Chapter 20

Two Years Later...

“Club Velvet Announces Third Annual Dance Contest”

The headline in the local paper marked another milestone for Frank and his thriving business. After two years of overwhelming success, hosting another contest felt like the natural next step. Meeting with his ownership team, he raised the question: how much should they offer this year’s winners?

“Ten grand seems a little low, considering how well the clubs are doing,” he mused. The suburban location was packed every weekend, with lines of eager customers waiting to get in. They had a full roster of dancers, yet new talent continued to audition, hoping for a spot.

Sitting in the hotel conference room, Frank leaned back in his chair. “So, how much this year?”

Grant Lockwood, coffee cup in hand, asked, “What did we do last year?”

Vanessa flipped open a folder and checked the numbers just as Frank answered. “Fifteen thousand. The year before that, it was ten.”

“Yup, that’s what I’ve got here,” Vanessa confirmed.

Grant set his coffee aside and scanned the financial report again. “Then what about bumping it up another five? Maybe ten?” He shook his head with a smirk. “The club pulled in 18.23 million last year, and it doesn’t look like we’re slowing down anytime soon.”

“With that kind of money, we should think bigger,” Vanessa suggested. “Advertising across the country, not just locally.”

The room fell silent as they considered the idea.

Frank finally spoke up. “Here’s what I think—we go big. Make the prize pot fifty grand. Advertise in Florida, California, Nevada—along with our usual spots—and see how much press we can stir up. If it flops, lesson learned. But if it takes off...” He let the thought linger.

The group nodded in agreement. It was settled: a $50,000 prize, nationwide advertising, and a gamble that could pay off in a big way.

After finalizing other agenda items, they broke for dinner.

While they ate, Frank turned to Vanessa. “Are you dancing tonight? Rain’s been asking if Reba is making an appearance.”

Grant snorted, shaking his head. The idea of his business associate stripping on stage still amused him.

Vanessa smirked. “What? You don’t think I can do it?”

“Oh, I know you can,” Grant said, “I just think it’s funny that you do. A smart, talented woman like you—running clubs and handling business—also stepping onto the stage? It’s unexpected.”

She playfully slugged him on the shoulder. “Did you catch my routine last year?”

Grant shook his head. “No. Didn’t think it was appropriate.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You should watch this time. And while you’re at it, stick around and see the real professionals. You haven’t done that since we signed this deal.”

Frank chimed in. “She’s right, Grant. You should spend more time in the club. Get to know the dancers. Hell, hire one for a private dance while you’re at it.”

Grant raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine! I’ll do it. I’ll watch the dancers, and I’ll even hire one for a private dance. Happy?”

Frank and Vanessa laughed as Grant shook his head, a reluctant grin on his face.

That night, Vanessa/Reba, took the stage wearing a new baby doll nightgown that she had purchased just for the night. It ended up in a pile at the back of the stage at the end of her three songs while the money rained down on the stage from the men around the stage. Even Rain had tossed her several dollars while she was dancing just to get things started.

She was asked by many men for a private dance, but she turned them all down. Saying “I’m just here for the one dance, I don’t perform that service. Sorry.”

Many men walked away sad and disappointed that they didn’t get a chance to have a private dance with her.

Vanessa/Reba went to her hotel that night glad that she did it, happy about the men who wanted to be with her, and partially disappointed that she didn’t take one of the men up on their offer for a private dance. She slept that night telling herself that “Maybe next year I’ll do it.”

Grant on the other hand did take one of the ladies up on their offer of a private dance. A lovely young woman he didn’t know, who hadn’t been working there three years ago or even last year, but a woman that sparked his fancy because of her bright red hair and pale skin.

He paid her price and when she was done draining his vital fluids, he gave her even more money, tipping her twice what she had asked for. She didn’t know how to handle it, but gushed her thanks as she wiped away the mess between her legs and then carefully wiped away the mess left behind on his body.

“What is your name miss, I completely forgot to ask it.” He said, blushing deeply for the social faux pas.

“For you sir, you can call me anytime.” She said, then reached out to him through the WE and shared with him her real name. Sandra Sims. “But I dance as Fiona and you sir are welcome here any time.” she said, then did something she had never done before, other than share her real name with him, she kissed him full on the mouth and shared the taste of her mouth with him. Their kiss lasted only a few seconds, but Sandra/Fiona walked away on unsteady legs to the dressing room to get cleaned up while Grant sat watching her leave and wished she wouldn’t. The dark green bikini bottoms she was wearing was wedged between her bottom and as she walked, flashed at him.

“Fiona.” He whispered as he watched her walk away.

The group arrived at the club just before opening, only to be stopped at the door by Spike, who extended a hand to block their path. His expression was neutral, but his stance made it clear—nobody was getting inside without an explanation. Seeing a police officer among them, Spike remained professional, though the unusual nature of the group put him on alert.

“Sir, I am the mayor of this fine town, and I’d like to speak with the owner of this establishment,” the man declared proudly.

