Slow, bass-heavy music thrummed through the floor of the room, every beat pulsating, giving a rhythm to the dancers'. Each one had several admirers, the men all watching their every move. Even though nothing about the main section of the building was nice--dirty carpeting, dingy orange paint on the walls, and other things that were there but that no one wanted to mention--many people ail came by every night. It was well known that at least a quarter of the strip club's profit went to the local mob as protection money, and that the higher members of it pretty much had their pick of the dancers and could get them for free. Only one of the dancers was given th privelage to choose whom he took to his private room. He was easily the best dancer--every week, he took lessons, improving his technique and leaning how to give better lap dances. He had black hair, pure white skin, and pretty hazel eyes. At the club, he was known as Henri, but that wasn't his real name. Oliver was it, but no one besides the owner of the club knew it. That night, he was dancing, moving to the beat of the music, his lithe, fit body bare to his audience, many of them regulars. Swinging his hips sensuously, he bent slightly, his back to his audience, giving them a perfect view of his ass. A while later, he was finished, having made a lot of money in tips,and went to his private room to change. Once he was dressed in tight black pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, he went to the main floor, where he was greeted by men wanting to buy him drinks at the bar. H politely declined them all, looking around for a guy h hadn't seen before who was particularly handsome. Little Did he know that the man was the boss of the local mob.