Free If The Seas Catch Fire by L.A. Witt Page A

kind? Russian? That would match those prominent, hawk-like features he was sure he remembered.
    Yeah, he’d recognize him. This guy was committed to memory, and Dom would know exactly who he was the moment he laid eyes on him. Assuming he was here, of course.
    Dom parked a block or so away, and walked down the sidewalk that was lined with sex shops, strip clubs, and all the kinds of places his mother had warned him to stay away from. Of the two with male strippers, he picked the closest one.
    He paid a cover charge to a stony-faced bouncer, strolled inside, and—
    Stopped dead.
    He’d been bleeding and half out of his mind the first time he’d seen him, but looking at him now through clear eyes with a lucid mind… holy shit.
    He was indeed a stripper, and he was good at what he did. At least a dozen men were crowded around the table-stage, staring up at him as he writhed against a metal pole. He was wearing—barely—black leather this time, and it left little to the imagination, especially when he lifted himself up off the stage, bent, twisted, showed off his mouthwatering strength and flexibility.
    Dom forced himself to look away while he took a few slow breaths. He wasn’t here for that. This was business. And not the kind of business that usually went on here.
    He collected himself, and then turned toward the stripper again. By this point, the dance was over, but the stripper wasn’t done yet. He’d come down from the stage, and he beckoned to a sleazy-looking bald guy with a lecherous grin on his lips. The client rose. As they started toward a hallway guarded by a pair of burly bouncers, Dom pushed himself away from the bar.
    A few paces shy of the hallway, Dom stepped in front of him. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”
    Their eyes met, and the stripper halted, his eyes widening for a split second. An instantaneous Oh shit.
    Quickly, though, he schooled himself, every trace of surprise—was there some fear in there?—vanished in favor of annoyance. Those piercing blue eyes narrowed. “I’m working.”
    “Whatever he’s paying”—Dom nodded toward the bald guy—“I’ll double it.”
    The stripper’s lips tightened. “You want to talk, you wait out here.”
    “Triple.”
    The stripper laughed humorlessly. “Offer accepted, but wait your turn.” He didn’t wait for a response, and sauntered into the back with the other guy.
    After they’d disappeared, Dom swore. Irritated—and yet impressed by the kid’s cojones—he went to the bar to wait for him. He ordered a Coke, and while he sipped it, desperate to cool down despite the air conditioning, Dom couldn’t shake the image of the stripper in the bald guy’s lap. He’d never had a lap dance from a man before. Women, yes, but the idea of a man undulating and writhing on top of him took his breath away. The thought of the stripper in his lap took him back to the frantic fucks he’d had as a teenager and in his early twenties.
    He’d put all of that behind him, though. Sworn off his dangerous tendencies.
    But something about this place and the sharp-tongued stripper brought those desires right back to the surface.
    If he was even remotely smart, if Floresta and Mandanici hadn’t knocked every last fragment of common sense out of his skull, he’d get the fuck out of this club right now and forget he ever saw the blond stripper.
    But he didn’t. He stayed there, nursing his Coke, his heart thumping and his palms sweating, until the bald guy staggered out of the hallway. The man disappeared into one of the restrooms. Probably to jerk one off. Dom supposed he’d have been in the same state if he’d just had an up close and personal dance from—
    Oh mio Dio. Him .
    The stripper sauntered out from the same direction, a hint of sweat gleaming on his forehead. His platinum blond hair was straight again, as if he’d taken a moment to make himself presentable before coming out here.
    He walked right up to Dom and leaned on the bar beside him.