Grit

 

Grit Gallagher couldn’t take his eyes off of her. From his seat a little towards the back of the strip club, he took a sip of his neat whiskey, his eyes locked onto the blonde stripper as she gyrated on some loser’s lap. Everything about her was perfect, from her angelic, doll-like features to her hair of deep blonde to her perfect, perfect body.

 

Honey, they called her? he thought to himself. Good name—she looks sweet as can be.

 

Grit had thought his days running around with strippers were behind him, but as he sipped his drink and stared at Honey, he wanted nothing more than to have that ass on his lap. Part of him wanted to walk over there, grab the guy she was dancing on by the neck, and toss him out on his ass like the rest of the trash that the bouncers were dealing with.

 

“’Sup, man?” came a voice from behind Grit.

 

He turned his head slightly and saw that the rest of the Vegas Vandals, the motorcycle club that he was president of, had returned from the bar with a new round of drinks. They took their seats around Grit and turned their eyes back to the show.

 

The voice who’d spoken to him belonged to Stone, the VP of the club and the one who’d arranged this little trip to Fantasies. Despite the tits on stage, this wasn’t just about cutting loose for the night—they had reason to believe a drug lab for one of their competitors was on the premises.

 

“You know, for a guy who thinks that he’s too old for strip clubs, you seem to be enjoying the fuckin’ show,” said Razor, one of the men in the crew as he set down a fresh glass of whiskey in front of Grit.

 

“Yeah,” said Pitt, another member of the crew. “And what the hell you talkin’ about, sayin’ that you’re ‘too old’? You’re just a fuckin’ pube hair under thirty; you should be balls-deep in these girls.”

 

Grit took a slow sip of his whiskey before responding.

 

“Now, when I say that I’m too old for this shit, what I mean by that is I’ve been ‘balls-deep’ in enough of these girls to be fuckin’ done with the whole thing. You’ve fucked a few of these stripper chicks and you’ve fucked ‘em all.”

 

“Ha!” shouted Glock, one of the other men. “Look at this fuckin’ asshole. ‘Just fucked too many of ’em, that’s all.’ Nice fuckin’ problem to have.”

 

“You know, Grit,” said Razor. “You wanna swing by, uh, you know, Williams-Sonoma on the way back, maybe find you a nice girl to start a family with? We could probably make time.”

 

Grit let out a bark of a laugh as he tossed off the rest of his previous glass of whiskey.

 

“Ain’t lookin’ for that kind of shit either,” said Grit.

 

“I see the way you’re lookin’ at that little blonde piece of ass,” said Pitt. “And I can tell you’re thinking about shit other than askin’ her out for a nice night on the town.”

 

He has me there, thought Grit. God, the things I would do to that girl.

 

His eyes locked onto her body once again, and he savored the image of her full, pert breasts, the ripe curves of her hips, and an ass so tight that all he could think about was how it would look bouncing up and down on his cock.

 

“Me, I’m all about that brunette with the big tits,” said Razor, pointing to the stripper in the nurse’s outfit. “Might see if I can take her in the back for a, ah, personal check-up.”

 

“All right, assholes,” said Stone, his gruff voice cutting through the music and sounds from the crowd around them. “Focus. We’re not here for the tits.”

 

Then he smirked.

 

“Well, the tits are a nice little bonus. But we’re here to work.”

 

“You find anything out, boss?” asked Pitt, his eyes still on the strippers.

 

“Nothing concrete, but if my info’s as good as it’s always been, then that means there’s a drug lab somewhere in this fuckin’ place. And we’re gonna find out one way or another.”

 

“And how’re we gonna do that?” asked Razor. “Just go around poking our noses into shit?”

 

“This ain’t a one-night operation,” said Stone. “We’re here tonight for some recon, just to see what we can see. Keep your eyes out for anything suspicious. After this next song, I want us to split up and check the place out. Look like normal customers, but keep an eye out for anything that might be worth checking out. And don’t get into trouble; don’t cause a fuckin’ scene. The last thing we want is for our crew to be on this place’s shit list.”

 

“Got it,” Grit said.

