Page 100 of Russian Roulette
An hour later, after I’m sure he’s asleep, I quietly slip into the kitchen and disarm the alarm before opening the door leading to the garage. I’ve watched Kit enter the code enough to memorize it. My car is still parked there, and I try the door handle. It’s locked, which means he has the keys.
I quietly pop the hood up and check for the extra key I keep near the engine. Sure enough, it’s missing, just as I suspected. The guys have found my spare key, so they’re not expecting me to leave.
They must be proud of themselves. I’m sure it was Vulcan who found the key. I can’t imagine the other two knowing their way around a car engine the way he does.
My leg is aching, and I dread crawling under the car to retrieve the second key taped there. If they’ve found that key, too, I’m screwed and will need to rethink my plan. I lie flat on my back and wriggle my body until I’m directly under the center of the car. I’m glad Kit keeps his garage spotlessly clean. If I was doing this in any other garage, I’d be covered in grease or oil when I slid out.
I’ve trained myself to locate the key by touch. Carefully, I slide my fingers along the area until the tips touch the tape. I rip from one end until the single key drops onto the floor beside me.
Gotcha!
I make a mental note to get extra keys made soon. A girl can never have too many spare car keys around.
After hitting the button on the wall to open the garage door, I slide into the driver’s seat. I turn the key and let out a relieved sigh when it roars to life. I’m surprised Vulcan didn’t unhook the battery cables or do something else to disable the engine.
I don’t waste time, estimating I have less than two minutes before Kit is alerted the garage door has been opened by his security system. First, he’ll run to the garage and check if my car is gone. Then he’ll go to my room and find the note. By that time, I’ll be on the main road and on my way. He’ll be pissed as hell that I took off without telling him. Or asking for permission. There’s no way he would let me leave the house without him.
I drive slowly along the driveway to the main gate, while watching for any animals that might roam around in the dark. Kit has been vague about how many animals he keeps or where they are. When I reach the gate, it automatically slowly slides open and I go through the opening, then wait to make sure it closes behind me. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any of his animals escaping through an open gate.
Slipping my phone out of my jacket pocket, I pull up the directions to Platinum. It shouldn’t be more than a fifteen-minute drive. Especially late at night. It doesn’t take me long before I pull into the parking lot of Platinum. A huge, glittery gold neon sign above the massive, warehouse-sized building features a dancing, shirtless cowboy with a six-pack of toned muscles. A blinking rope lasso twirls with every movement of his hips.
I’m already intrigued after reading the club’s description on the website. Apparently, the club is owned and run by women, which is a concept I support.
A valet parking attendant tries to wave me to a stop near the entrance. Instead, I drive past him and pull into a parking place near the far end of the lot. No way am I turning over my car keys to anyone willingly. Not after everything I’ve gone through to get them back.
Before going in, I sit in the car for a few minutes and watch as obviously intoxicated women pile into the club. Several groups arrive in stretched limousines and modified party buses. The club appears to be immensely popular, which will make it much easier for me to blend in. The crowds will be my cover.
When a party bus pulls to a stop at the entrance, I slip in behind the large group of women. I’m relieved there isn’t a cover charge and once we show our identification to drink alcohol, we’re allowed inside. The bachelorette party heads to a reserved table near the front of the stage while I go in the opposite direction toward a long bar lining one side of the cavernous room.
A cute shirtless male bartender wearing tight black pants and a bowtie puts a napkin on the bar and smiles. “What can I get you?” he asks, when I slide onto a bar stool.
“A gin and tonic, please,” I reply, smiling back at him. I rarely drink in situations where I need a clear head, but I can’t draw attention to myself. Ordering plain tonic water while sitting alone at a bar would do that. The bartender might even think I’m a cop.
“You got it,” he says, turning to mix the drink for me.
He places it in front of me, and I take a sip. “Thanks! This is good.”
I casually stir the drink and swing around to keep my eyes on the stage. The throbbing music has cranked up to an earsplitting level and the overhead strobe lights are flashing to indicate the show is beginning.
An elegant woman wearing an off-white linen dress steps up on stage. Her long auburn hair is styled into an exquisite French knot. She can’t be over thirty-five. She reminds me more of a sophisticated 1950s movie star than a hostess at a male strip club.
“Hello everyone,” she says into a microphone. “Is everyone having a good night?”
The crowd of rowdy women claps their hands and whoop in response. She smiles back at them. “Good, that’s what we love to hear. We’re ready to begin tonight’s show. There are a few ground rules we need to go over before the men come out. First, no touching is allowed, so keep your hands to yourselves. Also, no peeking underneath the g-strings. If you want to tip the dancers and we certainly hope you do, this is the way.”
She waves a dollar bill in the air and a male stripper appears on stage from the door at the side. He dances over to her while undulating to the music. The woman folds the dollar bill and carefully tucks it into the side of his g-string without touching his junk.
“Does everyone understand how it’s done? Of course, it’s always perfectly fine to make it rain for the dancers. You can throw as many bills at them you want.” She laughs and motions for the dancer to leave the stage. “Okay then, enough about those boring rules. Put your hands together and let’s get some energy going for our Platinum dancers.”
She steps off and a parade of men dressed as cops strut their way onto the stage at the front of the room. The shrill shrieking of the women in the crowd reaches an almost unbearable level.
What have I gotten myself into?
It doesn’t take long before the dancers shed their police uniforms and strip to their underwear. The sexy men know how to work the room to their advantage. Soon the women jump out of their seats and rush up to crowd three rows deep around the stage while waving dollar bills in the air. When the policemen tear off their breakaway underwear, the women make it rain on stage by throwing handfuls of money at the dancers.
Now is the perfect time to check out the crowd for Natasha while every eye is on the dancers. I scan every waitress and bartender to check if anyone fits her description.
There are several beautiful blonde women in the crowd, but they’re clearly customers. The satin sashes worn across their chests saying ‘Bride’, ‘Maid of Honor’ and even ‘Mother of the Bride’ give them away. Funny how I never realized bachelorette parties were such a booming business. Whoever owns this joint is making a killing.
