Page 78 of Passing Ships

I shrug. “Is she the redhead who was taking care of us tonight?” I ask.

Anson turns to us. “That’s the one.”

Thought so.

“Damn, she’s hot. I’d do what Sebastian said if I were you,” I suggest.

Parker doesn’t say anything. He just turns and looks out the window.

Something tells me that whatever happened between the two, it’s going to take more than a few pretty words to fix it.

Forty-five minutes later, we pull up to the front of a stone-gray building with a bright neon sign that says, The Hoochie Hut. There is a large, muscular man seated to the right of the black metal double doors. He asks for our IDs and inspects them with the help of a small handheld flashlight. He glances up at us, one by one, from under the bill of his dark ball cap. Once he’s satisfied, he opens the door, and we file into the foyer of the club, where a scantily clad woman stands behind a counter, tapping away at a screen.

Anson hands each of us a key card.

“What’s this?” Sebastian asks.

“The key to your room at the motel across the street. That way, we can drink all we want and walk from here.”

He takes the lead and informs her that we have a VIP reservation. She takes his credit card, and then another young woman ushers us into the club, where we are immediately met with the sound of pulsating music and men hooting their approval. The smell of smoke and sweat is thick in the air.

The hostess leads us up a marble staircase and to a set of roped-off sofas one floor above the main stage with a bird’s-eye view of the action below. The area is very low-lit. The two round tables in front of us are already stocked with vodka bottles chilling in buckets of ice, several mixers to choose from, lowball glasses, nuts, and pretzels. There are also two private miniature stages with individual poles off to the right and left of us.

Wade and I settle in on the red leather couch. Anson goes straight to the bottles and begins to pour.

“We have a few prepaid private dancers who’ll be up soon to make use of these poles,” he says, sliding a glass to each of us.

“Switch places with me,” Wade requests.

“Why?”

“Because you’re single. You sit closer to the pole.”

“I don’t want to be any closer,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Just switch.”

“Fine.”

We stand and play musical chairs.

Anson and Parker stand at the railing, watching the talent on the stage.

I glance at Sebastian.

He’s so not into this.

Neither am I.

Amiya

We’ve spent the day being pampered. Starting with a champagne brunch, then moving to a full-service spa. We’ve been plucked, poked, massaged, and polished to a shine. With matching manicures and outfits, we head to Lumina Station for dinner at Brasserie du Soleil.

We’re all in sleeveless black lace summer minidresses, except for Avie, who’s wearing the same dress but in white. We had her forgo the cheesy sash and gauzy veil for a tasteful, old-Hollywood bridal fascinator.

After dinner, we walk down to the riverfront, where a yacht is waiting to take us for a spin around Cape Fear, while a sexy, young mixologist makes us yummy cocktails.

“Whew, I think my cougaritis just flared up,” I say as he hands me a drink.

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