Free Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) by Logan Belle Page A

I’m doing something illegal.  A burly man checks my ID.  I can’t help but smile; it’s been a long time since that’s happened.
    Inside, the music is heavy metal — old stuff.  Scorpions, “No One Like You.”
    The room isn’t that large.  It smells slightly musty, and has a worn, shabby feel to it.  I don’t want to touch anything.
    Justin leads me to a seat at the side of the stage.  It’s long, like a runway in a fashion show, with a square broad part at the end.
    “What are you drinking, sweetheart?”  The cocktail waitress directs the question to me.  Clearly there’s no question if we’re drinking — just what.
    “Two Ketels on the rocks,” Justin says.
    At the tail end of the stage is a metal pole going up to the ceiling.  On this pole is a young, beautiful woman with waist-length brown hair streaked with blond, wearing only a thong and six-inch clear heels.
    A couple sits a few seats away from us, closer to the end of the runway.  The man has his hand at the base of the woman’s back, and moves it down, disappearing into her jeans.  As if sensing my stare, he turns to look right at me.  He winks.
    I turn quickly away, refocusing on the stripper.
    Her back is to the pole, and she slides to the floor, then slowly back up.  Her body is long and lean, thin without being skinny.  Her breasts are large in proportion to her slender hips but somehow not cartoonish.  In other words, her body is perfect.
    Our drinks appear.  Justin tips the waitress.  I hold the tall, narrow glass, happy to have something to do with my hands.  This whole scene is really embarrassing.  I’m uncomfortable, but I don’t want to be a poor sport and tell him I want to leave already.
    The dancer turns to face the pole, holds it with one hand, then leans back, swinging around it like a kid in a playground.  She has a tattoo of a gun on one shoulder, and a bunch of writing I can’t read on the other.
    Then, in a feat of acrobatics beyond my grasp of basic physics, she pulls herself up the pole and hangs upside down, holding on with only her thighs.  Her long hair sweeps the floor, and the men throw more cash at her.  Literally at her.  I notice a few of them ball the bills so they make contact with her body instead of just wafting to the stage floor.
    She grasps the pole with both hands and scissors her legs into a split, then pulls herself around so her legs are in position so she can glide back to the ground, her feet on the floor.
    The song ends.  My heart is pounding.  I can’t take my eyes off of her, especially as she sweeps up the money, stuffing it into her g-string and carrying the rest off the stage with her.
    “What do you think?” Justin asks.
    “She’s dexterous.”
    “Do you like her?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Do you think she’s hot?”
    Is this a rhetorical question?  “Well, yeah.  Obviously.”
    “Not necessarily obviously.  I mean, maybe she’s not your type.”
    “I’m a woman.  I don’t have a type when it comes to other women.”
    “Sure you do.  You know who you find attractive and who you don’t.”
    “You’re the one who put strip club on the list.  I’m not into this.  Believe me, I know from my son how these days every other girl is suddenly “bi” or bi-curious or even just hooking up with other girls to titillate their boyfriends.  But that’s not my thing.”
    “I’m not saying it’s your thing, Claire.  Jeez, you get so defensive.  I’m just asking a simple question.  Hot, or not?”
    “Fine.  Hot.”
    “I thought so.  You should have seen your face watching her.”
    I feel myself blush.
    The music changes to “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne.  An Asian woman walks out in thigh high boots, a leather skirt, and matching corset.
    “Hey, grab your drink.  Follow me,” Justin says, already standing.
    “Where are we going?”
    In the back of the strip club, chairs are clustered in pairs or threes around small round tables.