14 - J. T. Ellison [69]
“What is his name?” Taylor had asked Saraya.
“Oh, no. I no tell. I no want to get dead.” Poor girl’s eyes were dead already, it wouldn’t take much to finish her off. The bullets at the hospital had been overkill.
“Taylor!”
She jumped, looked up to see Sam and her husband, Simon, standing over her.
“You were so far gone, girl, where were you?”
“Sorry, Sam. Hey, Simon. How’s it going?” Taylor scooted her chair around to make room.
Simon mumbled a reply. A good Catholic boy, he was desperately uncomfortable to be in the strip club with Sam. He’d settle down once she left, Taylor was sure of that. They’d gone to high school and college together; Taylor knew his reticence was simply respect for his wife.
Sam took a seat, ordered two more beers, glanced appreciatively around at the nakedness, the girls writhing on the stage pole and nodded. “Yep, this should do the trick. Get the man so fired up I’ll be getting lucky all night.”
Simon went a deep burgundy. “God, Sam, could you just leave now?”
Sam nuzzled up to Simon and chucked him under the chin. “Just you wait, sexy man. You’ll get rewarded, trust me.” She kissed him; he turned a deeper shade of beet-red. Sam turned back to Taylor with a grin a mile wide.
“Jesus, Sam. You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”
“Speaking of puppies…”
She pointed at the door, where Marcus, Fitz and Lincoln were standing. It seemed the basic premise of the club. A person came through the door, stood, took it all in, then decided what they wanted—a seat up close, a drink at the bar, a lap dance or a private room. The three men were swarmed in an instant. Captain Price followed them through the door a moment later. Extricating themselves, they spotted Taylor and Sam and wound their way to the table, pulling up chairs and getting settled.
“LT, where’s Baldwin?” Fitz asked, leaning in close so he could be heard—the music had bumped up a notch. The bar was filling, the evening getting into full swing.
Taylor looked at the door, and Baldwin walked through it. Her heart filled at the sight of him, at the way he found her eyes, didn’t look at the other women, just made his way across the room to her, planted a kiss on her lips, then took the proffered chair next to her.
“Long night?” she asked. Her look asked something entirely different—did you get rid of her?
“You could say that.” He squeezed her hand, an unmistakable I hope so.
She gave him a smile, then stood. “Sam, let’s leave these boys alone so they can misbehave.” She dropped forty dollars in Baldwin’s lap. “Have a lap dance on me, sugar.” She blew him a kiss to the hoots and hollers from her coworkers, then walked to the door with her back ramrod straight.
“That’s some woman you’ve got there, Baldwin. Don’t fuck it up.” Sam gave Simon a quick peck on the forehead, then left them, as well.
Fitz stood, signaling to a group of women in various states of dishabille nearby. “Okay, Mr. FBI man. It’s time for you to experience a last night of bachelorhood, Nashville-style.”
Taylor was already stomping her feet from the cold when Sam joined her in the street in front of the club.
“About damn time,” she grumbled, blowing warm air into her cupped hands. “What were you doing, giving him the lap dance?”
“More like some motherly advice. Got waylaid at the door by some chick. C’mon, let’s go in here, it’ll be warmer. And quieter. Am I getting old, or was it loud in there?”
“It’s loud. They design them to be so loud and flashy your conscience turns off—sensory overload. Makes men do things they normally wouldn’t.”
“Amen to that.”
Taylor glanced at her sharply but followed her into the small bar next door. Control was nearly empty, the music muted, the lights dim. Taylor felt her shoulders relax.
They ordered beers and took a table in the corner. Taylor took off her jacket, realized