Page 41

Jaxon
Pulling into the parking lot, I recognizethat this is probably a mistake. We keep itineraries for a reason. I should be driving them to the first stop on their club crawl. Instead, I’m pulling into the dark parking lot of a seedy, downtown sex shop.
Not my finest moment.
But I need to talk to Claire, and I doubt I’ll get the chance once we’re parading from club to club.
When I open the back of the limo, I’m not surprised by what I see. A half-dozen empty champagne bottles littering the floorboard. Glitter everywhere. Someone’s underwear on the seat.
“Those are mine.” The redhead pops out of the back of the car with a leer. Reaching back, she snags them off the seat and turns to tuck them into the front pocket of my suit. “You can keep them.”
I offer her a smile in return because pissing her off is only going to take time and energy away from Claire, neither of which I have to spare. “Thanks,” I say, moving her out of the way so I can help the rest of them out of the car.
They’re totally faced. The tops of their dresses askew. Hair wind-blown from hanging out of the moon roof. Makeup starting to slide off their faces.
And then there’s Claire.
She lets me help her out of the car this time, her gaze dropping to the purple lace G-string sticking out of my pocket, before looking away completely.
Herding them across the parking lot, I open the door and usher them across the threshold before posting up at the door. Nina’s is split into two separate areas. The ground floor is well-lit and spacious. Clean. Separated into areas of interest. Relatively safe. Like Target—if Target sold 12-inch strap-ons and played porn audio tracks over their PA system.
The basement is where the real shit goes down. Being a teenage boy in Chicago, you hear stories. Sex shows. Private auctions. Orgies. Fetish dens. Once upon a time, I was as curious as any other horny teenage boy—and then in the blink of an eye, I was too old for that shit. Too tired. Too jaded.
“Thirty minutes, ladies,” I tell them, leaning against the wall, watching them scatter like buckshot around the store. The redhead heads straight for the rack of corsets and crotchless panties and starts loading up, giving me a long, lascivious look. “Everybody finds something to try on,” she says loudly. “I promised Driver a lingerie show.”
I stand there for a few minutes, watching the scramble, scraps of lace and silk, flying every which way. As soon as Claire hustles down the hall with a few hangers, I turn around and lock the door, flipping the sign from open to close.
“You can’t do that,” The woman behind the counter says, scowling at me.
“Sure I can.” I pull out my wad of cash and slide her some bills across the counter-top. “For thirty minutes.” If there’s anything I’ve learned working the private sector, it’s that everything and everyone has a price.
The money disappears in a flash. “Twenty.”
I tilt my head, so I can see the bank of security monitors mounted under the counter. I see Claire on the screen marked #5. Reaching over, I switch it off. “Make it fifteen.”
She smirks at me, giving me a long look from head to toe. “Whatever you say, cowboy—but if she starts screaming, I’m calling the cops.”