I want to growl in frustration at the stripper who can’t seem to get the message that I don’t want her crawling all over me.
“Just tell me, have you seen a girl with brown hair and big tits?”
She pouts up at me like she’s totally offended I’m not into her blonde hair. Another girl with brown hair comes up and drapes herself around me.
I grit my teeth. This has to be the eighteenth or nineteenth strip club I’ve visited in Manhattan so far in my attempt to find Sapphire. Still no luck. But that chick Misti seemed to think she would find another club to wo
rk at, and I won’t give up until I’ve checked every last one.
“Just go back and ask everyone if they know someone named Derek.” I push the girl off me. “Please.”
I’m having a fucking hard time being polite right about now, but I figure being a complete ass won’t get me anywhere.
The blonde looks at me skeptically, but nods and struts off, disappearing through a door.
As if that’s an invitation, two more strippers sidle up to take her place. “What’s so special about this girl?” one of them asks, sticking out her lower lip in a ridiculous pout.
I sigh. She’s perfect. It’s that simple.
I want to take her home to St. Albans and make her mine, but I’m getting more and more worried that I might never find her. Shoving the thought away, I realize the new girls have worked the top three buttons of my shirt loose and are running their hands all over my chest.
I jump back and push them off, relieved when the blonde returns from wherever she went. I look at her anxiously. “Well?”
Shaking her head slowly, she says, “No. Sorry. No one here is looking for a Derek.”
I turn without another word and stride out of the club, yanking open the door to my limo and slamming it shut behind me when I slump into the seat.
“Any luck?” my driver asks. As if my face doesn’t tell it all.
“Next place,” I say glumly.
We take off down the street, and I try not to give in to the mounting frustration. But I can’t fucking help it. Let’s be real, I’m starting to consider the possibility I’m never going to find her, and it’s messing with my head.
I pull out the lacy thong that I haven’t been without since the night I met her and lift it to my face, drawing in a deep breath through my nose.
That scent. That fucking sexy scent. It drives me mad. Out of my mind. Both with lust and with desperation.
I have to find her.
We pull up at the next place, and I was right because the driver announces this is stop number twenty. Leaping from the limo, I bound across the sidewalk and through the front doors.
I’m immediately held back by a hulking beast of a dude. “Sorry, bud, you can’t just come waltzing in here.”
“Why the fuck not?” I sneer.
“This is a private invite club. VIPs only,” he says, pushing my chest to restrain me from going any further.
All my frustration comes to a head and I get right in his face. “Do you fucking know who I am?” I yell. “I’m the fucking Prince of St. Albans. I’m as VIP as it gets.”
He scrutinizes me for a minute, then seems to somehow decide I’m telling the truth because he just shrugs and lets me past.
Instantly, I’m swarmed by scantily clad strippers, all dying to get a piece of me.
They stroke my cheeks, my shoulders, rub their tits all over me. Anything to get my attention. But I have one sole purpose.
“Have you seen a girl with big tits and brown hair?”
They all giggle and moan as they keep rubbing their bodies on me, but they don’t answer my question.