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My buddy surprises me by applauding even louder.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. Last weekend with one of my basketball buddies. One visit, and I knew I had to come back. We’ll see if you feel the same.”

On that cryptic note, he leans back in his chair and focuses on the stage, leaving me no choice but to do the same. I nervously bite into a stalk of celery and wonder why the hell I’m keyed up.

“A lot of returning friends here tonight,” the emcee praises. “Always good to see you. And who are our virgins? Raise your hand. Don’t be shy.”

When I sit quietly, Bas kicks me under the table. Grudgingly, I lift my arm above my head. The spotlight zips around the room and zeroes in on me before highlighting a few others, then returning to our host.

“Excellent. Let’s get your cherry popped. Who’s ready for a great show?”

If anything, the decibel level goes up again. People, especially men, are excited. My disquiet returns in earnest.

“Then get ready for the Bawdy Boudoir Burlesque Revue!”

Music fills the air—trombones and saxophones mostly—giving the old music a lively, sexy vibe. Then the curtains part, and an artificial redhead hustles onto the stage in a stark black pea coat, a top hat, and heels. Behind her, a dozen women all dressed in French maid costumes cluster around her. The live horn section goes silent before prerecorded music fills the speakers around the club. It’s whimsical and cheeky and suggestive as hell, especially when the redhead peels off her coat and tosses it aside, revealing a glitter-studded bra and thong, then proceeds to undress even more until she’s covered only by a pair of feather dusters and a couple of pasties.

“Burlesque?” I raise a brow across the table at Sebastian. “This is what you think I need to see?”

He nods, barely taking his eyes off the stage.

“Bas, I don’t need to gawk at half-naked women.”

“Keep watching. It’ll get better.”

In what way?

As soon as the nearly naked redhead flounces off stage, her pale ass swishing to the closing beats of the music, another horde of women race front and center, dressed in what I can only describe as Flamenco garb—ruffled skirts, low-cut necklines, and bright red lipstick. A Latina beauty shimmies her way on stage, dressed in a skimpier, drop-dead red costume. A shirtless beefcake follows in her wake. They dance together…if you can call it that. It looks like vertical, rhythmic sex to me.

I don’t want this woman, but I sure would like some action. Unfortunately, right now I can’t picture doing it with anyone except Nia.

After a striptease down to a G-string and some swinging tassels, the brunette and her partner tango out of sight, littering the floor with glitter and sequins.

The waitress slides by in silence and brings both Bas and me another drink as the Latin dancers are replaced by a busty blonde barmaid in a parody of traditional German garb. A corset thrusts her boobs up, and her skirt looks indecently short. Her white knee socks are a schoolgirl throwback and utterly at odds with her shiny black heels. She carries two big steins as she skips to a cluster of men in the corner whose tongues practically hang from their mouths. Instead of setting the big mugs down, she turns and bends, wriggling her backside and revealing a tiny thong. One bare cheek is painted with the word Spank. The other reads Me. The middle-aged man closest to her happily complies.

A few minutes later, the barmaid is replaced by an Asian woman wearing a dress in transparent green vinyl. She stirs a giant pot like a mad scientist with a seemingly evil smile, then leads one of the male dancers clad in a business suit into her lair, tossing off her dress and tempting him with come-hither glances until he dives into her concoction and emerges wet and horny and nearly naked. Another sex-standing-up number ensues.

I still don’t know why Bas insisted I come. All the sexual reminders are only revving me up.

As the latest duo leaves the stage, I reach for a couple of bills in my wallet. “Thanks for an interesting evening, but I think I’m going to call an Uber and head home. It’s getting late, and I’m tired.”

“Tired?” he parrots. “It’s barely eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.”

I shrug. “I haven’t slept much.”

Try not at all. Instead of seeing Becca all around the apartment, I’m now imagining Nia. In my kitchen. In my bedroom. In my bed.

Why the hell can’t I think of anything except her?

“Give me until midnight. It will make sense by then.”

I’m not wavering. “I’m done.”

Suddenly, he shoots me a challenging grin. “That supplier you hate dealing with so much—what’s his name?”

“Bill Rhodes.”