 

His eyes still on Honey, Grit tried to think of some way to get to the bottom of whether or not the drug lab was here. Vegas biker crews were about as hard as they came, and Grit knew that getting discovered poking around would be an easy way to end up in the hospital.

 

The song ended, and Stone turned to the rest of the crew.

 

“There,” he said. “Now break up and scope the place out. Meet back out in front in an hour, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

 

The crew split up, but Grit stayed seated as a new song started. Honey wasn’t done giving her lap dance yet, and he wasn’t finished with his drink. He sipped it slowly, taking in more of the sight of Honey’s nearly nude body. Grit did his best to stay cool, but inside he was about to boil over with lust. All he could think about was what her skin would feel like, how she would smell, what expression her face would take as he mounted her, shoving his cock into her nice and deep.

 

Grit shifted in his seat and finished the rest of his drink.

 

Focus, you dumb, horny asshole, he thought. You’re not here for pussy; you’re here to do a goddamn job.

 

However, a thought occurred to him: that girl wasn’t just some random chick; she was an employee here. And if she was an employee, the odds were good that she just might know something about any weird business that her place of work might be getting up to. Grit knew that they likely kept the talent in the dark as much as they could, but that didn’t mean they might not see something suspicious every now and then.

 

Grit got up from his seat and weaved his way through the crowd, eventually arriving at the bar. He sidled his way and looked around. As far as he could tell, it was a pretty standard mid-level strip club. Not a total hopeless dive where the girls were all hooked on one thing or another, just trying to get through their shift and onto the next hit, but also not the kind of place where the real movers and shakers of Vegas went to burn through thousands of dollars in a single night.

 

Still, he thought, looking over his shoulder at Honey, she’s way too goddamn pretty to be here. Girl like that with a body and face like hers, fuck, she could have anything she wanted.

 

“Get ya something, pal?” asked the bartender.

 

Grit gave the guy a quick once-over. The bartender was a built man in his late thirties, the sleeves ripped off his shirt, exposing two arms covered in tattoos. But despite the rough look, his hair was slicked back and his face wore an overly cheery, eager expression.

 

“Whiskey. Neat,” said Grit.

 

“You got it, friend,” said the bartender.

 

“And come back to talk to me when you got a free second,” said Grit. “I got something I wanna run by you.”

 

The bartender nodded in understanding, knowing that it was likely about one of the girls.

 

Grit turned around, leaned his back against the bar, and started scoping the place out. Nothing about the joint struck him as off. Sure, there were a couple of doors leading to the back blocked off by a couple of mean-looking bouncers, but that was pretty standard practice for a strip club. None of the employees seemed to be obviously on anything, which was a telltale sign of a low-rent operation.

 

Everything’s in order, thought Grit. If they’ve got some kind of drug operation going on here, they’re running a tight ship.

 

Grit finished his drink and by the time he was ready for another, the bartender was already standing ready.

 

“Another one of those?” he asked, pointing to the glass.

 

“You got it,” said Grit.

 

“And, ah, we can have that little conversation, if you’re still interested.”

 

Grit tossed another burning glance over at Honey.

 

“Very,” he said.

 

The bartender grabbed the bottle of whiskey and started pouring Grit a new drink.

 

“So,” he said, “We got a lotta gorgeous girls here. You thinking about getting to know one on a real, ah, one-to-one basis?”

 

But before Grit could respond, the bartender opened his mouth again to speak.

 

“Oh, and I’m Charles, by the by. But everyone just calls me Charlie.”

 

He offered his hand to Grit, who took it and gave it a firm shake.

 

“Grit,” he said. “Like the shit on your sandpaper.”

 

Something about the bartender struck Grit the wrong way. He was smooth and professional, but almost too much so. He oozed the sort of superficial charm you’d find in a used car dealer trying to sell you a lemon, or a stock trader hoping to dump off something worthless.

 

Grit put those apprehensions aside and continued on.

 

“That little blonde number,” said Grit. “That’s who I’ve got my eye on.”

 

“Now that there’s Honey,” said Charlie. “She’s … well, she’s a real piece of ass, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Thing about her, though, well, she’s a tough nut to crack. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever given the real VIP service to anyone, no matter how much cash they throw down. Most girls here’ll take you out back and give your balls a good draining for the cost of a nice dinner out; I’d recommend one of them if you’re looking for what I think you are.”

