Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) Read Online Free PDF Page B

felt unnaturally empty. Besides themselves and the bouncer, no one
else could be seen or heard. An alarm clanged in Tatum’s head, but Heather was
right. They were here and they should have great service. What could be better?
    Returning home and finding Officer Murphy waiting in my
bed completely naked except for a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin. That’s
what.
    After showing their IDs and paying the outrageous cover,
they headed in. When they turned the corner, Tatum fought the impulse to turn
around and demand their money back. They had just entered hell.
    The club was empty with the exception of a few ladies
sitting near the stage and a table of women who, from the looks of the helium
balloons floating up from their chairs, appeared to be celebrating a birthday.
At the back, a fog machine coughed out a thin gray haze, adding to the
oppressiveness of the dimly lit room. A lone male stripper with a paunch
protruding over his zebra-print G-string swiveled his hips on the main stage.
Two other dancers, if what they were doing could be called dancing, swayed back
and forth on small elevated platforms in fluorescent thongs. Nearby black
lights gave their unimpressive packages a strange iridescent glow.
    Dark, smelling of stale beer and thoroughly sleazy, the
place couldn’t be more dismal or disgusting. Far worse than she remembered from
her last visit, which hadn’t been exactly spectacular. But at least then the
strippers had been good-looking and fit, with fairly impressive moves, not a
collection of potbellies in absurd thongs shuffling to and fro. If the three
men currently shaking their bonbons provided a sampling of the dance ensemble,
then things at good ol’ Iron Rods had gone from bad to downright hopeless.
    Apparently sensing her desire to flee, Heather grabbed
Tatum’s arm and dragged her to the bar. “Isn’t this fun? We’re going to have
such a good time. What do you want to drink? I’m buying.” Ever the perky pompom
princess, Heather lifted the corners of her lips in a smile, though in the
gloomy light the effort resembled a grimace.
    Wiping down glasses behind the bar stood a bald mountain of
a man with skin the color of night. His thin T-shirt stretched tight over
freakishly large muscles looked as though it would tear to shreds at any moment
and left nothing to the imagination. A thick silver chain encircled his
substantial neck and held a cross, which came to rest between two enormous
pecs. Devoid of any expression, his face was the most intimidating Tatum had
ever witnessed.
    “What’s it going to be, ladies?” he asked in a voice so low
and powerful it sounded unholy.
    A shiver of fear pricked down Tatum’s spine. She took an
involuntary step back. She opened her mouth to speak, but the ability to form
words had fled to the safety of the next county. In her life, she’d never lost
her power of speech or her capacity to launch zingers if the occasion called
for it. The man was truly scary.
    “Two vodka and club sodas, please,” Heather ordered,
unaffected by the severity of the bartender’s looks.
    Drinks in hand, they waded their way through a sea of
tightly packed but empty tables and chairs to the stage. They had no difficulty
finding a decent spot in the front row.
    Overhead, the song playing through the crackling speakers
slowly wound down, as did the redheaded stripper on the main stage.
    “Ladies, put your hands together and show some love for Mad
Dog,” an overly enthusiastic voice announced.
    Tatum searched the dark room for the voice’s source. She
found a narrow set of steps that led to a loft outfitted with electronic
equipment. There a lone DJ sat, microphone in hand. She blinked, doubting her
vision. With the exception of the color of his shirt, the disc jockey looked
identical to the chubby bouncer.
    The heavyset man tossed the mic to his left hand and flipped
a switch with his right, starting another song. “Now coming onstage, the man
you all have been waiting for.