He bent down to pick up my bra and shirt, then unbuttoned the shoulder. “Sweetheart, I sincerely hope so.”
Since there was no winning this battle, I got dressed, stifling a frustrated moan as the jeans rubbed provocatively against me. I glanced at Tyler, certain he was aware of this new distress, but he very wisely didn’t meet my eye.
I picked up the dress, turning it over to look for the tag. “There’s no price,” I said.
“Trust me. There’s always a price.”
In this case, the price was five digits, and I about had a heart attack.
“For a dress? And you spent it?” We were back on the street, heading toward Michigan Avenue so we could catch a taxi back to The Drake. “I could buy a car for that.”
“Not a very good one.”
“How the hell am I going to wear it? I’ll be afraid to breathe on it.”
“You’ll wear it because I want to see you in it. And later, I want to see you out of it.”
Such is the irony that had become my life, because just two short hours after spending over ten thousand on a dress, I was wearing next to nothing as I moved through a strip club doing the pre-performance mingle-and-chat routine. The kind of chatter that had me saying simpering nonsense and them mostly staring at my tits.
I wore short-shorts that revealed the curve of my rear and a push-up bra that accentuated the curve of my breasts, and in a few minutes, I’d replace that with my naughty executive outfit—which, once I took it off, showed off everything.
The thought made me long for Tyler, and I paused in my conversation with a Philadelphia businessman to scan the room for him.
I found him by the bar, going over what was probably an inventory with one of the two bartenders. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he looked up, and his smile held such warmth that I felt it all the way to my toes.
He shifted his gaze to a far corner, then nodded at a solitary man sitting in one of the plush chairs nursing a drink. The lunchtime crowd tended to sit at the stage, so this man was unique simply by virtue of being alone.
Charley, Tyler mouthed, and I nodded.
I said something polite but dismissive to my man from Philly, then swung my hips to give him a little show as I moved across the room to where Big Charley sat.
He was aptly named. A huge man with dark hair except for silver sideburns, he was ruggedly handsome, like a Hollywood version of a lumberjack. He looked up as I approached, his eyes going to tits then crotch in a way that I was starting to get used to.
“Hi, sugar,” I said. “You’re all alone over here.”
“Just enjoying the scenery,” he said. A glass half-filled with golden liquor sat on the table next to a money clip that was thick with bills.
He lifted his glass and I caught the scent of bourbon. He tossed it back, then smacked his empty glass down on the table. “I have to say, the view is definitely improving.”
I laughed. “You’re sweet.” I cocked my head, studying him. “Wait a sec, you’re Charley, aren’t you?”
For a moment, he looked startled. “I know I’d remember you, darlin’. So how do you know me?”
“Oh, I don’t,” I said. “But my friend Amy said you were the sweetest thing. She said Big Charley always sits off by himself and he’s just as nice as he can be and handsome as all get out. That’s you, right? You were one of Amy’s most favorite customers.”
“That’s me,” he said. “How is she? Moved to Vegas, didn’t she?”
“Yes, and the mean thing hasn’t called me since she got there. I can’t remember where she said she was working. Did she mention it to you?”
“Afraid not.” He held up his glass to one of the passing waitresses, indicating he wanted a refill. “I’d offered her a job, actually, but she turned it down. Said she was going to dance in Vegas instead.”
“Dance? Well, that narrows it down, doesn’t it?” I said, then laughed.