Like most high-end nude clubs in Las Vegas, the Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge had many private rooms which were furnished as bedrooms, complete with queen-sized beds. No one ever slept in these rooms. They were meant to afford customers the opportunity to lie down as their chosen dancer performed and ground up against them, making fantasies come true. As long as no actual sexual activity took place, no laws were being broken. And, the club's motto was "The most fun you'll have with your clothes on." They had to deliver on that promise.

Jersey was in one of these private rooms, horizontal and face down on a middle-aged executive of some sort, moving her body in rhythm with the music. Her customer, who'd been too shy to interact with her much in the club's main room, was now moaning with pleasure. Anyone who didn't know better would think Jersey and the executive were actually having sex. The fact one of the parties still had on all their clothes might dispel this notion.

Jersey kissed the executive's neck and then pressed her nose against the woman's auburn hair, inhaling deeply. She then lowered her lips next to her ear.

"Hmm," she moaned in her husky voice, thrusting her pelvis in time with the music. "Lavender."

The executive, who initially hadn't moved, was now living in the moment, trying to touch every bit of Jersey she could reach. Jersey encouraged the exploration, wondering if the woman would have an orgasm or if her head would explode. The former sometimes happened. She had yet to witness the latter ... small favors.

This customer had paid for a three-song private dance. Knowing all three songs by heart, Jersey had long perfected her routine and its conclusion. Just after the final note, she smoothly rose off the bed. The executive still lay there, catching her breath. Jersey checked her hair and makeup in a nearby mirror, pretending not to notice the customer casting admiring glances at her bare derriere.

Finally, the executive rose from the bed as well. She pulled her dark suit jacket back on and fished in her purse, pulling out three twenty-dollar bills and pressing them in Jersey's hand.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

Jersey was definitely "gay-for-pay," but she knew how to sell herself so this wouldn't be obvious. She'd dared to give a woman a lap dance for the first time fourteen months ago, back in Reno. Since then, she'd entertained about a dozen women, a small number considering she gave private dances to at least a dozen men per night.

Jersey watched the executive leave, wondering what kind of life she was going back to. She'd seen the thin, gold band on her finger and doubted her spouse was also female. Out lesbians were not as nervous as she'd been at their first meeting a little while earlier. No, this woman was spending one evening living a dream the rest of her life denied her. She was probably from out of town.

Jersey went back into the dressing room and secured her tip in her locker. She then grabbed a bottle of water and began taking large gulps. Pretend-screwing was hard work.

She'd taken a week off after Britney's murder. She then couldn't stand staying home anymore and had been back at work for another week. Much as it did for its customers, the Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge was able to take her away from the real world, if only for a little while at a time. She still missed her friend.

The Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge's management lived without fresh profits for three days before the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department was convinced the club held no clues to Britney's murder. Patrons were once again admitted about two seconds after the last cop left.

Jersey's blog post about Britney's murder had gotten one hundred thousand hits in less than a week. Reporters began calling the club, hoping to interview Jersey. At least one press man had come in person, but she'd been too busy and he was ejected when a bartender recognized him. Jersey had made it clear in a follow-up post she wouldn't give any interviews. The club's management, though delivering some minor admonishment for her blogging bringing them this sort of attention, nevertheless cooperated with her wishes. After all, one of their dancers was a victim in a rather sensational murder on property they did own.

Jersey cast a longing look around the dressing room, empty at that moment. In how many workplaces would it be acceptable to spend your break chatting with your equally-nude friend. Neither of them were interested in each other that way, though they sometimes performed together on stage for the same reason Jersey gave private dances to women. Even split fifty-fifty and accounting for the club's cut, the tips were enormous after such shows. With Britney, Paige truly experienced and appreciated the phrase "make it rain." She never wanted to hear those words again.

"There you are," someone said.

Jersey turned to see a waitress by the door to the large dressing room.

"What's up?" she queried.

"We've got a whale," the waitress replied. "Management set him up in the back and he requested you. Says he saw you on stage earlier."

Jersey knew she couldn't refuse this. A Whale in the back meant not just a VIP, but a Very, Very Important Person. They probably hadn't needed to enter via the front doors, instead being ushered in through a separate, private entrance few people even knew existed.

"Any idea who it is?" Jersey asked, curious. She drank the rest of her water.

"No clue," the waitress replied. "Young guy. He's got a couple of friends with him."

The Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge did not admit anyone under twenty-one and security was good about spotting fake IDs, but this still left delicious possibilities. Young guys generally came with trust funds or similar sources of spare cash, and they were more careless with where the money went. Earning a thousand dollars within the next hour was not out of the question, and Jersey was already factoring in the club's cut, applicable to any funds received which exceeded a hundred bucks.

"Let's go," she said.

