The Player's Club: Scott (7 page)

Scott chuckled in disbelief. “Well, if you ever decide to abandon all this, I’m sure you could get a job in the mob like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Lincoln’s eyes lit with silent humor. “I didn’t always run this club, you know.”

Scott couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped. Wait, had Lincoln just said he was in the mob?

It would explain a few things.

Lincoln saluted Scott with his drink. “Enjoy the party,” he said, his voice as mild as milk. “We’ll want to talk business with you later.”

He left Scott staring after him incredulously.

George walked up to Scott, clapping him on the shoulder. “Enjoying the entertainment?” he asked.

Scott scanned the huge warehouse. He knew there were men playing poker on the main floor. A few guys were skateboarding on an improvised half pipe in the basement. The music here on the second floor was loud, a remix of something forties-styled and jazzy, laid over a hip-hop beat. It was both classic and modern.

“It’s a scene,” Scott said. Finn joined them.

“Not
them,
ass,” George scoffed. “The
girls,
man. The strippers!”

Scott glanced in the general direction that Finn nodded. There were exotic dancers placed strategically around the club. They all wore black wigs, they were wearing various types of lingerie or similar, and they were moving to the music in a very enticing fashion. Several were topless. The men who watched clapped appreciatively.

“Lincoln didn’t strike me as the stripper type,” Scott said. Lincoln actually struck him as a sort of hit man, now that Scott thought about it—ice-cold, supersmart, probably ruthless. He got the feeling that you didn’t want to be on Lincoln’s bad side if you could help it.

George didn’t seem to share the opinion. “Damned goody-goody,” George muttered. “I said, let’s get strippers, and he got these chicks. ‘Burlesque,’ he says. No touching, no dollar-stuffing. What the hell’s the point of
that?
” He shook his head. “Lincoln might’ve started this club with my little cousin Finn, but trust me, it sucked until
I
got here.”

Scott saw that several of the dancers were doing the usual strip-club moves, each bump and grind deliberate and blatantly sexual. There were others who were being more artistic about it, he noticed. One woman did a fan dance as she stripped out of her halter top, only showing flashes of skin. Another used her top hat as a sort of tease.

Whatever.
He waited until George had moved on to another bunch of rowdy guys, drinking at the bar, then started to head away. He could see strippers anywhere. The Player’s Club had a reputation for high risk.
Adventure.

He was here for that.

A glimmer of light caught his eye, and for the first time he noticed that high on the wall, there were two cages set up, with yet two more dancers performing from their high perches. One woman was moving confidently. The other, he noticed, was a bit out of her element.

No—she was downright uncomfortable. It probably beat the hell out of stripping at a sleazy club, but she still didn’t seem too enthusiastic. She was swaying lightly, barely shimmying. Men were hooting and catcalling at her, making fun of her lackluster performance.

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to walk toward her—to defend her, maybe, or help her leave. By the time he got there, however, the crowd’s reaction to her had prompted her to step up her routine a little. Scott looked up to see her moving with an almost aggressive enthusiasm. The crowd’s whistles and hooting were now appreciative. Even the other dancing girl seemed taken by surprise.

The woman planted her legs in an inverted V, leaning heavily at her waist, her full breasts put on prominent display—and quite a display it was, Scott had to admit. With a scooping, undulating motion, she stretched up and turned, her panties displaying a very shapely backside. She did another quick shimmy, and the guys were riveted. She then reached back gracefully with one hand and reached for the clasp of her bra top.

The men surrounding Scott were clapping and shouting. Scott had never really been a fan of strippers—he was definitely a fan of naked women—but this woman was definitely appealing. She unhooked the clasp, then turned around, crossing her arms in front of her to catch the falling garment. Her pouty, red-painted mouth made an O of surprise, which she then covered with one hand. She looked like the ultimate naughty girl.

The crowd roared, and she broke character to smile back at them—a full, delighted smile.

His eyes narrowed.

I know that smile.

Where the hell had he seen her before?

It wasn’t like he knew a lot of dancers, exotic or otherwise. He watched with the scrutiny of a federal investigator as she twirled and danced, never completely baring anything, putting the
tease
in striptease. When she rehooked her bra and started to exit the cage, she had the assembled men eating out of her hand. Scott was still unsure of her identity, but he knew right down in his bones that he’d seen that smile before, and he was suddenly compelled to find out who this exotic, amazing woman might be.

She descended the ladder, making her way through the crowd that was obviously captivated by her, smiling and laughing with the dancer that was replacing her.

Then her eyes met Scott’s. They widened, a pale, almost silvery blue-gray, large and luminous.

She smiled. Then slowly, deliberately, she motioned him to follow her.

AMANDA HAD NEVER FELT like this before. Climbing into the cage, she’d felt like an idiot, an impostor. A fool. She couldn’t copy the stripper gyrations of the woman in the cage next to her. But after a few minutes, with the men jeering and catcalling, something in her just snapped. She remembered the film
Gypsy.
Somehow, she channeled the playfulness of Natalie Wood with the statuesque beauty of Bettie Page herself.

