Resistance on Ice - SR GREY by Grey S.R

Author:Grey, S.R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: SR GREY
Published: 2017-04-09T16:00:00+00:00

You Gotta Be F*cking Kidding Me

The beat of Tyga’s “Rack City” fills the room, but there seems to be a delay in getting the next girl out.

Funny, I thought the show was over. But then there was an announcement about a surprise grand finale.

“Probably a last-minute addition,” Benny says.

“Yeah, probably,” I agree.

When the delay continues, he goes on. “Must be a case of rookie nerves. You remember what it was like the first time you were about to hit the ice with the big boys. This is probably kind of the same.”

I laugh. “Only you, Benny, would think to compare playing in the NHL for the first time to stripping.”

The next girl finally comes out before he has a chance to reply.

Wow, there’s a lot of fanfare with this one. All the flashing strobe lights and crisscrossing spotlights are so blinding that I can barely make out that there’s a girl up on stage. But then I see her standing there, seemingly unsure what to do next. I also see she’s wearing something red and black.

Wait! This next “amateur” has on my fucking sweater. “What the hell?”

“See, man,” Benny says, nudging me. “Looks like you were wrong, great sensei. There is a correlation between hockey and stripping.”

I chuckle, since this couldn’t have played out more perfectly for him.

“Touché,” I say.

I’m convinced the stripper wearing the hockey sweater with my number on it must be something the young guys put her up to. But then I’m not so sure, seeing as they’re whooping and hollering like it’s all a surprise to them too.

The girl tentatively steps forward and starts gyrating her slim hips. She’s moving a little awkwardly, but it’s still sexy as hell.

More hollering ensues.

Usually men are a little quieter, not at all like women when they watch guys strip. But I think this girl’s hot outfit, and her even hotter body, have them more wound up than usual.

The lights glaring in my face are still too bright for me to get a good look at the dancer’s face, but damn if there isn’t something familiar about her body.

…And those thigh-high boots.

…And that long hair she’s swinging around like a metal band guitarist. The dark, rich color reminds me of—

“What the fuck? That’s Lainey up there!”

Benny pulls back the twenty-dollar bill he was trying to lure her over with, like it just burned his hand.

“Shit, Nolan.” He stuffs the money back in his pocket, his expression sheepish. “I had no idea. But now that I look a little closer”—he squints into the glare—“I think you might be right.”

“I know it’s her,” I grind out. “I don’t need confirmation. What the hell is she doing here? And more importantly, why in the hell is she up on the fucking stage?”

Benny shrugs, and I’m at a loss. I’m also ready to risk the wrath of the roaming bouncers and security guards by hauling my own ass up on the stage so I can drag her off, especially when the younger guys, who have no idea who the girl is, keep right on whooping it up.

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