“Fruity.” He smelled his glass. “Pappy Van Winkle, barrel-aged twenty-three years. Rare, partly because it takes so long to age and there just isn’t enough. Take your time—something like this should be savored.”
“In other words, it’s expensive.”
“It depends on what you mean by expensive. Money is not the same thing as worth, and drinking a glass of this with you is worth a lot to me.”
Lola made a noise of appreciation, and not just for the drink. The sweet alcohol burn, the leathery smell of the bar, the dim lights, Beau’s deep voice—it was a heady combination.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Relaxed.”
He smiled. “Me too.”
“You, relaxed? I bet that’s as rare as this drink.” The two martinis she’d had at the gala had done nothing for her, but drinking this bourbon was like falling into a warm embrace.
“That would be a safe bet,” he said.
“How much do you work? Be honest.”
“Right now, I work a lot. Back when I was trying to create something from nothing, though, I barely stopped to eat.”
“Your family was okay with that?”
“I did it for them as much as for myself.”
“What about your friends? Girlfriends?”
Beau raised an eyebrow. “I’m something of a loner if you haven’t noticed.”
“Even now?”
He hesitated. “A man with money trusts his enemies more than his friends.”
She tried to picture her life without Johnny and Vero and the people she saw at the bar almost nightly. While she was there, Beau was at events with eager reporters in his face and people who were often trying to get something from him. She put her hand on his arm. “That must be hard.”
Beau took a moment to respond. “When you’re nice to me, it makes me want to kiss you,” he warned.
“What about when I’m mean?” She allowed herself a playful smile.
He palmed her lower back and drew her close to his side. “It makes me want to be mean back.” He slid his hand over the curve of her backside but stopped.
“Your patience is admirable,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her slight gasp between words.
“My patience is thin.”
“You’re the one carting me from place to place.”
His eyes gleamed. “You’re ready for the hotel?”
Her gaze dropped to his lips, his bowtie and jumped back up. He curled his fingers into her dress.
“I’ll take your inability to answer as a yes,” he said.
He took her hand and walked her out of the lounge. Coming out of the alley, she turned left, but he pulled her back. “This way.”
“But the car—”
“This wasn’t our stop,” he said, leading her in the opposite direction. “I’d just hear
d about a shipment of that bourbon and I wanted you to try it.”
“Then where are we going?”
He dropped her hand and didn’t answer. Her heart began to pound as they walked west. He glanced over at her with that impatient look he’d gotten right before he’d kissed her on the red carpet.
“Here?” she asked when he stopped walking. “Is this supposed to be funny?”
“What’s funny?” he asked, his eyebrows lowering.
“I’m not going in there. I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, “and you will.”
She looked behind Beau. On the brick wall a pink neon sign flashed the word Girls at her over and over. She dried her palms on her dress. After spending an evening with Los Angeles’s elite, Cat Shoppe seemed like a cruel joke.
It wasn’t. Any teasing, gleaming or admiration in Beau’s eyes was gone. “You aren’t too good for a strip club?”
They must’ve looked that way on the outside—she made up in a gown, he strangled by his bowtie.
She was far from too good for it. She’d once been a part of it. A lifetime ago, Lola had spent her nights dancing at Cat Shoppe, getting caught up in the money and the partying and forming bonds with girls she no longer spoke to. When people found out she’d been a stripper, they always wanted to know why.
“Why are you doing this?” her mom asked from across the Formica table. Pleaded.
“For the money.” Lola’s tone was dry. “Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
Dina shook her head. “You’re only eighteen. This isn’t how I raised you.”
Lola smiled thinly. “You think because I lived under your roof, you raised me? Come on, Mom. I raised myself. Nobody ever looked out for me but me.”
Dina suddenly and visibly shook with anger. “How can you say that? I worked here day after day to put food in your mouth.” She slammed both fists on the tabletop. “I did that for you! I sacrificed my life for a child I didn’t even want.”
Lola barely flinched. That Dina hadn’t wanted her was no secret. “Think what you like,” Lola said, standing. “I’m not quitting.”
“Then don’t come back home when it blows up in your face. I won’t watch you do this to yourself.”
Lola left without looking back.
She’d said she’d done it for money, but it’d been more than that. Lola had not only loved to dance, she’d loved how it’d made her feel, how men had looked at her, how the money had put her in charge of her life. It gave her control, especially over men, something her dad had taken from her by walking out one morning and never coming home.
Beau watched her intently. She wasn’t willing to share that part of her life with him, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She walked right by him, by the bouncer and into the club.
The music hit Lola before anything. On the main stage of the dark club was a half-naked woman who looked in her early forties. On her palms and knees, she snaked toward an outstretched, dollar-waving hand.
Across the room, Beau talked to a bartender. Even though it’d been eight years since she’d left, Lola turned away in case anyone she knew still worked there.
A few moments later, Beau closed in on her back. “It’s not top-dollar bourbon,” he said, reaching around to hold the glass in front of her, “but it’ll do.”