hoodie out of my sidebag. I take off my cut, throw the hoodie on over my tee, and place the cut into the bag.
I could count the number of times in the last few years that I’ve gone into a building without my cut, but I need to avoid drawing attention to myself if this is going to work. Since some of the people in this place know me, not all on good terms, and I don’t know who I’ll need to talk to yet, this is one of the few times that wearing my colors would be a disadvantage.
Snapping my hood up, I push my way through the less used rusted side door with the neon blue bunny painted on it, and make my way to the inside gate.
Fuck, this place is a dive. There are cracks on the walls at the entrance, graffiti staining the yellowed paint that doesn’t look like it’s been done over in decades. Scuffs mar a floor covered in filthy black and white tiles. A wire gate blocks the front hall from the rest of the club, and the place smells of cheap smokes and even cheaper beer. The stink of dime store perfume fills the air, masking the smell of sweat and sex.
I slap the cover charge on the counter at the booth and tolerate the stamp the tired looking girl presses into the back of my hand. She says something about a two-for-one special on the girls, and I ignore her spiel, stalking through the gate’s opening when the bouncer moves aside.
The club is almost too dark, red and white strobe lights piercing the black. They pulse to the beat of that screechy kind of techno music that causes my ears to ring in a way that would make Striker laugh and call me an old fart if I grumbled about it. The lights are probably meant to give the ambience a sultry feel, but the place is so run down that instead they just look gaudy and cheap. But at least the too-low lighting will make it harder for people to recognize me before I want to be noticed.
I’ve been here a handful of times before last year when we had to help the LA chapter out with business here in Barstow. The underground gambling tables are in the basement, and only customers who have been vetted by two or more people are admitted down there. They’re given a pass to get in, but I won’t be needing one.
At the entrance to a main room scattered with booths and tables, I scan the area, but looking there for Gary or anyone who knows where he might be is perfunctory. My gaze locks on a battered-looking door at the end of a hall, the entrance to the basement. There’s a second, heavier steel door that leads out back.
Sparing a glance for the three girls twining themselves around the brass poles on stage, I cross to the bar, nod to Randal who’s serving drinks behind it, and take a seat.
A second bartender, a woman in the uniform black and white, starts toward me, but Randal puts out his hand to stop her, mutters something I can’t hear over the terrible music, pours me a whiskey, and sets it down for me.
Even after a year, Randal knows my usual. The man’s memory amazes me. He also knows what I’m here for. That I’m not wearing my cut means I’m here for information, intending to keep a low profile, and he knows better than to send someone over who doesn’t know how I work.
I nod my thanks and light a smoke, looking over the heads of the crowd at the stage.
One of the girls, twining herself around the pole with the trained grace of a jungle cat, is gorgeous. She’s got waves of flaming curls, firm tits, and a tight ass. She’s too fucking perfect for a place like this. Normally, I’d have eaten up her act and then charmed her into my bed. Normally, my cock would have been trying to punch a hole through my jeans by now, but he’s not. He’s dead to the world.
Son of a bitch. I stare at the red-haired vixen, but all I can do is imagine my Wildcat up there, dancing to a room that’s empty but for me.
As soon as Emma’s face fills my thoughts, my cock stirs.
I’m unpleasantly reminded of Pip’s words while he was on the phone with me before I heard the shit