She’d stepped in feeling like a fool. She’d gone out feeling like a goddess.

Now she felt hot and hungry and powerful. Seeing Scott was like putting a torch to a stick of dynamite. She was ready to explode.

She wanted him. And in her current fierce state, she knew that for once, she was capable of reaching out and taking what she wanted.

She waited until he followed her, and her eyes scanned the building. Men were hanging out everywhere. There were too many dancers in the hallway where she’d changed.

Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of a hallway with a door marked Employees Only. She tried the handle. It twisted easily, revealing another hallway, leading to a service closet and an empty lounge with another emergency exit beyond. The lounge and closet were both locked. But the hallway…would do.

Scott was right behind her.

“Hi,” he said with that sexy voice of his that caressed her skin like mink.

She didn’t respond, just smiled and reached for him. She grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. He reached out, stroking her bare midriff almost hesitantly. She pressed her breasts against his chest.

He groaned, and then his body pressed her against the wall. A man’s raucous laugh sounded just beyond the door. Half laughing, she tugged him farther along the hallway to an alcove half-filled with boxes, tucked away from any passersby. It was no more than a nook—but it was dark, and more important, it was private.

She stood on her toes, rubbing her pelvis against his, and she kissed him.

She could feel his cock already straining against the fabric of his pants, prodding her like a length of hard, hot steel. A nice length, she thought with approval. She went immediately wet. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her flush against him, caressing her. His mouth opened, forcing hers to follow suit. They kissed, tasting and testing, his tongue moving forward. She tangled hers with his, stroking it as her nipples went hard, the diamonds of her bra scratching against his shirt.

“I want you,” she breathed.

“You are so sexy,” he murmured back, against her lips. He moved, pressing hot, nipping kisses along her neck, causing her to gasp and shiver against him, one leg moving to caress his leg, her knee hooking on his hip. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She whimpered when one hand smoothed down her stomach…then reached between her legs, pressing where she most needed pressure.

“Scott,” she said, her head falling back.

His hand froze at the juncture of her thighs. “What?”

She had trouble focusing, but realized he was staring at her. “What?” she echoed, still drowning in sensation.

“How do you know me?”

She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to reason. She clutched his hand with her thighs, arching her back so her breasts pressed hard against his chest. He groaned involuntarily, his fingers moving to push her rock-hard clit. She wanted to cry with pleasure. She wanted to strip down, get him inside her.

He moved his hand away, slowly, reluctantly. “How do you know me?” he asked again, more insistently.

She sighed. Then, reaching up, she took off the Bettie Page wig and hair stocking, letting her blond hair fall down.

He stared at her for a long moment, and she felt the buzz start to subside as that feeling of foolishness, of being an impostor, came back.

“Amanda?”

She nodded, tilting her chin up defiantly.

His eyes smoldered. Then he leaned in, kissing her with even more intensity.

She cried out against his mouth as he crushed her against the wall. Her legs parted, making room for him. He reached down, lifting both legs up, guiding them around his waist as his hips started to rock, slowly and intently, against her core.

He cupped her breasts, massaging them gently, fanning the flames of her already incandescent need. She twisted, slow and deliberate, against his erection.

“I want you now,” she said, biting his earlobe. “I want to feel you.”

He shuddered against her. “Baby,” he said, and his thumbs dipped below the bra, dragging over her rock-hard nipples and making her gasp raggedly. “I am so hard for you.”

She was on fire. She was going to die. She clawed at his shoulders. “Take my pants off.”

He paused. “What?”

“My pants,” she rasped. “Take them off.”

He released her. She put her platform heels on the floor, and he reached for the snap on her pants. He paused again.

“Do you have a condom?”

She didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t care.

Be reasonable.

She shook her head.

He put his forehead gently against hers, and for a second, all they could hear was the muted thudding of the music from the club, and the scratchy, uneven sound of their breathing. He kissed her again, long and hard.

And released the closure on her pants.

“I’ve got condoms at my apartment,” she said. “Or…there’s got to be a convenience store somewhere…”

He stroked her breasts, her hips, kissing her shoulders, her neck, her jawline. “Okay. Let’s—”

The door at the end of the hallway opened. “Yo! Scott! Pledge Scott, you here? Because if your ass isn’t up in the VIP room in about two minutes, your ass is
out
of the Club!”

The door shut with a slam.

She glanced at him, curiously.

“I…”

She smiled, putting a finger to his lips…wiping off the lipstick that had smeared around that gorgeous mouth of his. “Shh. It’s all right.”

“I hurt, I want you so badly,” he said.

It made her shudder and moan softly.

“My window,” she said.

He frowned.

“You know where to find me,” she whispered, then turned and walked away on shaky legs.

4

“NICE OF YOU TO JOIN US,” Lincoln drawled.