Tonight was different. A man in an oyster-gray suit sat alone in the VIP booth, nursing a single malt. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the stage, but he wasn’t watching the girls. He was watching the sightlines, the exits, the way Lana’s hand never strayed far from the panic button under the bar.
The man smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m looking for someone. She used to go by Lana Rhoades. Pretty, vulnerable, made men do very stupid things.”
He knew.
The bass dropped. The neon hummed. And Lana realized her past had just walked in the door, wearing an oyster-gray suit and holding all the answers she’d tried to bury.