Vicki maneuvered her car into the only open space outside Hypnotic Encounters. The flashing neon sign, depicting a n***d lady falling into a martini glass, illuminated the slush-covered front entrance.
She slipped on a patch of ice as she reached to open the front doors to the club and her hand slid right off, breaking one of her Pampering Pink–colored fingernails. She flapped her hand to help lessen the sting. When the pain subsided, she opened the door, and a large man in a blue shirt adorned with the strip club’s girl-in-a-martini logo greeted her, the ear-piercing thump of “When Doves Cry” filling the venue as Vicki could see the profile of a girl grinding on the pole to the beat.
“ID, please,” he said.
Vicki reached into her back pocket—her broken nail snagging on the fabric of her
