Hold 'Em: Vegas Top Guns, Book 3 (22 page)

So, ta-da. Strip club. Something to clear his mind and remind himself that he was a red-blooded male who could sport a raging hard-on while watching nubile, goddamn flexible women writhe onstage.

“Man, where’s your fucking head?” Eric slapped him on the back.

“Right here, Kisser. Don’t dodge the fact it’s your round. Jack and Coke.”

Dash was the designated driver, pretty much as always. “Near beer.” He said it with a scowl, which was really unlike his generally devil-may-care personality. Mike exchanged looks with Eric, who only shrugged and headed off to the bar.

Mike settled back into the oversized red leather booth. He crossed his ankles where they stuck out into the aisle. Dash was even taller. They needed room. Hell if a dude wanted too little space between himself and his buddies when there was
any
possibility of a stiffie.

He ignored Dash’s scowl, focusing instead on a dancer whose red hair was like something out of a
Star Trek
episode about an exotic space chick Captain Kirk would eventually bang. Yeah, she was hella hot. Curvy in the right places. Dark eyes, with wide, exotic cheekbones and a golden complexion. Mike had been stationed around the world. He’d put money that underneath that neon dye job, she was something near to Filipina.

She wiggled out of her sexy librarian costume and proceeded to dry hump the pole midway down a little catwalk.

“Look over there,” Dash said, his scowl gone. A definite plus. Instead he wore his trademark shark-tooth grin. It took up his whole face when he smiled. Their resident jester. “Kisser is such an asshole sometimes.”

If Dash was the jester, then Eric was the lady’s man. From deep in the slums of Detroit, he’d beat his way free. Boxing. UFC matches. Of all the men in the squadron Mike wouldn’t want to tangle with, it was built-like-a-Mack-truck Kisser, named for how many times he’d been smacked in the mouth.

Only, he wasn’t fighting right then. Mike snickered along with Dash as Eric waved dollars at the redhead. She was bare save a tiny garter belt. She slunk over on hands and knees. Her sultry smile almost looked genuine. She arched like a cat and flipped her hair back. Then, with flexibility that must be a job requirement, she gracefully slid one leg off the stage. The garter was right there for Eric to feed with bills. One at a time.

“If he touches her any more, he’ll be in trouble,” Dash said.

“Cuz of the bouncers?”

“Nah, cuz he’ll knock them out. You remember that time in Tucson when he took out two guys with one blow? That’s all he’d need with Fang watching him like a hawk.” Dash shook his head. “And then there’s the potential for an arrest, which would end our evening real quick. You feel like posting bail?”

“Not on the best of nights, man. He’s such an asshole sometimes,” Mike echoed.

“But of course he’d say we’re just green with envy.”

“Someone envy you?” Mike swallowed the last of his drink. “Fuck, Dash. Sunny’s hot as hell.” He smirked. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

“Sure she is. Sweetest piece I’ve ever had. And to be married to her? I’m a lucky guy.”

Something about the way he said it meant just the opposite, as if he recited by rote words that had once been heartfelt. Whenever Sunny was out of town, Dash became a wrecked bastard. Fun times.

“Spit it out,” Mike said. “What’s going on? I don’t wanna psychoanalyze you all night like Oprah or some shit.”

Dash only waved him off. “Forget it. Kisser! Get the hell off that chick and get our drinks!”

Eric whispered something in the maybe-Filipina’s ear. This time her smile was genuine. She shook her head and waved him off—but without any real grit. The way she crawled away with her primetime ass in the air was a thing of beauty. Eric just stood there, arms crossed, and brazenly watched every sinuous move. She used the pole to climb back to her feet, gave him a toodle-oo and strutted toward stage right.

How the hell did he manage that shit? The man had balls of solid rock when it came to women. A confirmed poon hound. If Mike didn’t admire the innate skill so much, he’d have dredged up some moral compunction. But why bother? Kisser was a rock star.

That he and Jon, one of Leah’s best friends, got along like a cat and a dog tied in burlap wouldn’t ever be easy to navigate. Mike always felt caught in the middle of the pilots’ feud—one that had started before Mike’s arrival on base. But he wasn’t there to think about Tin Tin, or even Leah.

