It’s so good that I can’t focus on anything except what my taste buds tell me. I chew and swallow again and again, as the catsuit woman claps her hands to make a few announcements. Unfortunately, I don’t hear what she’s saying because I’m just trying to stuff myself full of pizza at the moment.
“Good, mmph?” Patty mumbles, already on her third piece.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, unable to open my mouth as I swallow an especially cheesy bite.
But then, the woman claps her hands again as the girls titter, and to my surprise, the lights in the dressing room go dark.
“In one line!” the woman calls. “Come on, ladies!”
What’s going on? I manage to grab another slice while following the other girls, and before I realize it, we’ve been paraded on stage.
Patty and I blink in surprise under the sudden spotlight. We look absolutely ridiculous. We’re both in shorts and t-shirts, with no make-up, curly hair, and worst of all, slices of pizza dangling from our hands. But the crowd has already begun to roar, and suddenly I realize my worst dreams have just come true: the wet t-shirt contest is starting, and my buddy and I are part of the show.
2
Damon
* * *
If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d become the head of security at a strip club in Mystic, Wyoming, I would’ve laughed in their face. But I’ve been at the Krazy Kat for two years now, and it’s fine. It’s an easy gig with great pay, decent benefits, and beautiful women. Not a bad job at all, come to think of it.
Besides, I was a cop for twelve years, and walking a beat is tough. I liked it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s hard to get up at 5 a.m. to begin patrol, especially when it’s ice cold outside and your fingers feel like popsicles. But I still miss being a cop sometimes. My dad was a cop, my uncle was a cop, and my grandfather was on the force as well. To say the job is in my blood wouldn’t be far from the truth.
Yet, there’s nothing like the Krazy Kat, that’s for sure. I’m in my office right now, but muffled shouts and claps greet my ears from through the door. It’s the night of the wet t-shirt contest and I grin. Sometimes, it’s even more fun to watch amateur girls perform because there’s an innocence about them that the professional dancers don’t have. I don’t blame the audience for being excited.
As a result, I get up and decide to do some crowd control before the actual contest starts. When I step outside, I blink a bit in the darkness. There’s a stage up front that’s already lit, as the cloud claps and cheers from below. From my vantage point on an elevated platform in back, I can survey everything. My men are stationed strategically: one at each corner of the club, looking suitably threatening. But then a flash of red catches my eye. Oh shit, it’s Marlene, the woman who manages the performers. Some douchebag is harassing her while trailing a finger over her busty cleavage. Never a shy pansy, Marlene shoves him away, but he’s a dick. He grabs her arm and this time, literally reaches one hand down the front of her bustier.
I’m down the stairs in seconds, and grab the back of the offender’s collar. He tries to fight me, but let’s be honest: this dude is a scrawny, middle-aged man who’s maybe one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. By contrast, I’m six four, work out twice daily, and probably have a hundred pounds on him. He goes limp when he sees me, and I grimace while towing him to the front door. Yet the man has his ego to protect, and he gestures furiously when I toss him out onto the asphalt.
“What the fuck?” he whines. “I’m a paying customer!”
“I don’t care,” I reply casually. “One touch and your ass is out of here.”
He sputters.
“I—I’ll sue you!”
I roll my eyes.
“That’s fine. Have your lawyer deliver their papers to Damon Nash, Head of Security at the Krazy Kat.”
He sputters.
“You – you!”
But I cut him off.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Then I flash a dangerous grin while reaching for the door. “We appreciate your business, asshole,” I grunt while slamming it shut.
The bouncer standing just inside nods my way.
“Boss,” he says respectfully.
“Tyler,” I say in curt reply. With that, I edge along the back wall to avoid the crowd. The energy level is going up, and guys are getting restless as they wait for the contest to begin.
To be honest, I’m not looking forward to the wet t-shirt contest because water gets everywhere, and it’s a pain to clean up afterwards. Of course, we have janitorial staff that takes care of that, but I’m not joking when I say the place gets drenched. It seems the tables, floor, and even walls are all soaked from the gallons of water they throw on these girls.