Why was he even here? What did he think going to a strip club would do to cure the feelings he had been desperately trying to push down for weeks? Colin groaned and slammed his head down on the table in front of him, grimacing when he lifted it and felt a sticky substance against his forehead. He hoped to God it was just some overly sugary alcohol.
There was a reason he picked this place. The Whistledown Club. No one knew him here. It was miles from the area of London that he grew up in, so he knew there was no chance of him running into an old schoolmate of his. Just to be safe, he took a spot in a dimly lit corner of the club, far from any other people.
He took another swig from his scotch, letting the amber liquid burn his throat as he waited for the next dancer to be announced. Why was he here again? Did he really think that watching a bunch of half naked women would make him forget about the one woman who had been plaguing his every thought, making it hard to eat, or sleep, or even breath without wishing she were by his side?
Oh he was so fucked. Why why why did he have to go and develop feelings for his best friend? Life was so much easier when Pen was just Pen and he was travelling across Europe, never planning farther than his next destination. Now he was thinking about his future and building a life, a family with her.
He should just leave. He should pay his tab and leave. Fuck, why had he opened a tab? Was that weird? Before he could question it further, the next dancer was announced.
"I'd tell you to put your hands together for this one, but I'm sure they'll be a little preoccupied when you catch sight of her." Gross. "Gentlemen, meet...LOLA!"
Cheesy music kicked on over the speakers and outstepped a woman in a blonde wig and skimpy attire. Colin's breath caught at the sight of her. Her hips were full, barely covered by the bright red lace. Her thighs were soft, much like her slightly rounded belly, and her breasts. God, her breasts were incredible. Almost as incredible as a certain red haired...Colin began choking violently as his eyes traced over the dancer's features.
There was no way, he told himself. It was a trick of the light. He was so far away from the stage. There was no way that Penelope Featherington, his Pen, was up there shaking her ass, albeit her glorious ass, for these strangers. What the fuck was she thinking?
He wanted to say he was a gentleman, but he found himself frozen in place and couldn't look away until the song was finally over. Penelope, or Lola, gathered her hefty pile of bills and left the stage. Colin wasted no time and slipped past the bouncer into the back. He was greeted at the dressing room by another large man in a black nondescript t-shirt.
"Oi mate, you ain't posed to be back here," the man said in a deep, intimidating voice.
"Please, I just need to speak with one of the dancers. Lola," Colin explained, the name sounding strange on his tongue, but he figured it was probably best if he didn't use her real one.
"Only dancers are allowed back here, mate, and ladies night ain't til Thursday."
"C-Col," a sweet, feminine voice stammered behind him.
Colin whipped around to face her, swallowing when he noticed she was still only wearing the lacy lingerie set, her red locks falling past her shoulder in waves.
"P-Lola," he gulped.
Her eyes were wide with shock, but she somehow managed to stand straighter in front of him. "It's okay, Johnny, I know him," she assured the bouncer. Johnny narrowed his eyes, then shrugged, choosing to trust her. "Not here," she whispered to Colin, tugging him away from the dressing rooms and into a more secluded area of the club. To his relief, they stopped in front of a supply closet, and not some depraved sex dungeon for higher paying customers. "Inside," she demanded, motioning him in with her hand.