“Give it up, Dash,” he said. “Before Eric brings our drinks and gets all up in your shit.”

Sometimes he was just so
Dash
that Mike forgot the man’s real name. Captain Liam Christiansen. It just didn’t fit. His call sign was a short form of “dumb as shit”, and he certainly played up that moniker.

That evening was a glaring exception. His smile drooped. He raked his hands through his buzzed hair before cracking four knuckles. “Sunny’s in DC again. I fucking hate when she leaves. It’s getting…strained.”

Mike frowned. “Like,
bad
strained?”

A terse nod. “We haven’t said anything about dick. Doesn’t mean everything’s smooth sailing. I’m supposed to support her choices. Hell, she made it through my overseas tours, and we got through her years at law school. You’d think… Ah, fuck it.”

He shook his head and went back to cracking knuckles. Conversation over. Not that Mike needed more.
Shit.
Eight years together and this was what a marriage could look like? His skin went cold. Focusing—intently, purposefully—on the next dancer didn’t help. Her sizeable tits looked real. Sometimes a beautiful expanse of female flesh was enough.

Not this time.

Yeah, he might be falling for Leah. What the hell did that matter? She was going to make major. Unless she mustered out before him, she’d always outrank him. The traditional side of him still rankled and didn’t take kindly to the fact. He liked his mom and dad’s relationship. She’d raised Mike and his brother and sister. Dad had worked in a shitty steel-mill job. Their example was the only way Mike knew how a marriage should go.

New worries from Dash only reinforced his admittedly caveman point of view. Sunny’s decision to take a high-profile job in DC meant she was gone almost as much as she was home. No wonder Dash looked out of sorts.

“You limp dicks enjoying yourselves?” Eric plunked a triangle of drinks onto the table.

Mike didn’t budge to make room, so Eric slid into the opposite side of the booth.

“What’s not to enjoy?” Dash’s terse confession seemed to unburden him. “Shall I list out amusements so we can choose a favorite? Is it how you made a slavering shithead of yourself? Or how you
actually
looked hopeful? Don’t tell me. That pretty young thang promised she’d blow you after her shift.”

Eric crossed his arms with a smirk. “Exactly what she promised.”

“Suuuure,” Dash said, chuckling. “Quite the smart business decision. Did you know that’s why strippers are notorious for their fat investment portfolios? It’s true. I read it in
The Wall Street Journal
.”

“You mock. In the morning, I’ll let you know how it went.”

Dash took a swig of his O’Doul’s then held it up to a light. “I’m gazing into my crystal…bottle. Unfortunately I see a very different scenario. You lurk around outside her dressing room. She says, meet me in the alley behind the club. You will, cuz you’re a sorry little man, and you’ll wait until about three o’clock. Then your poor, disappointed dick will have to admit the truth.”

“That strippers give awesome head?” Eric grinned, smug as hell. He did up the necessities of a tequila and downed the shot. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You got married at age twelve. Wouldn’t know a damn thing. When
I
was twelve, I popped a girl’s cherry.”

“Horseshit,” Mike said on a laugh.

“I didn’t know you have a sister, Kisser. You love her long time?” Dash made a kissy face. “That’s the only scenario I can imagine where you’d get laid before your voice changed. At least tell me sister dearest was good.”

“As good as a hummer from a stripper,” Mike added.

That shark smile of Dash’s was out in full force. “But didn’t your daddy get pissed? I’d have thought he had dibs.”

Eric only shook his head. “Jealous bastards. You two have the most piss-awful sex lives at Nellis. Deny it. Dare ya. I’ll force your flight suits down your lying throats.”

Dash didn’t answer, which Mike caught in a heartbeat. Brotherhood to the rescue. “Hell, man, there’s a reason for my call sign. That girl, for example.” He nodded to another dancer—slim, brunette, ballerina’s body.
Aw, damn.
Too much like Leah. He forced himself to say, “She’s just begging for a good spank.”

“Wank, you mean,” Eric said. “Exactly what you’ll go home to.”

