Page 86 of Shark’s Edge

We drove past a strip mall with a tattoo parlor, laundromat, threading studio, hookah lounge, and pho restaurant—the last one prompting my stomach to growl on cue as Joel, Sebastian’s driver, guided the car toward a garish neon sign planted atop a surprisingly stylish building.

Surreal. It was the only way I could describe all of this. Surreal. Was I really being chauffeured in Sebastian Shark’s private town car through a NoHo strip mall, on my way to find a dancer before she committed suicide? Because of the man I was still seriously thinking of giving my virginity to?

But sure enough, this was really happening. I couldn’t deny it, despite my knees wobbling like the club’s velvet ropes in the brisk Santa Ana wind. As Sebastian exited the car and then reached in for me, I was at eye level to notice the stanchions for the ropes, designed like curvy women. The same design was repeated in the frosted glass cutouts in the club’s ornate purple doors.

Approaching, I was so confused, so out of place, and the experience in my mind so at war with the actual one playing out before me. We were less than ten feet from those bright-purple doors, but the scene was quieter than a church. I was actually reassured to feel faint thumps under my feet that were matched by discernible vibrations on the air, hinting at the music inside.

My face must have reflected my bewilderment, since Sebastian’s brief smile was the only break in the tension that had engulfed him during our twenty-minute drive. “City ordinances,” he said. “The club is their golden goose for tax revenues, but nobody in the neighborhood wants to know about it. Besides”—his lips twisted into a damn cute grimace—“the music usually sucks ass.”

I cocked a brow. “But isn’t ‘sucking’ and ‘ass’ the name of the game here?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Come on, smarty-pants.”

He laced his fingers through mine and clutched hard. I hung on with equal force. Okay, this really was going to happen. Not anything close to what I thought the day would bring when waking up this morning, but life taught me a long time ago that it rarely went as one expected.

And sometimes, it fit expectations in scarily accurate detail.

As soon as Sebastian paid our entry fees—along with generous advance tips for all the dancers—the doorman dipped a respectful nod and then swung the door open. At once, we were blasted by a nineties grunge tune blaring over warbling, fuzzy speakers.

I could safely check off the box for strip club expectation number one.

As a second bouncer opened a set of interior doors for us, Sebastian tucked my hand all the way under his arm. The next second, I knew why.

In this big room, with my formfitting white T-shirt and my skinny jeans beneath these unforgiving black lights, I felt like the object of the whole room’s leering curiosity. Checked out and assessed from head to toe.

This was an expectation box I’d hoped not to encounter.

But thanks to Sebastian’s bared snarl and malignant glower, it was checked off with merciful speed.

Boxes three, four, and five happened in rapid order as well.

The big room smelling like booze, weed, cigarettes, and sweat? Check.

The soundtrack consisting mostly of that nasty Nine Inch Nails song, woven with subdued conversations and appreciative male growls? Big check.

A profusion of female flesh everywhere I looked, from the topless waitresses to the pair of beauties in G-strings twirling around poles on the stage? Bold-marked check.

Yet despite my wide-eyed scrutiny as we moved through the room, nothing about this was as intimidating as I’d spun it up to be. I was clearly here with Sebastian, so aside from the awkwardness during my initial entrance, I was left alone. And as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed I wasn’t the only female guest in the crowd. Everyone was just as deferential to the other women. They displayed even more “church manners” for the women up on stage—one of whom had just peeled her panties all the way off. There was a smattering of applause for her elegant move, along with a flurry of tips being pulled out to show real appreciation. But all the money was tucked into collection boxes attached to stanchions placed six feet from the stage. Not once did anyone throw their money at her. Nor were there any shouts, catcalls, or lascivious whistles.

“Whoa.” I actually stopped in place while vocalizing my reaction.

Sebastian pushed in close to me. “What? What is it? Did someone paw you?”

“Easy, there. I’m just recovering from my own blown mind.”

“Explain.”

I let out a wry laugh. “You’ve clearly never been to this kind of thing”—I searched for the right wording—“in reverse? Male strippers, female audience?”

“Ah.” He straightened his stance. “Chippendales? Magic Mike? What’s the other one? Thunder from Down Under?”

“Yes!” I commended. “A real tribute to the Outback, that one. But seriously, the women all but climb over one another to get up close, and the performers take a select few on stage, grind on them with oiled body parts.” I widened my eyes, thinking of the memory. “And those tiny, tiny G-strings being tested to their limits by both the dude’s junk and all the money that’s been stuffed inside.”

“Huh. Sounds like fun.”

Blank stare.

For such a territorial alpha wolf, he completely threw me off guard with that answer. While I tried to reorganize my thoughts, a special security guard approached us. He was dressed differently than the doormen, in basic black utility pants and boots, but his block-lettered T-shirt and shiny name badge seemed legitimate. A close-cropped haircut screamed ex-military.