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as good, and he had nowhere near Rod’s tolerance for solicitation and groping. Lucky was a professional go-go dancer and a show boy. He didn’t do lap dances, and he sure as shit didn’t do escort work, unlike some dancers here. Lucky made his way through the crowd, deciding where to set up. Unlike Rod, he preferred using one of the two dance platforms in the room, liking the clear separation of his space.
    The house DJ dropped a sick beat, and some of Lucky’s frustrations fled. He was here to dance, not bitch. It didn’t matter what else was going on in his life; dancing was the one thing he could count on. He had the best life in the world and a few financially tight months couldn’t change that.
    Moving his hips to the rhythm, he claimed the platform that divided the other seating area from the dance floor. It was ideally suited to catch traffic heading to the bar or the dance floor and to work the party crowd. Lucky took advantage of the sturdy pipe ringing the platform to hang upside down, do a few reverse crunches. That was a good attention getter. Hey, bitches, you’re about to get Lucky. Prepare your wallets because ain’t no better dancer in WeHo.
    Flipping back upright, he started dancing in earnest, surveying his crowd. Damn it—mainly male couples. Those seldom panned out as quality tippers. And these were young couples, all cuddled up and looking like they’d be content to nurse their drinks until it was time to go home and fuck like bunnies. They were also deep in conversation with each other, which was another sign of a lousy shift. And oh hey there, Mr. Adorkable.
    The guy from earlier in the night was one of the few single guys in the group and looked older than most of his friends, but he had one of those faces that could seriously be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five, especially with the hat on. His faded Henley shirt, baggy jeans, and mismatched socks pushed Lucky’s guess closer to thirty. Maybe late twenties and working some kind of tech job out in the burbs and quite possibly never been laid. His tense muscles and shifting eyes said he was intensely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the usual straight-guy-dragged-to-gay-bar discomfort. Guy was absolutely gay or bi. This was more like “I have no idea how to have fun. Someone save me from myself.” And damn if Lucky didn’t find that a little endearing.
    He gave Mr. Adorkable a wink before spinning and giving the guy one of his best twerking sequences. The crowd whooped as Lucky spun back to face them. The guy next to Mr. Adorkable wore a “Birthday Boy” t-shirt. Brother had a smaller blond guy on his lap and the bemused expression of a guy well on his way to getting smashed. He jostled his boy until the guy bounded off his lap, cheeks pink, and put a tightly folded bill in the waistband of Lucky’s briefs.
    The blonde returned to the birthday boy’s lap amid many hoots and hollers. With the attention still somewhat on him, Lucky went for a bit of wall twerking, and a few of the birthday boy’s friends tipped while Lucky was still upside down. Someone brought a round of shots over, and the birthday boy got a gleam in his eyes. He pulled a five out of his pocket before grabbing a shot. He nudged Mr. Adorkable. “Shot or you have to tip the dancer.”
    â€œAnd if I want neither?” Damn. The guy had the nicest voice Lucky had ever heard from a white guy—rich and deep with enough grit to keep things interesting, but a smooth delivery that could get the guy any radio job he wanted.
    â€œShot. Or. Tip.” Yeah, birthday boy was toasted. But so were his friends, who joined the chant until the guy twitched nervously. He looked up at Lucky, a plea in his eyes.
    â€œShot’s gonna burn. I won’t.” Lucky winked at him again. Sorry, buddy, I’m not saving your cute ass.
    Guy blushed way harder than the birthday boy’s boy toy had as he