“Punishment?” He clutches his chest like I just drove a dagger through his heart. “This is the finest burlesque house in Vegas.”
“You really weren’t kidding about that lap dance, were you?”
“Freckles, I never kid about lap dances.” He boops my nose and I pout. “Now come on, Natasha awaits.”
“Natasha?” I ask with a frown, following him into the club.
It’s super dark inside, but we’re greeted by a female maître d. She’s stunning with a sleek, black bob and wears a floor-length, beaded black gown, and I suddenly feel inferior in my jeans and hockey jersey.
“Welcome to The Velveteen,” she purrs.
Gabe gives her a sly grin and leans in to whisper in her ear, I don’t catch what he says though because a spotlight hits the stage behind her and a big-band jazz song blasts through the speakers. Gabe follows the maître d, and I follow him, but my eyes are glued to the stage as a Dita Von Tease look alike splashes around in an oversized martini glass and not much else. Her full breasts pop out of the bubbles and the tiny little tassels on her pasties swing as she shimmies. I’m so distracted by the show, that I run smack bang into his back. “Holy shit.”
He chuckles. “Little distracted, Freckles?”
“Shut up.”
He sticks to the attendant, who bypasses the tables in front of the stage and the main room and leads us down a dimly lit corridor.
“Should I be concerned you’re taking me to some secret kink club?”
Gabe chuckles and says, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you forget the safe word.”
The woman opens a door on the right and Gabe enters. I peek inside. It’s a small room done up like an art deco dream—champagne and gold wallpaper, gilt mirrors, and the ceiling drips with long strands of sparkling chandelier that almost reach the top of Gabe’s head. Victorian couches edge each wall and an equally ornate golden chez sits in the middle of the room. I follow my best friend inside, wondering what the hell he’s gotten us into.
The maître d pours us both a glass of champagne and sets the rest of the bottle in an ice bucket. Her megawatt smile is friendly—if not a little intimidating. “Okay, lovers. Champagne is right there and if you need more, or you’d like to order from our extensive list of specialty cocktails, just hit this button right here.” She points to a decorative gilt frame that reads, “Press for Champagne”.
“Natasha will be with you shortly,” she says, as she hands us our drinks.
Gabe takes out several bills and tips her.
I bite my tongue until she exits, closing the door firmly behind her. “Gabe, what the hell did you do?”
“I told you, I’m buying you a lap dance.”
“This is ...” I glance around at the opulent setting. “More than your average lap dance.”
He gulps back his champagne and moves across the room to pour another. “It’s your first time. It’s supposed to be special.”
“How much did all of this cost?”
“It doesn’t matter. My best friend wants a lap dance, and she deserves the best.”
“Okay, I don’t remember saying Iwanteda lap dance.” I sip the champagne and swallow hard. It’s the good stuff too, which means between what he just tipped the maître d and this bottle alone, he’s spent a lot of money on this experience.
“But you’re not running away.”
“Not yet.” I screw up my lips and drink a little more, trying to calm my damn nerves. “How many times have you been here?”
“Once with Tommy and Mace before I met you. I tattooed Natasha.”
“Seriously?”Great. Now I had even more reason to be self-conscious.
“Yeah. She used to be a regular before she moved out here.”
Someone knocks on the door, and I throw back my champagne and set the glass on the table beside the couch.
A buxom blonde in a—yep, you guessed it—champagne gold glittering gown enters the room. She smiles and holds out her arms, opening and closing her gloved fists and making tiny toddler grabby motions. “Mr. Laurier, I knew you’d come back and see me one of these days.”