Beneath the Surface by Cat Johnson

Chapter One
    Pussy was all right.
    Really, what heterosexual, red blooded American male didn’t appreciate a nice cunt? But right now, Rick would rather have a beer.
    Over the throbbing bass of the music, he couldn’t help but realize how sad that thought sounded in his head as the stripper on the stage in front of him bent from the waist and gave him a close up view of her assets. Yup, it was all out there on display for him, shaved clean as a whistle. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Not even a G-string to pretend to hide what she openly showed.
    He never did understand why men liked looking at things they weren’t allowed to touch. If looking led to fucking then he was all for it, but that was not an option at the moment. Although another glance at the dancer made him realize he probably wouldn’t partake even if she offered it up to him right there on a silver platter.
    Besides that, Rick didn’t want to be in the spotlight. Not here, not tonight. He needed her to move her little show along now. He noticed the steroid pumped bruiser of a bouncer watching him closely from a dimly lit corner as he reached up and slid a single bill into the only garment she wore, a garter at her thigh. She wiggled her ass a few more times in his face as thanks for the tip. He looked on, appropriately appreciative, until she strutted her mile high heels and enormous high riding and definitely not God given tits over to the next lucky patron who waved some cash farther downstage.
    “Mmm, mmm. Would love to get me some of that.”
    Rick had smelled his informant long before he heard the familiar voice near his ear—the guy wore way too much cologne. Sipping casually at his soda while still wishing its bubbles contained hops and barley rather than sugar and caramel coloring, Rick didn’t bother turning around to speak to the man. He stayed facing forward. “Why don’t you ever want to meet at a titty bar that serves alcohol?”
    “Cause in the joints that serve liquor the girls aren’t totally nude.” The man said it as if that logic made all the sense in the world. “And this place has private back rooms where the right amount of cash will get you all the way into heaven.”
    That was debatable. Personally Rick would rather drink a brew than see some bush, and he wasn’t sure he would qualify what paraded in front of him as heaven, but to each his own. At least the other patrons seemed so enthralled with the show they didn’t pay much attention to the two of them as they pretended not to know each other. If his snitch came through with the information he hoped, the trip across the George Washington Bridge to this Godforsaken strip joint in Fort Lee, New Jersey would have been well worth it.
    The smell of liquor permeated Rick’s nostrils over the reek of Smitty the Snitch’s cologne. No wonder the guy didn’t care there was no alcoholic beverages served on the premises. He probably had a flask hidden in his cheap suit. Whatever. Rick didn’t plan on being here any longer than he had to, ever changing unclad female scenery or no. He watched as a new nude replaced the bush-less bleached blonde. This one a natural redhead, he assumed, since the carpet matched the drapes, so to speak. She had obviously left the small triangle of curls between her thighs to let patrons know and appreciate the fact she was a true redhead.
    Her hair color may be natural, but nothing else was. Rick spared a brief thought about how the local plastic surgeons must have made a small fortune on the girls in this place alone.
    His own personal Deep Throat took the empty seat to his right, his eyes never leaving the new girl on stage as he asked, “Do you got what I asked for?”
    Rick slipped the pack of cigarettes he’d bought on the way there out of his leather jacket and laid it next to his drink…make that soda. The snitch snatched it up and opened the lid, no doubt grinning when he saw the five twentydollar bills Rick had slid into the box. “This