“Oh, come on now, Miss Kelly,” the senator implored.
Fallon winked and allowed her smile to ascend the rest of the way up until she was all teeth. “Well, Senator,” she started, coaxing just the right amount of confidence into her tone but not enough to shadow her false timidities. “It just so happens that I am on the lineup tonight.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” the bald man replied. He was beginning to resemble one of those inflatable clown punching bags. He was just so round and short that she couldn’t help but want to see whether he’d bounce back up if she knocked him over.
“What a treat,” chimed in another man, who was just as pompously couth as the rest, bringing Fallon’s mind away from the visual image of baldy swaying side to side with a giant red nose.
“Thank you.” She stepped away from the table. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. It was great to see you all again. Please, don’t hesitate to ask Amelia if you need anything,” she said.
The men smiled and nodded and said their good-byes; then Fallon easily and happily clicked down the stairs. She was grateful to be out of the presence of deceitful political predators who enjoyed the visual offerings of her employees and then turned around and picked up the woman on the corner to enjoy her physical willingness. Then ending the evening by going home to their social-piranha wives.
She knew when to bite her tongue. And when it came to those men, she bit hard. Courtesy of her parents, who fit the pompous couth and social-piranha mold, she’d been subject to men like them her entire life, so often that her tongue was now numb. It wasn’t backing down or cowering. It was prevention. If she opened her mouth and started in on exactly how she felt about men like them—men with no regard for anything or anyone other than themselves and their rise to success—then she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Fallon paused a few times along the way back to her office to greet familiar customers, and when she was finally able to make it backstage and through the long hallway to her room, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her, twisting the lock. Then, grabbing the hem of her dress, she lifted it above her head and peeled out of her clothes.
• • •
Rafe parked his Jeep in the parking garage down the street from Velour and started making his way in that direction along the sidewalk. He could see the club up ahead; it almost looked out of place resting alongside the road. The building was a large, modern two-story structure with big windows lining the entire second level. The main level was gray brick with steps that led to the small landing outside a large metal door. A line of bodies trailed from the landing and wrapped around the sidewalk and to the back of the building. There was no way they were getting in this club tonight. And there was no chance in hell he was waiting in that line either.
Pulling out his phone, Rafe stopped midstep and sent a quick text to Graham.
I’m here. Pick another club. Not getting in this one.
A text came back almost immediately.
Already here. Go around back. Tell my man George you’re with me.
Shoving his phone into his back pocket, Rafe waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across the street. How in the hell had Graham gotten into this place? Rafe had heard of Velour, knew of its reputation, but he’d never been here before. He was surprised Graham would even consider dressing up and coming to a place like this, let alone actually do it. And have connections. It was a place hoity-toity assholes with thick wallets went to watch women dance around half naked. If Rafe wanted to pay to watch some chick take off her clothes, he could go to the strip club down the street, get in for twenty bucks, and probably leave with a blow job. Unless they were in your hands, tits were tits. And watching a chick’s ass bounce around on your lap was going to be the same no matter where the fuck you were doing it.
But he’d admit, he was definitely curious as to what all the damn fuss was about.
Walking past a slew of men and a few women creeping slowly through the crammed line, he passed the stairs that led to the main entrance and went around to the side of the building where an identical staircase and landing were housing a line of about seven men.
Rafe stepped up onto the steps and climbed the short distance to a man who looked like he’d be a better fit for the ticket counter on Broadway rather than at the door to some exclusive titty club. His styled hair and lean body lacked the intimidation factor Rafe assumed this George character would have.
But when Rafe stepped in front of him, his eyes hardened and his jaw set tight—and Rafe knew this guy was someone you didn’t want to fuck with. Rafe knew the look—he mirrored that look more often than he was proud to admit.