Chapter 5
"Ladies!" My boss Chloe clapped her hands to gather everyone in the conference room. "Team building time!"
Every time I hear "team building" I think of trust falls and awkward ice breakers. But at least it's more interesting than watching Mike study crime statistics at home.
"So," Chloe continued, her eyes gleaming with dangerous excitement, "I've booked us VIP seats at Adonis tonight!"
My colleague Sarah nearly spit out her coffee. "Adonis? The male strip club?"
"It's not a strip club, it's a... gentleman's entertainment venue," Chloe corrected. "And it's for research! We're working on the new campaign for that men's underwear brand, remember? We need to understand our target demographic."
This is the most bullshit work excuse I've ever heard, but I'm not complaining. Since marrying Mike, my social life has basically become watching him eat takeout Chinese food while reviewing case files.
"I don't know," I said, suddenly thinking about Mike's potential reaction. "My husband might not be cool with it."
"Your husband?" Emma, our graphic designer, raised an eyebrow. "Girl, you've been married for a month. You're still in the honeymoon phase. He should be happy you're getting out."
"Plus," Sarah added, "it's work. Professional development."
Professional development. Right. Like Mike would buy that excuse. But seriously, for the past month our most exciting evening activity has been going to Publix to buy groceries. Maybe I do need a girls' night out.
"Okay," I said. "But I'm texting him first."
I pulled out my phone:
Jess: "Work team building tonight. Going to a show with the girls. Will be home late!"
Mike: "What kind of show"
Jess: "Just entertainment. Nothing crazy! Love you!"
Mike: "Be safe"
See? He didn't ask more questions, and I didn't volunteer more information. That's marriage compromise, right?
"All set!" I told the girls. "Let's go see some... demographic research."
If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be sitting in a Miami strip club's VIP booth holding a stack of one-dollar bills, I would have called them crazy. But life is unpredictable like that.
"Oh my GOD," Sarah screamed, pointing at a muscle-bound guy on stage wearing a firefighter costume. "He's like a real-life calendar model!"
He is pretty impressive. I mean, professionally speaking. From a marketing perspective. Those abs would definitely sell underwear.
"Jess!" Chloe pushed a cosmopolitan toward me. "You're being too quiet! This is research!"
"I'm researching!" I protested. "I'm just... taking notes. Mental notes."
Actually, I was trying not to think about Mike. This wasn't cheating, right? This was work. Professional development. I was just observing... athletic performance.
The firefighter on stage started removing his clothes, and the music got louder. The girls started screaming and throwing money.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ's voice boomed, "give it up for our newest performer... Officer Hot Stuff!"
A guy in a police uniform walked onto the stage, and my heart rate accelerated. Not because of him, but because the uniform reminded me of Mike.
Okay, this is weird. Watching a fake cop strip while my actual cop husband is somewhere out there fighting real crime. But this is just entertainment, right? Just harmless fun.
"Officer Hot Stuff" began his routine, complete with fake handcuffs and everything. Chloe stood up and started yelling, "Arrest me, officer!"
I laughed, but felt a little uncomfortable. This guy's uniform looked too similar to Mike's.
"Come on, Jess!" Emma grabbed my arm. "Go tip him! It's for the campaign!"
"I don't think—"
"It's research!"
Under peer pressure, I stood up with a few dollar bills in my hand. This was innocent. Just tipping, like at a restaurant.
Except restaurants don't involve oiled-up men in uniform grinding to music. But whatever. When in Rome, right? Or when in strip club for work purposes.
I walked toward the stage edge, planning to quickly drop the money and return to my seat.
That's when all the lights suddenly came on.
The music stopped.
"MIAMI PD! EVERYBODY FREEZE!"
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
A dozen real police officers burst in, holding badges and shouting instructions. This wasn't part of the show. This was a real raid.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a routine inspection," an officer said through a megaphone. "Please remain calm and keep your hands visible."
I stood there, still holding dollar bills, inches away from the half-naked fake cop, trying to process what was happening.
Then I saw him.
Mike.
My husband.
Wearing full police gear, holding his badge, staring directly at me.
Our eyes met, and the entire world stopped.
His expression changed from professional poker face to something between shock, confusion, and... was that anger?
"Jess?" His voice carried over all the noise.
I am going to die. Right here, right now, I am going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. My husband just caught me at a strip club, holding dollar bills, standing next to a guy wearing a fake version of Mike's uniform.
"Mike," I squeaked. "I can explain."
Mike walked over, and each step made me want to dig a hole and disappear into it.
"Ma'am," he said, his voice completely professional, "please step away from the performer."
Ma'am. MA'AM. My own husband just called me ma'am.
"Officer Sullivan," I tried to match his professional tone, "this is a work event."
"Work event," he repeated, his eyes scanning the dollar bills in my hand and the half-naked guy behind me.
How do I explain this? "Oh hey honey, I'm here for professional development, studying how hot men sell underwear"? That sounds insane even to me.
"Detective Sullivan?" Another police officer approached. "You know this... witness?"
Witness. Now I was a witness.
"She's..." Mike paused, and I could see his internal struggle. "She's my wife."