“While you’re getting blown by that redhead,” Mike replied. “Yup. That’s exactly how it’ll go tonight.” After finishing the last of his drink, he unfurled from the booth. “My round. What’ll it be?”

Eric stood too. “Change for a twenty.”

They made their way through the club. All done up in red, dingy white and gold, it looked exactly how an off-Strip club should look. Somewhat rundown. The music was giving Mike a headache—always the same thumping beat that guaranteed gyrations.

His need to look back at the girl onstage was annoying. Although the dancer’s body resembled Leah’s, never in a thousand goddamn years could he imagine his ma’am on her knees. This woman’s pout was all wrong too. Where was the keen, hard-eyed lust he’d come to expect when he and Leah were deep into a hard session? She owned him with those eyes.

Shit. Just…
shit
.

He ordered the drinks—a double Jack for himself this time. No fooling around. He wanted to get blitzed. Eric, holding a rolled-up wad of dollar bills, joined him. “So what’s with sharkface? He’s a grenade with no pin. Three, two, one…bam.”

“No clue.”

“Liar.”

“If you wanna know, you ask him. I’m not a girl at recess.”

“Ass.”

Mike shrugged. “Some trouble with Sunny. That’s the best I could manage.”

“Shit, man.”

“Yup.”

Mike watched Eric shake off the unnerving news and return to the catwalk. A blonde this time. Pretty one. Nearly innocent. She wiggled in a way that suggested this was her first dance. She was nervous. Virginal. That hit Mike in a way he wouldn’t have guessed, but not along the lines of debauching a barely eighteen-year-old.

No, it was the thought of what Leah would do to her.

He was all manner of screwed up. After swallowing the Jack in three gulps, he signaled for another. Thinking better of returning to Dash’s funk, he joined Eric by the catwalk.

“Gimme five of those bills,” he said.

Eric grinned. “About goddamn time you joined in. She’s good.”

“Sure is.” Mike waved the dancer over, but he glanced toward Eric. The man’s smile was pure honey. No wonder chicks flocked to him. “You do know the difference, right? She’s not
really
a wide-eyed innocent with eyes for you alone.”

“Of course I do. What fun would that be?”

The blonde squatted before them, her knees wide. Physics didn’t seem to mind how she balanced in clear five-inch stiletto boots. Mike didn’t seem to mind the G-string that proved she was a fan of Brazilian waxing. Gorgeous tits with rosy nipples. That innocent smile.

For the first time that night, he was hard. The hit of arousal was still a surprise. He wanted to wrap the girl in a bow and throw her over his shoulder. Give her to Leah. Watch what she’d do to a submissive girl. Breathing became way too difficult.

The dancer pulled the elastic of her G-string away from her smooth hip. Mike’s hand wasn’t steady as he tucked all five dollar bills inside. He’d pay hundreds to play out the scenario whipping through his head and pounding down to his cock.

Only Eric was going to spoil the illusion. He crooked his finger, and the girl’s nearly innocent expression slipped a notch. Pure, mercenary interest flared in her blue eyes. Mike turned away before he lost his fantasy.

He needed Leah. Now.

He slapped Eric on the back. “Have a blast, man. Good luck with the blow jobs.”

Kisser offered a sloppy salute. “Will do.” Then he was back to his games and his unbelievable rough-edged charm.

Mike grabbed his flight jacket from the booth. “Hey, I’m gonna turn in,” he said to Dash. “If I’m gonna be hungover tomorrow, I might as well get it over with.”

“Dude, don’t leave me with Casanova.”

“Sorry, bro. Next time everyone gets a taxi. Then you won’t be the designated driver he cries to.”

Dash flashed his sharpest grin. “He’s
such
an asshole sometimes.”

Mike smiled, but his mind was already two steps ahead. He was in the cab. He was in her bedroom and hissing as she raked those talons she called nails down his back. Not soon enough, he stood in front of her apartment’s security door.

He
was
falling for her. Damn it all.

Forcing his eyes to focus, he found the name he needed. Girardi.

Buzz. Wait. Buzz again.

“What?” came her sleep-groggy voice.

He closed his eyes. “It’s Michael.”