 

He pointed to some big-tittied redhead currently shaking her ass on stage.

 

“That’s Carmel,” said Charlie. “She’s new here, but I guarantee she’ll be good to go once you’ve got her all to yourself.”

 

“No,” said Grit. “I want her.”

 

He knew that he was being stupid. He’d probably pay less for the redhead and get whatever info he was looking for in the process. Hell, she’d probably even be down for a quick fuck.

 

But he wanted Honey, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

 

“Don’t care about the price,” said Grit, pulling out his leather wallet and removing a few hundreds. “Just get her alone in a room with me.”

 

Charlie’s eyebrows flicked up a bit as he laid eyes on the money.

 

“You got it, buddy,” he said. “You’ll get a good dance, but good luck breaking into that vault. Pull it off, though, and I’ll buy your next whiskey.”

 

Grit nodded as the man turned to one of the bouncers and whispered something into his ear. The bouncer started off, approached Honey, and said something to her. Honey then turned to face Grit, and he couldn’t help but feel the blood rush to his cock as she laid those gorgeous blue eyes on him. She looked a little surprised, as though she wasn’t quite sure why someone would be requesting her one-on-one services.

 

The bouncer returned to the bar and spoke to Charlie again. Once the information was replayed, Charlie approached Grit.

 

“She’s game,” said Charlie. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Carl here will lead you to your private room.”

 

Grit dropped a small stack of hundreds on the bar, and Charlie looked at them approvingly. With a fluid motion, he snatched them from the bar and slipped them into his pocket.

 

“Follow ol’ Gus over there,” said Charlie. “He’ll get you sorted out.”

 

“Thanks,” said Grit.

 

He gestured for one more shot of whiskey, and Charlie poured him another shot, which Grit quickly tossed back.

 

Around the bar were two doors, both of them guarded by hulking men who looked like wrecking balls dipped in fat and shoved into black T-shirts and jeans.

 

I bet if there’s some shady shit going on around here, one of these doors leads to it, thought Gus. Might as well give it a shot.

 

Affecting a clueless air to his walk, Gus strolled over to one of the doors, the more industrial-looking of the two, and shot out his hands towards the handle. One of the nearby guards clamped his hand on Grit’s wrist with speed that he wasn’t expecting, and power that he was.

 

“Off fuckin’ limits,” said the guard, his booming voice projecting from his round, fleshy face, his eyes glaring hard at Grit.

 

It was clear that the guard was meant to keep anyone from wandering through the door at any cost. No screwing around.

 

“Sorry,” said Grit. “Just not sure where I’m supposed to go.”

 

The guard pointed a sausage-like finger towards the other door, where another guard awaited him.

 

“Ah,” said Grit. “Thanks, friend.”

 

The guard merely grunted in response. Grit headed towards the door and the guard let him through. He could sense the eyes of nearly every employee nearby locked onto him, making sure that he didn’t make another play for the wrong door.

 

That’s a good sign, thought Grit. I don’t think they’d be that gung-ho about keeping people out of some mere supply closet or some shit.

 

The guard opened the intended door and led Grit through a long, dimly lit hallway, the walls lined with plush-covered doors with heart-shaped windows. Tacky art decorated the place, and Grit felt scuzzier just being there. As he and the guard passed the doors, Grit could hear the tell-tale sounds of sex, men grunting their little hearts out, and whichever stripper they’d paid for doing her best impression of a woman who was actually enjoying the process. After a time, they arrived at one of the doors towards the far end, this one covered in purple plush, the letters “14” in gold letters to the side.

 

The guard pulled the door open, revealing a room decorated in the same gaudy style and illuminated with red lights. There was a couch and a heart-shaped bed.

 

“Sit down,” said the guard. “She’ll be with you soon.”

 

Grit nodded and headed in, taking a seat on the couch.

 

Don’t wanna think about what kind of shit’s on this thing, he thought, looking at the fabric.

 

He was ready to get some answers. But more than that, he was ready to get this girl one-on-one.