Silver platform stilettos added an extra few inches to her five-six, size-two frame. Her hair hung to her waist in thick chestnut waves, a mix of her own and clip-on extensions. She swung her head as she danced, the long hair providing the only cover for bare breasts that seemed to defy gravity even when she was upside down, with her legs wrapped around the pole, thigh muscles straining to hold the position.

She was naked except for the shoes and a red lace thong. A single spotlight followed her as she moved, dry ice rising around her. Her back arched and her legs kicked, and her hands caressed the pole like it was her lover as she worked through a series of languid movements in time to the beat of the music.

The song was “Naughty Girl,” by Beyoncé. As the last notes played out, the girl dropped to her knees and flipped her hair again. She parted her lips slightly as her heavy-lidded eyes gazed out at the audience. A final seductive act for those closest to the stage but also the perfect position to scoop up the dollar bills scattered in front of her as the song ended. They were tens and twenties. She was good enough to avoid the single-digit dollars but not good enough for any fifties.

The performance over, Jessica and Holliday turned back to the bar, and both ordered a bottle of beer.

Outside, the Tahiti Club had looked dated and more than a little rough around the edges. Inside, the clientele was much the same. Most of the men were older than Holliday, while the women working the bar, the stage, and the room in general were all younger than Jessica.

“You said you’d been to this place before,” she said. “Bachelor party?”

Holliday shook his head. “No special reason. I guess I just like it here.”

It was Jessica’s first time at the Tahiti Club, but she’d been in plenty of strip bars in the past. Sometimes it was for a case; other times she’d tagged along with guys she worked with, showed them she was one of the boys. Then there were the times she just wanted a quiet drink without the hassle of being hit on by men who took the sight of a woman drinking on her own in a bar as some sort of invitation. Topless bars were different. Why bother with her when they could ogle all the prime flesh on show instead? An added bonus was never having to wait in line to use the bathroom.

The sound of a saxophone solo filled the room now from hidden speakers. George Michael sang about loneliness and deception, his voice as smooth as silk sheets on naked skin. “Careless Whisper.”