The Trouble With Fate by Leigh Evans

Author:Leigh Evans [Evans, Leigh]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781250006400
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Suzy-Q swung around that pole like she was weightless. I might be able to do that, maybe, if someone showed me how. And if I had zero body fat. And if my hands were as strong as vise grips, and I wasn’t weighed down with clothing. Maybe if I wore a sateen string bikini top, a pair of abbreviated boy shorts, and a G-string, I could do it.

Maybe.

The club was a mixture of dark and light. The walls were black, and the furniture was drab colored. What light there was had been planned, thought out, and directed. Electric blue LED tubing outlined the bar and doorway to the can. Yellow beer logos flickered on the wall. A long bristling line of spotlights ringed the stage. They bathed the dancers’ flesh in a film of red.

The bouncer was arguing with a stripper about VIP room tips. They didn’t turn, even as the cold air wafted into the hallway with me. I snuck up behind them and tucked myself into the shadow behind the fake fig tree by the doorway. Then, I slid sideways, hugging the back wall until I hit the end of the bar.

It took a moment to get my bearings. The girls on stage had bills tucked into their string bikini bottoms, sticking out like frills on the sides of their hips. Most of the men wore baseball caps they hadn’t bothered taking off. I wondered if their necks hurt, staring up like that—I hoped that Trowbridge’s did.

I checked the profile of each upturned face. Old and wrinkled, average and not, young and groomed, just-plain-ugly, not-so-ugly, ugly and fat, bored and not-so-old. None of the faces was his.

A brunette was leaning on the bar, her arms folded, her bottom sticking out, talking to the guy sitting next to her. She wore a mostly see-through top that looked like it had been savaged by a T. rex. Her hair was tousled, a lot—the effect you get when you tease the shit out of it, hang it upside down, and spray it with half a can of hair spray.

“You going to buy one of those for me?” The stripper may have been skinny, but the heels made her Amazonesque in height. I couldn’t see past her. She did another head toss, sending a waft of sweat and oversweet perfume my way. I rubbed my nose. He was here. Nearby.

“Yeah, sure,” said my childhood crush.

There he was—just past the skanky brunette. The only guy not facing the stage. His head was bent over the three shot glasses lined up on the bar. “One for the lady,” he said, lifting his eyes. Though he’d tipped his head sideways in the stripper’s direction, his gaze hadn’t moved toward her booty or the barmaid’s belly ring. He was studying his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Maybe she-with-the-tits-and-hair wouldn’t recognize it, but I, with the encyclopedia of Trowbridge facial expressions stored in my brain, knew what that blank stare meant: baby was feeling bleak.

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