Page 22 of Everest

Pink Paradise.

A fucking titty bar.

What the hell is London doing here?

I ease my bike off the road, pulling over just off the lot, parking in the shadows of an old gas station across the street.

I watch her. She doesn’t hesitate to get out of her car. She steps out like she’s been here a hundred times before, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and walking straight for the entrance.I even notice her smiling at a large motherfucker handling the door and the way he looks at her, tells me they’ve met before.

Heat starts in my gut and rises into my chest.

And I realize I’m fucking jealous.

I clench my jaw so tight that my teeth ache.

I wait a while before cutting my engine, swinging my leg over my bike, and jogging across the road. My gaze drifts over the property. Outside, the place appears clean enough, nothing high-end, but not a total dive. It looks like the kind of place where the floor won’t stick to your boots. I stroll up to the entrance, reining myself in as I approach the guy standing there. He’s a big motherfucker. But I’m bigger. He eyes me with a stone-cold neutral expression, saying nothing. I take out my wallet, pull out forty bucks, confident that it more than covers the door fee. He takes the cash and jerks his head.

The lights are low inside, and bass-heavy music pumps through the speakers.

I sit in the back, close to the door but out of sight. I scan the room, searching for London, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, handsome,” a voice purrs beside me.

I turn my head slightly, catching sight of a pretty little waitress with a tray balanced on her hip, giving me a sweet smile.

“Get you a drink?”

“I’m good,” I say, my voice clipped. It’s not rude, just not interested.

She takes the hint, giving me a wink before sauntering off.

I lean back, pulling out a smoke and lighting up as the lights dim even further. A hush falls over the crowd. You can feel the thick anticipation as the stage glows red.

A sultry beat pulses through the speakers.

“Witch Woman.”

A figure struts onto the stage, bathed in the crimson light, long red hair cascading down her back. She’s wearing something tiny, red lace and barely there straps, the kind of outfit meant to make a man forget his goddamn name.

She moves like sin, hips rolling slow, hands sliding over her curves as she grips the pole, arching her back. Her body is a fucking work of art as she puts on a show that has every man in the room riveted.

Including me.

I can’t look away.

There’s something familiar in the way she moves, tilts her head, and how her body flows with the music.

Then she turns.

Those eyes pin me to my seat.

London.

My whole body goes tight.

She’s been sneaking off to this?

I’m shocked at first, but it’s quickly replaced with something hotter, more possessive, and primal than I care to admit.

---