Page 1 of Hot Lap
CHAPTER ONE
LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX | SUNDAY NIGHT
"Holy. Shit."
The notification on my tipping app can't be right. Among the usual tens and twenties is a single tip that’s slapped me sideways.
One. Thousand. Dollars.
I stare at my phone screen, frozen halfway through peeling off a fake eyelash. The usernameRP11glows at me, a saucy little dare saying,“C’mon, you know you want me.”There’s no profile pic, so no clue who'd drop a grand for a five-minute burlesque routine.
"What knocked your jaw on the floor?" Delilah's sequins catch the light as she leans over my shoulder. Her perfume mingles with the greasepaint and sweat of the dressing room. "Goddamn, girl. Someone's got deep pockets andloveshow you bump and grind."
"It’s gotta be a mistake." My thumb hovers over the notification, like if I touch it, it’ll gopoof. But fuck me, that's rent money sitting there, plus I could get the vintage black corset I was drooling over last night.
Delilah straightens and mists a cloud of setting spray over her elaborate makeup. "Those F1 boys can easily drop that kinda cash on dinner. Guess he really liked the show."
I catch her gaze in the mirror. "F1 boys?"
"The racing crowd? Grand Prix weekend?" She raises a perfectly penciled brow. "Maiken Lange, where’s your head? The city's crawling with them. That's why we're booked solid on a Sunday night in November."
“Oh.” I've been so focused on performing my new routine that I haven't even noticed how packed The Golden Oyster is, but now it clicks. The VIP tables full of well-dressed men, the electric energy, and those green eyes that hadn't left me during my entire "Retro Cool" routine. The whistles and applause when I'd finally dropped my dress in a slow, deliberate cascade had been thunderous, but I’d felt that man’s intense gaze follow me offstage.
I tap the notification, transferring the tips to my bank account before anyone can change their mind. I’m not dumb enough to keep questioning.
Time to get dressed and GTFO.
I shimmy into skinny black pants, then add a black lace bustier, a zebra-print jacket, and red suede ankle boots; it’s 80's Week in Maiken Lange's rotating retro wardrobe and I’m going forDesperately Seeking Susanwithout the gum snapping and endless cigarettes. A quick touch-up of lip gloss, extra shiny tonight to catch the light and make my mouth look like an invitation. I add a spritz of gingersnap perfume, drape my garment bag over my arm, and throw a kiss at my reflection. I'm a gift to myself and no one else.
The club's still buzzing when I emerge from backstage. Blue and red lights cut through artificial fog and cigarette smoke. The crowd stands three-deep at the bar, money flowing as freely as the booze.
Scanning the room, I thread my way toward Eddie at the end of the bar to collect my cash tips. I catalogue faces — regulars, tourists, and...dayum, there he is. The man from the VIP section, the one whose gaze made me feel appreciated, not objectified.
Well done, sir.
I'd thrown him a saucy wink from the stage, then held my hand to my head like a telephone and mouthed, "Call me." He'd answered with a slow sexy smile, and now I’m wondering if he’s my Mr. Moneybags. Not that I’ll do anything more about it. Flirtation stays on the stage. I learned that lesson the hard way.
He stands with two other men near their table. The guy is lean and unquestionably fit, but not in a bulky, try-hard way. His every movement is controlled and deliberate. Dark wavy hair cropped close, five o'clock shadow highlighting a sharp jawline. The guy gives “classic handsome” with a brooding edge. His is the kind of face that makes smart women stupid.
My nethers sit up and take notice.
No. Bad, Maiken. We don't date patrons. Remember Lear? Four months of "You're my sparkling diamond," before he remembered he had a rich wife and I got tossed aside like a piece of cheap plastic vending machine jewelry.
This dude’s not really engaging with his companions. One is tall and lean with similar features and seems more interested in his phone than anything else. They’re brothers, maybe? The third is loud and obnoxious, clearly intoxicated, eyes scanning the dancers like he's in the meat section at Vons.
Ew.
I smile and nod at club regulars as I squeeze through the mass to reach the bar.
Eddie hands over my envelope with a wink. "Banner night, Mai." He nods toward the VIP table. "Your admirer's been asking about you."
"Which one?"
"Not the jackass." His eyes narrow. "That one's trouble. Already had to warn him about grabbing at Yasmine."
Before I can respond, Trouble Himself detaches from his group and weaves toward me, parting the crowd like Moses. Up close, he reeks of designer cologne and entitlement, his pupils dilated and his smile sharp.
"Beautiful show." He invades my space, breath hot against my face. "Damien Betterton, Junior. You might know the name."