* * *

The "bac" of the Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge was an ultra-private suite for the wealthy and powerful. Jersey had been back there a few times, sometimes alone and sometimes as part of a group of requested dancers. She'd once entertained a member of the Presidential Cabinet there, needing to sign a confidentiality agreement beforehand. She could still draw a chuckle from the memory of how nervous that aide had been when asking her to sign the document while trying not to be obvious about staring at her body.

The suite was two stories. Upstairs resembled a skybox, like those found at most sports venues, giving the VVIP patron an unobstructed view of the dancers on stage through one-way glass. Many dancers speculated it was the only space in the club where customers got away with masturbating during the shows.

The first floor consisted of two rooms. One was furnished like a den while the other was a bedroom, both meant for private dances. The suite had its own bar, restroom, and bouncer, leaving no need for its exclusive occupants to mingle with the "commoners" in the rest of the Topaz Gentlemen's Lounge.

The bouncer assigned to keep an eye on the suite was always stationed at the end of the hallway leading to this special domain. Tonight, that bouncer was Matt. Jersey smiled at the burly, now-retired cop who was her favorite among the security staff. He gave her a nod in return.

A young man was waiting at the entrance of the suite. Jersey thought he looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He smiled as she approached. He definitely looked college-age and Jersey smiled back, trying to determine how to best separate him from his money.

"Come on in," the young man said. "He's waiting."

Wondering what that meant, Jersey followed him into the suite.

Another young man was sitting on the couch in the middle of the room. He too looked familiar, though Jersey couldn't recall specifics about him either. He also looked both surprised and happy to see her. She figured this was due to her already being naked. He'd probably missed her show earlier.

Sitting at the bar off to the side was a third young man. He was tall and dark-haired with fine features and Jersey definitely recognized him. Simon Clemons, son of Nevada Governor Roofus Clemons and a senior at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.

"Hey there," Simon said, taking a gulp of his drink.

Jersey remembered. Five months ago, she and Violet were brought to the suite for this same group. It'd been after one of their faux-lesbian shows. Violet took the governor's son into the bedroom while Jersey had entertained the young man now sitting in that same spot on the couch. She could not remember his name. The third man, the one who'd greeted her tonight, hadn't gotten a dance and hadn't seemed disappointed as he drank and watched that night.

"Evening, gentlemen," Jersey said, gazing at each of them in turn. "What would you like?"
"Nick here is now twenty-three," Simon said, gesturing at the man on the couch. "Think you can show him a good time in the bedroom?"

He gestured at the nearby open door.

"Sure," Jersey agreed. She walked up to Nick and held out her hand, the shooting star visible on the inside of her forearm. Nick seemed dumbstruck.

"You ready," Jersey queried with her best, sultry smile.

Unable to speak, Nick nodded and rose, taking her hand. Jersey figured, even with having Simon Clemons as a friend, he was not often led into a bedroom by a naked woman, let alone a knockout.

They walked into this bedroom, where she guided him backwards until he had to sit and then lie on the bed.

"Just relax and enjoy," she said, mounting him so her lips were an inch from his. "Let me wish you a Happy Birthday."

She reached towards the nightstand, on which a small remote was mounted. Without needing to look at the stationary control, she pushed the largest button and music began playing. As Nick wrapped his arms around her, Jersey began to move, her body riving and gyrating against him.

"That's right," she encouraged, feeling him trace the outline of Saturn on her lower back, the ceiling-mounted mirror helping him stay on the lines. "Have fun. Explore."

Nick moaned as she nuzzled his cheek. As Jersey began a series of staccato thrusts, he rubbed her back. She emitted a well-timed subtle moan of her own.

Nick was breathing heavily as he moved his hands up and ran them through her hair. For a moment, Jersey feared he'd discover she was wearing a Whig, but he seemed to miss this fact. Her brunette hair was money well spent.

Nick was staring at her and Jersey thought she detected more than lust in his eyes. Could he have developed a crush on her since their last meeting? She did come to the suite tonight because she'd been requested.

Jersey had been on the receiving end of customers' infatuations before. Engaging them while naked had its risks. One man stalked her because he believed she'd become his girlfriend after one conversation about his passion for planes. He was at the club for all her shifts for two weeks, always requesting her and getting angry when she was with another customer. He was arrested for assault after punching a bouncer who came to eject him.

Jersey doubted this kid would be a threat. He was thin and definitely shy. He'd be happy with the memories she created. She found his puppy-dog crush a little endearing.
The song finished and Jersey got up as smoothly as ever. If they had a stronger connection than anyone else, she couldn't tell. Nick was still sprawled on the bed, much like all her satisfied customers. The difference was the applause.

Jersey looked towards the door to see Simon Clemons standing there, clapping and grinning.

"Very nice," Simon said, coming closer. "What you've got in looks, you match with technique. And, let me tell you that you are quite something to look at."

His eyes roaming over her body, he stepped up to Jersey and slapped her rear. Jersey took a step back.

"You ever give really private parties?" Simon asked, licking his lips. "I can make it worth your while."

Jersey shook her head.

"I don't do that," she said.