The mayor stood over six feet tall, his bald head gleaming under the morning sun that shines in through the doors and windows on the entrance wall. His clean-shaven face was unreadable, but the forced smile he offered Spike was anything but friendly. His dark skin contrasted starkly with his bright white teeth, which flashed in a grin that carried no warmth.

Spike glanced at the officer. “He for real?”

The officer, name tag reading O’Brian, gave a curt nod. “He’s the mayor.”

That’s when Spike noticed the rest of the group—city council members. These were the people who governed the very city that hosted Club Velvet. This was no casual visit.

After a quick conversation with Frank through the WE, Spike stepped aside and led them through the club, past the empty stage and silent booths, straight to the back office. Inside, Frank was double-checking their inventory, clipboard in one hand, pen in the other. As the group entered, he set them aside and stood to greet them.

“Frank Devon,” he introduced himself.

The mayor stepped forward. “I’m Mayor Quimby. This is the city council. We need to have a conversation about your club.”

Frank’s guard immediately went up to have a conversation about your club. He had gone over every legal requirement repeatedly, ensuring that the WE—the governing force that truly held power—had no issues with his business. Club Velvet was breaking no laws, neither those of the WE nor the city itself.

Yet, the fact that the mayor and the entire city council had shown up first thing in the morning still made his jaw tighten.

“Mayor, good to meet you,” Frank said, extending his hand.

The two men shook, neither willing to back down. Their grips tightened just enough, a subtle contest of dominance. Neither budged. Neither gave an inch.

“It’s good to meet you as well,” the mayor said evenly. “The city council and I are here to discuss the future of this district, including your club. We have big plans for downtown—major improvements for the city and the entire region. And to execute those plans, we need your club to close.”

Frank went still. On the outside, he was motionless. Calm.

On the inside, he seethed.

Frank regarded the men and women in front of him, none of them seemed to be upset about the statement nor displaying any sign of disagreement with the mayor.

“Why? I have broken no laws, I pay the city taxes on time and nothing has been done here that would require me to close. So why the full court press?” Frank asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

“May we sit down and talk? Council member Johnson has a map to show you.” Mayor Quimby said.

Frank then led them to the main floor of the club, in the shadow of the stage as his waitresses moved around cleaning and arranging and while the dancers entered the club for their shifts and sat around at some of the tables waiting for work to start dressed in their provocative costumes.

Everyone looked 21 years old, but several of the women clutch their purses to their bodies as if it was a shield against what goes on in the club. The men on the council looked around, trying to gaze at the dancers and their outfits, but trying to do it without staring or being obvious.

As they all took seats, councilman Johnson unrolled a large sheet of paper and spread it out over two tables that had been pushed together.

“House lights please Mr DJ.” Frank called out, when it became obvious that the darkened room was not bright enough for this meeting.

The light came on and the group gathered around the map of the city as it currently stood. “This is our fine city as it currently stands.” The mayor said as he motioned over the map. “This is what we want to build.” He said, then turned the page to display a baseball stadium in the southern end of downtown.

Frank leaned over the map, traced his fingers along several streets and found that his buildings were basically the visiting team’s dugout with the new stadium. He had to close if this was going to become reality.

“Fuck.” Frank cursed as realization came to him, he was losing his building, his club, his pride and joy. All of the dancers were going to lose their jobs, Spike, the DJ, the waitresses, even the bartender were going to have to find somewhere else to work.

While he stood there, looking over the map, one of the dancers came over and looked over Frank’s shoulder, her arm across his back in comfortable familiarity, and saw the map. “Hey Frank, when are we opening, it’s past 10 o’clock.” She said, her green wig shining under the house lights. “Nice stadium.” She commented.

“We will be delayed for a minute or two. Pass the word.” Frank said calmly as his dreams started to fall apart.

The dancer looked around and smiled at one man who was trying to hide his face by standing behind another council member. “Josh, I see you back there. Are you coming over tonight for a dance like usual?” She said to Josh, who upon being caught, moved to hug the dancer in a very familiar way.

“Yes. I’ll be by tonight or tomorrow for a dance as usual.”

“Good. I’ll save a place for you.” She said, giving him a sultry smile and a teasing lick of her lips before moving away and speaking to the other dancers who were waiting for the club to open.

The ladies on the city council looked at Josh, their mouths hung open, astonished that he would come to a club like this. They moved away from him as Frank looked over the map some more.

“What are you offering?” Frank said to the mayor as well as everyone else.

One of the council members pulled a packet of legal documents from a case and handed them over. Frank flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming past cold, bureaucratic terms like “eminent domain,” “legal justification,” and “public interest.” The numbers on the offer were laughable—a fraction of what his club was worth. The phrase “just compensation” stood out, and Frank nearly scoffed. There was nothing just about it.

Closing the packet, he set his jaw and addressed the group. “I’ll have my lawyer review this. Then you’ll get my answer.”

