While Henry insisted that Will had obviously never had a good lap dance, Max stood to speak to a man who seemed to have materialized out of thin air at the side of our table. He was shorter than Max—which wasn’t uncommon—and graying at his temples. He had a face and eyes that carried the kind of calm that told me he’d done a lot, and seen even more. His suit was dark and impeccable, his lips pressed together in a thin line. I registered that this must be the infamous Johnny French, whom Max had mentioned on our flight in.

Although I’d assumed they were talking about making arrangements for me to get a dance, I watched as Johnny murmured something and Max turned to stare at the wall, his face tight. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d ever seen Max look anything but relaxed, and I leaned forward, straining to understand what was happening. Henry and Will remained oblivious, having returned their attention to the now-naked dancers on the stage. Finally, Max’s shoulders relaxed as if he had come to some kind of conclusion, and he smiled at Johnny, muttering, “Thanks, mate.”

With a pat to Max’s shoulder, Johnny turned and left us. Max returned to his seat, reaching for his drink. I lifted my chin toward the doorway Johnny had stepped through, behind a black curtain. “What was all that about?”

“That,” said Max, “was about the room that is being prepared for you.”

“For me?” I pressed my hand to my chest, shaking my head. “Again, Max, I’m going to pass.”

“The f**k you are.”

“You’re serious.”

“You’re bloody right I am. He told me you’re to head down that hall”—Max pointed to a different doorway than the one through which Johnny had disappeared—“and head to Neptune.”

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. Although this club seemed like the best of its kind in town—or anywhere for that matter—on a list of things I wanted to do tonight, getting a lap dance from some random Vegas dancer ranked barely above eating bad sushi and getting violently ill.

“Just walk down the hall like a f**king bloke and get your knob rubbed by some girl dancing on you.” Max stared at me, his eyes narrowed. “Are you taking the piss with this whingey shite? It’s your f**king stag weekend. Act like the man you used to be.”

I studied him, wondering why he seemed so firmly planted in his own chair while he encouraged me to leave mine. “Did Johnny give you a room to visit as well? Aren’t you getting a lap dance?”

He laughed, tipping his scotch to his lips and mumbling, “It’s a lap dance, Ben. Not a f**king trip to the dentist.”

“Asshole.” Lifting my drink, I gazed at the thick, clear liquid. I’d known going into this that there would be women, and booze, and probably some activities that might push the limits of legal, but the truth was, Chloe had known this, too. She’d told me to have fun, and her eyes had never shadowed with worry or mistrust. They had no reason to.

I brought the drink to my lips, downed it, and muttered, “Fuck it,” before standing and heading to the hallway. My companions for the evening were—surprisingly—classy enough to not cheer at my departure, but even still I could feel their attention on my back as I made my way to the hallway to the left of the main stage.

Just beyond the doorway the carpet changed from black to a deep, royal blue, and the space felt even darker than it had out in the main room. The walls were the same velvety black, and there was just enough illumination from tiny crystal lights on the wall to light a path ahead of me. Along one side of the long hallway were doors with the names of planets on them: Mercury, Venus, Earth . . . Down at the end, at the door labeled Neptune, I hesitated. Would there be a woman already inside? Would there be a chair for me or, worse, a bed?

The door was ornate and heavy, like something out of a castle or, f**k, some sort of creepy Gothic basement sex dungeon. Fucking Max. I shivered and turned the knob, exhaling in relief when I saw that there was no iron cross or handcuffs, and no woman inside yet, only a long chaise with a small silver box in its center. Tied to the box with a silky red ribbon was a white card with Bennett Ryan written in neat script.

Great. Random Vegas Dancer might already know my f**king name.

Inside the box was a black satin blindfold and a sliver of thick cardstock with the words Put this on written in black ink.

I was meant to put on a blindfold for a lap dance? What was the point of that? Just because I didn’t want one tonight didn’t mean I didn’t recall lap dances past. Unless the format had changed in the past few years, getting one meant looking, not touching. What the f**k was I supposed to do if I was blindfolded when she came in? I sure as shit wasn’t going to touch her.