"Shame," Simon said with a shrug. "I went with your friend for a while. Gotta say ... Getting in her from behind and seeing that long, purple hair ... it drove me crazy. It was easy to show her a good time."

He surveyed her again. Jersey cringed at the reference. He had to be talking about Britney.

"I don't think I could imagine what it would be like with you," Simon continued, stepping closer again. "That body art, from any angle ... that's gotta be an experience."

"I don't do that," Jersey repeated.

"I could make you squeal. I always had to shove something in the other girl's mouth or she'd wake up the whole neighborhood. The ball gag was her preference, and whom am I to deny a lady's needs."

Alarms blaring in her head, Jersey flashed back to the garage. She could see Britney's brutalized body. The sedan's entire rear was covered with her shredded clothes, blood, and hair. There had been something in her mouth. Jersey was now sure she knew what it was. She studied Simon.

"I really don't do that," she said in the most confident tone she could muster. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to leave, please."

Simon nodded.

"Sure," he said, stepping out of her way. "I'll thank you on Nick's behalf. I think he's still trying to recover. A testament to your excellent skills, I'd say."

He smiled as he watched her leave the suite.

* * *

Paige got dressed and claimed to have a headache to get permission to slip out a little early that night. As she drove, she reflected how Britney had used a similar excuse the night she was murdered. What had her real intentions been?

Using her phone, she found the nearest police station as the sun rose. She hurried inside, startling the officer behind the desk in the lobby.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Fishing in her purse, Paige found Detectives Baxter's and Connors's business cards. She slapped them down on the desk.

"I need to speak to one of them," she insisted. She had no idea if either worked in this specific building. But, it was the closest to the crime scene.

The officer looked at the cards.

"Take a seat," he said, waving at some nearby chairs.

Supposing this was a good sign, Paige sank into a chair in the middle of the row. For the first time she could recall, she was not tired after a long shift.

* * *

Almost an hour later, Paige was led into a gray interview room, which only had a table and four chairs. A few minutes later, Detective Baxter, the older, gray-haired cop from the garage, entered.

"What can we do for you?" he queried.

Paige wondered if it was possible for him to sound any less interested about receiving an actual answer to his query.

"I'm here about Britney's murder," she said.

"Britney?" Detective Baxter asked.

Paige was stunned.

"She was murdered in the garage," she said. "Someone raped and murdered her."

The police had since disclosed that evidence on Britney's body suggested sexual assault.

Detective Baxter nodded.

"I know who killed her," Paige said.

"And who would that be?" Detective Baxter asked. His tone indicated his doubt about her having solved this crime.

Paige took a deep breath, knowing how crazy she might sound.

"Simon Clemons," she said.

"The governor's son?" Detective Baxter asked.

"Yes. He came to the club tonight and said something to me. I think he did it."

"What did he say?"

Paige recounted the encounter at the club, not glossing over any details. She was not ashamed that she took her clothes off and ground against people for money.

"There was a ball gag in Britney's mouth, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," Detective Baxter said. "Doesn't prove anything though."

"What? How many people walk around with those in their pockets?"

"In your line of work, I'm sure there are a few."

Paige gritted her teeth.

"He knew about it though," she pointed out.

Detective Baxter shrugged.

"According to you, he admitted to being in a relationship with her as well," he countered. "He could have known it that way."

Paige couldn't calculate the odds of Britney being in a relationship that involved a ball gag and being killed by someone different who also had this handy. She'd known a woman who liked those and admitted her own distaste for the fetish a while back.
"Simon Clemons isn't clean," Paige said, trying a different approach. "That freshman swimmer at UNLV. Last year, she accused him of stalking and raping her."

It'd been a minor news story the previous year. Many had hoped the governor's son would be arrested.

"He was never even charged," Detective Baxter pointed out. "The school didn't even find enough evidence to do anything. Like your friend, that girl had three boyfriends."

Paige worked to digest this.

"Did you know your friend was pregnant?" the detective asked.

"What?" Paige asked. "No."

"She was carrying a fresh bun for about two months."

Paige was both happy and upset to hear this.

"There's your motive," she said. "The Clemons family has money. Britney was in a relationship
with Simon Clemons. When she found out she was pregnant, she probably told him and demanded financial support. How would it look in the media if the governor's son impregnates a stripper?"

"You're still fishing," Detective Baxter said, beginning to sound exasperated. "We've already found five other men who your friend was trying to seduce. She was fleecing everybody for cash."

Paige wouldn't admit that this was all probably true. Britney had been determined to snare a rich husband.

"I'm not going after a governor's kid without a lot more proof," Detective Baxter said. "Come back when you've got something that won't waste my time."

Paige worked hard not to cry. She'd expected some skepticism, not outright dismissal.

"Oh," Detective Baxtor said, turning towards the door, "I wouldn't be repeating all this if I were you. Slander is a serious matter and the governor has plenty of money to finance a hefty lawsuit on behalf of his kid."