There was a long list of places Logan would rather be, especially on a Monday night. It wasn't that he'd never frequented strip bars, but they'd never really been his thing. He liked regular bars where the women were rowdy and had the brass to demand what they wanted. The fake desire of these girls who danced for money had always seemed too contrived to him. He'd much rather be getting smacked in the face by some broad who thought he'd gone too far. At least that was honest. And in his experience it hardly meant they wouldn't end up going home with him at the end of the night either. Strippers were too submissive anyway, playing out the fantasy with dead eyes and overly practiced artifice.
It was worse now that he had feral senses. It was downright eerie to see these women going through the motions of desire while they stank of hatred, disgust, contempt, or worse, even despair. Logan would be hard pressed to find a combination less conducive to a good time than this. Besides, he had a woman now. There was nothing here that he wanted.
But this wasn't about him. Oh, no. He'd had the brilliant idea to spend some quality time with his boy Karr, and this had been what Karr had wanted to do, to check out this Camelot place. Logan should have known better. He hadn't known this was a strip joint or he might have stopped for a beer on the way and picked a fight somewhere else just so he could do the one thing that seemed to bring father and son together without distraction. A good, old fashioned bar brawl. The trashier the place and the more redneck the clientele the better. Hell, if Logan had known what he was going to encounter here tonight, he would have gladly picked a fight with a biker gang instead.
He scowled at the coat check person as he shoved Karr through the door ungently. He looked at the stage, where two women were currently making out, but there was no spark of recognition, not visually at least. The place reeked of desperation, horny males and disinterested females. Logan reached for a cigar in his jacket pocket when a familiar scent hit him like a ton of bricks. He froze with the cigar halfway to his mouth, but it wasn't because he'd suddenly remembered New York's non-smoking law. No, it was because he'd recognized the scent as Laura's. His brain desperately tried to offer him alternatives, but a quick glance at the waitresses flitting about told him none of them were his daughter. His daughter was here.
Logan's eyes shot back to the stage. His hand closed into a white-knuckled fist. He crushed the cigar in his hand and didn't even notice.