The rip in the upholstery of one of the VIP booths had been repaired nicely and the tabletop scarring had been polished out. He liked when his orders were followed. It made everything much easier. “I’ll be in my office,” he called to the floor manager who’d been speaking with Roseanne, his lead dancer. The Dollhouse was a burlesque club. While in the over two years since he’d opened, several others had cropped up in Vegas, the Dollhouse still reigned. It was his club people waited in line to get into. His club whose bottle service tables were booked up to six months in advance. His club the young, rich and hip had made their living room while in Las Vegas. And to think he’d nearly opened a dance club in Boston. Another techno club with overpriced drinks. He’d have made it a success, it was who he was. But if that faithless bitch hadn’t tried to con his mother, he’d have never made this dream come true. A steaming mug of tea waited for him on his desk as he let the leather of his chair embrace his body.