The mayor and council members nodded, each offering a firm but sterile handshake before turning to leave. As they filed out, one council member—Josh—snuck a glance and waved toward his favorite dancer. He tried to make it casual, hoping that no one saw it.

As soon as the doors closed, Frank stalked to his office and slammed the packet onto his desk. His hands curled into fists. His breath came fast and sharp. Then, he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He screamed.

A raw, guttural, soul-wrenching cry tore from his throat. His club. His dream. His vision of the ultimate adult playground—the best entertainment venue in the region—reduced to a goddamn afterthought in some bureaucrat’s redevelopment plan.

The club’s music kicked in, muffling the sound so no one outside the office could hear him. But the WE heard. They were a neutral third party in this mess, unable to intervene. Instead, they did the only thing they could—flooding his system with calming chemicals, trying to steady his mind before he did something reckless.

As the calming chemicals coursed through Frank’s system, the tension drained from his muscles, leaving him slumped in his chair. The wood creaked slightly under his weight. He took slow, measured breaths, forcing himself to calm down.

Got any ideas? he asked his WE.

We have many, the WE responded, but this is not a matter where we can intervene. The WE oversee, we observe, we know all—but to act in your favor would violate many trusts. That is something we cannot do. The solution must come from you.

Frank exhaled sharply. “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing his face. He understood, even if he didn’t like it.

His mind spun through possible solutions. Angle after angle, dead end after dead end. Frustration gnawed at him. Finally, he pushed himself up from the chair and wandered onto the club floor.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers idly toying with loose change in one and his car keys in the other. He looked around the club, watching the scene unfold as it always did—a dancer working the stage, men gathered around with dollar bills in hand, other dancers weaving through the crowd, interacting, teasing, waiting for their turn.

Normal. Expected. Business as usual.

And then something clicked.

Frank’s gaze drifted over the men at the stage. Who here knows someone ... who knows someone ... who knows someone who works for the baseball team?

WE, he thought, a slow smile forming, can you tell me if any of our customers work for the baseball organization?

There was a distinct shift in the WE’s tone, something akin to a pleased hum.

Now you are thinking around the problem, they replied.

A list instantly appeared in his mind—names of people from the baseball organization who had visited Club Velvet. Players. Coaches. Equipment managers. Even the owner’s personal assistant. And all of them had made full use of the club’s offerings.

Frank’s smile widened. Well, well ... Now we’re getting somewhere.

Frank spun around, stormed into his office, and snatched up his phone while scrolling for the Metro Strikers’ front office number. He dialed, tapping his fingers impatiently as he listened to the rings. He was banking on José Miguel Montoya picking up—the team owner’s personal assistant and, according to the WE, a regular customer at Club Velvet. The records showed José had a weekly habit of private dances with Sarah, one of Frank’s dancers.

“Metro Strikers, this is Jose. How can I help you?”

“Jose, this is Frank Devon from Club Velvet.”

Silence.

“Jose? Did I lose you?”

A cautious breath came over the line. “No, sir. Why are you calling me? I thought my name and number were confidential.”

“They are. No one knows you frequent my club, and that won’t change,” Frank assured him. “I need a favor.”

There was another pause before Jose’s voice dropped into a hushed, urgent whisper. “What kind of favor?”

“I’ll cover a private dance with your favorite dancer if you hear me out.”

“ ... Go on.”

“The city wants to shut down my club to build the new stadium.”

A sharp curse hit Frank’s ear. “Shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Jose sighed. “Look, Sarah means ... a lot to me. If the club shuts down, I—” He cut himself off. “What do you need?”

“Leverage.”

Jose let out a slow breath. “I don’t know much, but I do know the team has other cities offering deals to relocate. The mayor is desperate to keep us here. If he stalls too long with you, the team could walk away.”

Frank grinned. There it was—his leverage.

Jose hesitated. “Sarah’s off this week, but I’ll come by anyway. We’ll talk in person. I can’t be having this conversation at the office.”

“Perfect. See you tonight.”

Frank hung up just as Jose did. He exhaled deeply and smirked. “I hope this works.”

That evening, Jose walked into Club Velvet.

His meeting with Frank confirmed everything—the city needed the stadium deal finalized fast, and the Strikers weren’t willing to wait forever.

Frank, his lawyer, Nathaniel “Nate” Caldwell, and Jose devised a counterproposal that would force the city’s hand. If they refused, the Strikers might walk—a political disaster for the mayor. To sweeten the deal, Jose got his private dance with Fiona, the club’s newest red headed bombshell. By the time he left, he was smiling ear to ear.

The next morning, Frank and Nate strode into City Hall, walking straight to the mayor’s office.

A receptionist greeted them with a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

Frank nodded. “Frank Devon. This is my attorney, Nate Caldwell. We’re here to discuss the city’s offer.”

She took the unsigned contract from Nate’s hands and frowned. “Sir, these aren’t signed. You’ll need to—”