I exhaled loudly through my nose. I should have figured Kevin wasn’t just giving him the address.
I pulled out another hundred and handed it to him. “Drive,” I repeated.
He did. And as he pulled back into traffic, I noticed a black Lexus by the curb across the street. The same one? I shifted in my seat, intending to get a better look, but the cabbie’s demand to know where we were heading pulled my attention away.
“Someplace loud,” I said. “With a dance floor. And tequila. And not one single person I know.”
“Gotta be more specific than that, sugar.”
I pulled out my phone. “Give me a second,” I said, wondering how the hell folks survived in the Dark Ages before smart phones.
The Poodle Dog Lounge seemed like the best of a ragtag collection of possible clubs. It was located on a relatively run-down block right on the edge of Wrigleyville, but was well-lit enough to reassure me that I’d be safe getting from the cab to the door. I wanted an adrenaline rush, yes, but not the kind that came from avoiding thugs in dark alleys or drug deals in shadowed corners.
And, just in case the club wasn’t set up to hail taxis, I tucked the cabbie’s card in my purse. “My friend got your card, too, didn’t he?”
“Sure did, sugar.”
I held out a twenty. “This is to buy me a message. If he calls you, you tell him you dropped me at home, and the last time you saw me, I was heading into the lobby.”
“Not too sure I feel right about that, little girl.”
I managed not to roll my eyes, then pulled out yet another twenty. “Feel better now?”
He plucked the bills from my fingers. “Honey, I’m feeling just fine.”
I stood on the sidewalk to get my bearings and was a little surprised when the burly bouncer at the head of the line waved me over. To be honest, I was even more surprised there was a line, especially on a Wednesday. I hadn’t exactly selected a high-class club in a high-class neighborhood. Then again, any club that wanted a shot at being thought of as cool needed to at least go through the motions of being exclusive. And apparently this one had killer drink specials on Wednesdays and live music from some legitimately up-and-coming bands.
“You on your own, beautiful?”
I raised a brow. “So what if I am?”
The bouncer waved a hand, indicating the door. “No cover for single ladies with an ass as sweet as yours.”
I wavered between rolling my eyes and thanking him, and ended up doing neither. I did, however, accept his invitation and headed inside as the eyes of the still-waiting women—some conspicuously single—burned a hole in my apparently fine ass.
The inside of the club was exactly what I’d hoped for. Dark and loud and semi-sleazy, with a crowd congregated around the bar and a mass of bodies on the dance floor. I stood out a bit in my funeral-black sheath and pumps, but I didn’t much care. I wanted a drink. I wanted the music. And I wanted to lose myself on the dance floor, eyes closed, body moving, and my imagination running wild.
I wanted escape, dammit. And right then, this place was the best that I could do.
I sucked in my stomach and turned sideways to squeeze through the crowd toward the bar, a journey that was at least as treacherous as crossing Lake Shore Drive against the light. When I finally reached the polished-but-sticky oak bar, I held up my finger to get the bartender’s attention, and quickly learned that while my sweet ass may have gained me admittance to this den of iniquity, after that, the perks fell off considerably.