Free Neck & Neck by Elizabeth Bevarly Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Bevarly
against his chest at the moment was reasonably attractive. At least, he thought she was reasonably attractive. It was hard to see her face the way her hair was flailing around like that. Unfortunately, that was the only thing that was hard at the moment. And what did it say about a man when a scantily clad woman straddling him while he sipped a fifty-dollar-an-ounce brandy did nothing to appease his ennui?
He glanced at Stoller on his left and Franklin on his right, for whom he had also purchased a third lap dance. Both men seemed to be entirely delighted with the goings-on, though their dancers were no more, ah, gifted than Russell’s was. So why wasn’t he enjoying himself, too?
Gentleman’s club . That was how Minxxx referred to itself. And although the decor did a decent job of evoking the feel of an English manor smoking room—provided English manors today had taken to gaudy pink and purple neon, disco mirror balls, and scratchy Eurotrash pop music—few, if any, of the club’s current patrons bore even a remote resemblance to a gentleman . Russell himself included, of course. And although the proprietors of Minxxx referred to their acts as cabaret , few, if any, of the women who had wrapped themselves around the pole tonight had looked as good as Liza Minnelli in a halter top. Really, they didn’t even look as good as Joel Grey in a halter top.
The signs hanging outside of Minxxx had depicted a juicy young blonde with a tiny waist and enormous hooters. But she must have been lifted from a piece of Internet clip art, because none of the women who had graced—and it went without saying that he used that word sardonically—the stage tonight had claimed any of those traits. Well, there had been a couple of blondes, but they hadn’t been natural blondes. He knew that by looking at their eyebrows, not their—
Well, he knew it by looking at their eyebrows, because Louisville had an unfortunate law about liquor not being served in places where women disrobed completely. At least professionally. And whoever had come up with that idea should be taken out and flogged.
Oh, well, Russell thought. He doubted he’d be having a good time even if the woman in his lap wasn’t wearing a hot pink thong, a couple of purple pasties, and a tattoo immortalizing someone named Phil.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he told the woman in an effort to make her stop, ah, performing. When she continued with her gyrations, he added, “That was lovely. Brava.” But still she continued to bump and grind and slap her sweaty hair across his face. He would have halted her by placing his hands on her shoulders to get her attention, but he’d seen other guys—ah, he meant gentlemen , of course—tossed out on their keisters for laying hands on the women in their laps. “Truly,” he continued, raising his voice in the hope that she might hear it over the raging cacophony of a band who obviously hadn’t been able to afford a brand-name synthesizer, “I had a delightful time, but I have an appointment that I absolutely can’t miss.” At two a.m., he thought further. Then again, two a.m. was probably a time when a lot of these women had, ah, appointments.
When she still didn’t stop dancing, Russell reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. At the sight of that, the young woman immediately ended her performance. He opened it to pull out a fifty—even though the dance itself had only cost twenty-five—when she looked in and saw a Benjamin gazing back at her.
Before he could stop her, she snatched out the hundred dollar bill and stuffed it into her bikini bottom. Then she met his gaze and smiled. “Hey, you can afford it.”
Oh, if he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that, he’d be a billionaire. Again. He was hoping that would be the end of it, but she leaned forward again, brushing her pasties against his brand-new Hermès shirt with great intent. Instead of feeling aroused, however, Russell only hoped she didn’t
He glanced at Stoller on his left and Franklin on his right, for whom he had also purchased a third lap dance. Both men seemed to be entirely delighted with the goings-on, though their dancers were no more, ah, gifted than Russell’s was. So why wasn’t he enjoying himself, too?
Gentleman’s club . That was how Minxxx referred to itself. And although the decor did a decent job of evoking the feel of an English manor smoking room—provided English manors today had taken to gaudy pink and purple neon, disco mirror balls, and scratchy Eurotrash pop music—few, if any, of the club’s current patrons bore even a remote resemblance to a gentleman . Russell himself included, of course. And although the proprietors of Minxxx referred to their acts as cabaret , few, if any, of the women who had wrapped themselves around the pole tonight had looked as good as Liza Minnelli in a halter top. Really, they didn’t even look as good as Joel Grey in a halter top.
The signs hanging outside of Minxxx had depicted a juicy young blonde with a tiny waist and enormous hooters. But she must have been lifted from a piece of Internet clip art, because none of the women who had graced—and it went without saying that he used that word sardonically—the stage tonight had claimed any of those traits. Well, there had been a couple of blondes, but they hadn’t been natural blondes. He knew that by looking at their eyebrows, not their—
Well, he knew it by looking at their eyebrows, because Louisville had an unfortunate law about liquor not being served in places where women disrobed completely. At least professionally. And whoever had come up with that idea should be taken out and flogged.
Oh, well, Russell thought. He doubted he’d be having a good time even if the woman in his lap wasn’t wearing a hot pink thong, a couple of purple pasties, and a tattoo immortalizing someone named Phil.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he told the woman in an effort to make her stop, ah, performing. When she continued with her gyrations, he added, “That was lovely. Brava.” But still she continued to bump and grind and slap her sweaty hair across his face. He would have halted her by placing his hands on her shoulders to get her attention, but he’d seen other guys—ah, he meant gentlemen , of course—tossed out on their keisters for laying hands on the women in their laps. “Truly,” he continued, raising his voice in the hope that she might hear it over the raging cacophony of a band who obviously hadn’t been able to afford a brand-name synthesizer, “I had a delightful time, but I have an appointment that I absolutely can’t miss.” At two a.m., he thought further. Then again, two a.m. was probably a time when a lot of these women had, ah, appointments.
When she still didn’t stop dancing, Russell reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. At the sight of that, the young woman immediately ended her performance. He opened it to pull out a fifty—even though the dance itself had only cost twenty-five—when she looked in and saw a Benjamin gazing back at her.
Before he could stop her, she snatched out the hundred dollar bill and stuffed it into her bikini bottom. Then she met his gaze and smiled. “Hey, you can afford it.”
Oh, if he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that, he’d be a billionaire. Again. He was hoping that would be the end of it, but she leaned forward again, brushing her pasties against his brand-new Hermès shirt with great intent. Instead of feeling aroused, however, Russell only hoped she didn’t