Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Funny, at this moment, I wouldn’t mind the same. The girls twirling around their poles do nothing for me. Neither does the male company.
Lollipops is a reputed strip club in the city. It has an old-school vibe to it, with neon signs on the walls and velvet-covered furniture. There are two stages at the back of the room, each with its own pole, where two dancers will perform simultaneously. Two large bar sections fill the main area of the club and a few smaller tables littered around for more intimate conversations. The music blasts from speakers set up around the club and seems to fill every corner of the room with booming bass.
The walls are adorned with black and white photographs of former dancers as well as signed photos from other celebrities who have visited over time. While there is a decent selection of drinks available, it is mainly focused on beer, wine, and whisky since those are mostly what people come here for; there aren’t many cocktails or mixed drinks on offer.
The girls who work here wear costumes that range from barely skimpier than lingerie to some quite daring outfits—often leaving very little to imagination when they take center stage on one of the poles to show off their skills. They move gracefully around their poles in time with the music, quickly shifting between different dance moves such as pirouettes, splits and twerks while they seductively gyrate their hips or flick their hair around like silky ribbons in mesmerizing displays which usually draws loud cheers from their audiences.
At either end of both stages stand two large LED screens displaying clips from movies—usually action flicks —that serve as background distraction for those not captivated by what is happening onstage at any given moment. Occasionally special performances are put on where the dancers will use props and interact with the crowd— usually met with a lot of enthusiasm from everyone in attendance.
Overall, Lollipops has an air of old-school glamour infused with sin and debauchery.
But I sure as fuck don’t want to be here. Especially because I keep seeing Hannah’s teary face and picturing her trapped in flames. I will die because I can’t get out.
I know the chances of her apartment building going up in flames are slim, but dammit, now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I should have called someone to watch over her while I was taking care of business. Have someone sit outside her door. What the fuck was I thinking leaving her alone? I know better than that. I protect what is mi—
“Hey, there he is! Mando, come over here.” Angel beckons me over. I shoot a glance at Don Pachino chewing his cigar, but he’s got a guy on each side vying for his attention. I’ll have to wait my turn.
“Everybody buys Mando a lap dance tonight,” Angel announces. “Make up for lost time.”
Lost time.
There was never a better descriptor for my years in prison. Not the way he means, like I lost out on part of my life—which is accurate. But for me, the time is also semi-lost. I shut down in the pen. I mean, physically I was still alive. I slept and ate and walked around. I fought for my life. Killed a man with my bare hands. But I don’t remember anything. Correction—I don’t want to remember any of it. So it’s definitely lost time.
“Nah, I’m good. I just came to have a word with—”
“Bullshit.” Angel pulls me down into the chair beside him, already signaling one of the dancers with a twenty between his fingers. “Give my friend here a dance, sweetheart. He just got out of prison.”
I definitely don’t want the dance, but I do what I’m supposed to do—slump down in my chair with my arms loose by my sides and my thighs wide, making myself a jungle gym for the girl to rub her cheap fruity perfume all over.
“Don’t say that again,” I tell Angel. I know I’m an asshole. It’s disrespectful as hell. He’s from the older generation and a capo, and the organization is all about respecting our elders. I sense him bristle, so I add “Please.”
“Yeah, all right.” There’s a grudging tone to his voice, but he’s going to let my bad behavior slide, since I’m fresh out. I got this one free pass. “I get it.”
He doesn’t say sorry—of course, I don’t expect him to—but we’re simpatico.
The dancer does her thing, pushing her breasts in my face, straddling me, then turning around and grinding her bikini-clad ass against my dick.
She’s wearing a tiny red thong and eight-inch stiletto heels that she uses to keep me in place. Her back is arched, her head thrown back, her long blonde hair cascading down across her shoulders. She gyrates against me like a slow-motion wave, and between the sheer desperation of her act and the fact that I’m stone cold sober and not even trying to hide my discomfort—it feels like I’m stuck in some awful time warp. She looks over at me every few seconds with sad eyes as if begging for mercy, but all I can do is just sit there motionless, waiting for it to be over.