Authors: Cat Mason
Copyright © Cat Mason
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Published by Fidem Publishing
First Edition: November 2014
Edited: Asli Fratarcangeli
Cover design: IndieVention Designs
Photos purchased under license of Shutterstock.com
Formatting: IndieVention Designs
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
O EVERY BLOGGER, READER, THOSE WHO LISTENED TO MY RANTING OVER MY CHARACTERS AND HELPED ME IN ANY WAY.
O EACH AND EVERY PERSON WHO HAS MADE THIS DREAM A REALITY.
“Welcome to Heaven on Heels,” A scantily clad blonde drawls while eyeing me up and down. I don’t spare more than a passing glance at the nearly naked woman welcoming me into the club. I nod, skirting around her to look for Skinner’s black mohawk and the flame tattoos on either side of his head that will easily stick out in the crowd of wall to wall suits. The guy has only been working for me for a couple months now, but is proving himself loyal to a fucking fault. His phone call is the only reason I’m here tonight. I live in the Sin Capital of the world and haven’t been inside a strip club in over five years. Seems unbelievable, huh? Let’s just say I’m over it.
“Hey man,” Skinner says, waving me over once he sees me. “Come on, he’s over here,” He shouts, pointing to a table in front of the main stage. Lights flash as the dancers vie for the men’s attention and their cash. Typical strippers; from their bleached blonde hair and fake tits, to their bright red heels. Of course they are all smiles, it’s their job to reel you in like a fish on the line. Drawing you in by your dick to hook your wallet, not bothering to look beyond the dollar signs to the people they hurt in the process.
I hate everything about these places.
“You sure he’s as bad as you said on the phone?” I ask, unable to see much through the crowd. Skinner shoots me a glare. “Yeah, okay, stupid question.” I admit, holding my hands up in surrender.
The last few months, Mitch has been slowly losing his shit. When my sister was here things were a bit easier. He had someone to cut him off and drive him home that he actually listened to. With her off on tour and now engaged to be married to Hunter Chesterfield, from the band Shaft, Mitch seems to have lost his true north. This leaves my employees running interference and me picking up the pieces so he doesn’t end up in the county lockup again.
“Shit,” Mitch groans, looking up at me from his stack of empty shot glasses on the table. “Skinner ratted me out to the party pooper. Dude, I bought you shots and you ran to Mommy?” He slurs.
“Come on, Mitch, I think you’ve had enough tonight,” I reply, ignoring his comment. “Why bother blowing your paycheck on tits? We can see plenty of them on the street for free this late at night.”
Having lived in Vegas all my life, modesty is something I don’t see often. Seems like the minute they step off the plane, people are ready to wave their freak flags. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. Just makes you wonder if they are pretending while they are here, or faking it all the time at home. Someone needs to hand out pamphlets explaining that the saying ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ is a crock of shit. With social media, now a days, and enough booze to turn the desert into a flood plain, your lapse in judgment could cost you more than a hangover and a plane ticket home.
“Would you relax and enjoy the show?” He barks, flinging his hand toward the stage. “This is the best strip club in Vegas for fuck’s sake. Hell, with the drought your dick has been suffering through, I’m a little worried you’ll hump my leg.” His voice echoes loudly as the music dies down, making heads turn toward us.
I slide into the seat beside Mitch so I don’t draw any more attention than he already has with his outburst. “I get nothing out of this shit,” I reply, pointing to the women as they exit the stage. My argument does nothing but make him grin lazily at me. His eyes are glazed over and judging by the number of shot glasses on the table in front of him, Skinner and I will be carrying his ass to bed.
“Listen, you need to let loose and get laid or somethin’. You’re too uptight.” He brushes me off. “I know you got nowhere with Camaron.” When I start to argue, he arches his brow. “Spent all that time bein’ her rock and never even got her on your jock.”
“Don’t talk about her that way Mitch,” I warn, my fists clenching tightly underneath the table. My relationship with Cam is special. She’s just Cam. I wasn’t it for her. If I’m being real with myself, she wasn’t it for me either. Camaron Allen, now Camaron Chesterfield, is one of a kind. But made for Aiden, not me. I am man enough to admit that I was wrong to push something that wasn’t there. Mitch referring to our time together like it was some sordid affair just pisses me off. I was happy to be there for her, to watch her heal and become strong enough to fight for the man she loves.
Mitch shrugs, “Just sayin’ you were pretending with her, that’s all. As your friend, it’s my job… No! It’s my right to bust your balls about it.”
“That road goes both ways, Mr. Solitude,” I toss out, staring him down. “Your drunk ass is one to be givin’ advice. Just because you’re out every night doesn’t make you any better off for it.”
Mitch’s eyes snap to mine, his gaze turning hard. “That’s different,” He defends. “I’m not ready and you fucking know that.”
What a pair Mitch and I are. Two men that are both lost in a world of hurt from entirely different places. Pain that keeps us from going after anything that could make either of us happy. Instead, we stay on the hamster wheel and do nothing to change how miserable we truly are on the inside at times.
The stage lights dim as a voice comes over the speakers. “It’s time for the one you’ve come to see tonight. Sabrina, our diamond in the rough.”
“Hell yeah!” Mitch whoops before downing another shot. “Bring on the Diamond Pussy!”
A hard bass line erupts through the speakers as a spotlight hits the pole. A raven haired goddess draws my attention away from Mitch, to the stage. Covered in white silk, she saunters further into the light. Her hips sway seductively to the beat, drawing me in like a moth to the flame.
The silk falls to the floor once she reaches the pole, leaving her only in a red lace bra and thong. Grabbing the pole with one hand, she rolls her hips against the metal. Leaning back, her long hair nearly touches the floor, her free hand sliding along her body teasing every man in here.
Tattooing bodies since high school teaches you a lot. I can tell whether a chick has had a nip or a tuck before I catch her eye color. Which is how I know this woman is nothing like the others dancing tonight. She is real. Every inch of her designed by some wicked higher power to make men crazy with want.
Her fingers slide across her abdomen, stopping at the top of her thong. Slowly, she runs her index finger along the crimson trim while a voice sings about being watched. About the thrill of just knowing there are eyes on her. How crossing that line into their fantasies is a high for her.