The last couple of waitresses straggled in as Smithie and Ian came down the stairway that led to Smithie’s office.

But Smithie didn’t approach the gang gathered around the edge of the catwalk.

He took a seat at the bar as Ian came to us carrying something that looked like rolled-up plans.

Weird.

I mean, we all knew Ian was Smithie’s right-hand man.

But Smithie had never taken a backseat.

Dorian did a scan as he approached, probably to see if everyone was there.

He then stopped in front of us, crossed his arms on his chest, which made his pecs bulge under his midnight-blue dress shirt (and I took that opportunity to appreciate it), the roll of paper in his hand peeking over his left shoulder.

“Right, you all got shit to do so we’ll make this fast,” he began. “The Revue has been very successful, much better than we’d forecast, and it doesn’t look like that’s gonna slow down,” he announced.

Well, then…

Shoo.

Also…

Yippee!

“So in two weeks, we’re gonna close,” he went on.

There were murmurings of surprise and discontent, swaying of bodies, shuffling of feet.

“For three weeks,” he continued.

Everyone shut up and stopped shifting.

“We’ve been covered in calls from people wanting VIP seating,” he shared. “And they’re willing to pay for it. So we’re constructing booths down each side of the catwalk and elevating the floor so the people behind these new booths can see the stage. The far wall will also be a closed-off VIP area that will serve as a place for larger parties, and when we have celebrity clientele, entourages. Further, we’ll be adding lighting embedded in the edges of the stage that can be programmed to a variety of colors, flashes, streams, etcetera.”

“Rad,” I breathed.

Ian wasn’t done.

“And installing apparatus so dancers can make an entrance from above the stage on hoops, in cages, on ropes and poles and most anything else they can dream up.”

How cool!

“Rad,” Pepper, Ryn and I whispered at the same time.

Dorian kept going.

“It’s going to be a tight turnaround, but we don’t want to lose momentum, so we’re hoping our contractors can hit the deadline. During that, the back rooms where the private dances took place will be repurposed into a kitchen. A questionnaire we sent to patrons strongly suggested that they like to stay for a while and they don’t only want to drink, they want to eat. To fill that need, we’ve hired Joy Anderson to take over the kitchen.”

“Joy Anderson, the woman who does the Joy of Food food trucks?” one of the waitresses asked.

“Her,” Ian confirmed. “It will be an extensive, gourmet appetizer menu.”

“This is so fucking cool,” Ryn said under her breath.

It totally was.

They were taking it from a classy strip joint to a straight-up class club.

And we were in on that. We got to watch it unfold. Help them.