind, I get off at two."

Salesperson to the end.

As I watched Irina strut away, I felt pride well up within me. How was that for undercover work for a total novice? I'd played the role of naive strip club patron perfectly—mostly because that's who I was. I'd uncovered a secret prostitution ring, even opened up a further lead with Irina, should I go down that route. And it wasn't even 11.

Across the room, Amanda was pulling the guy she'd just danced for toward the back. She hadn’t bothered putting her top back on, leaving her in nothing but a silver thong and her platform heels. Despite that, she carried herself with elegance—her head tipped forward, her hair falling around her face, her fingers laced in her latest customer’s. She took slow, swaying steps, one foot crossing before the other. Right there was a woman who was hot and knew it. Hard to believe she was my wife.

She could do that knowing that I was there. She could compartmentalize. My stomach fluttered. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. The guy she was leading couldn’t take his eyes off her ass, or the tattoo on her back, and all I could think was, Look, friend, but at the end of the day, she’ll be coming home to me.

It didn’t put me at ease. Still, I was in a better place than where I’d been when I walked in. I knew what was going on. I knew her role in it. And maybe, just maybe, I was going to lend my help where I could.

Irina swung by one last time a minute later, tracing her fingers across my shoulders. She leaned down, her lips resting against my ear. Even her heady perfume was filled with suggestion. I thought she was going to make her offer again. I was already prepared to tell her no again. But that’s not what she said.

“Oh, one other thing. That brunette you’ve been eyeing up all night long? Don’t even bother. You won’t get far. She’s the boss’s flavor of the month right now.”

The floor might as well have opened up under me, because the next moment, I was in free fall.

Read Part 4 now.