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Dancing with My Elf

by Lisa Carlisle

Salem Supernaturals

A delusional dragon shifter thinks I need his help. Ha. I’m a detective. Why would I need help from an exotic dancer on a case that involves dark magic? We’re searching for demons, not dollars.

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The call about a demon sighting led Nova and me to investigate at a club that could be described as Alice in Muscle-land. Half-naked men with tanned, ripped bodies, danced for women at various tables while another performed on the stage.

In all my time as a detective for the Salem Supernatural Network, I’d never investigated at a venue quite like this. I inhaled, attuned to any unusual scents. Cheap perfume and cheaper beer invaded my nostrils.

Nothing that heightened my wariness of a prowling baddie. The closest dancer wore a silver banana hammock. He rolled his body in some sort of sensual grind that the nearby women responded to with raucous enthusiasm.

After he maneuvered before each one, he slipped away with more dollar bills sticking out of his cloth. Dragging my gaze from that show like a rubbernecker passing a highway pileup, I searched for dark magic or anyone suspicious.

A man wearing tight white spandex shorts with what appeared to be concealing a cucumber welcomed us and took our drink order. The current song faded out, and the cowboy on stage strutted away with far fewer clothes and several more dead presidents dangling from his briefs and boots.

The next song began, “I’m too Sexy.” An attractive guy with blond hair past his chin, dressed as a firefighter walked on stage. He pouted like a model and strutted as if working the catwalk.

Nova dropped her head into her hand. “Oh, no. It’s my tenant Lucas.” She attempted to hide her face but Lucas spotted us and danced in our direction.

Abs. What fine abs.

Focus. I was here to find demons, not conquer my dry spell.