As is my habit, this story is the first in a series and is intended to set up the next chapter. I hope I've done well enough to hook you into reading the second chapter when it is posted.
While this story is inspired by real events which happened many years ago, it is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person is coincidental and unintended. Comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable, are always welcome. Thank you for reading this.
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After going to law school and then spending a year working for a federal judge in the South, I decided that I wanted to return to my hometown in the lower Midwest. I was fortunate to be hired as an associate by Sparks, Herman & Mann. SHM had about 120 lawyers, and slightly more staff, spread over six floors in a relatively new downtown office tower. There was also a satellite office in the state capital, a couple hours' drive to the north.
As a new lawyer, I mainly did legal research and document review. In the latter function, I worked with several of the Firm's paralegals. In case you don't know, a paralegal is someone, typically with an associate or bachelor's degree, who is not a lawyer but who has some knowledge of and training in the legal system. Paralegals perform tasks under the "supervision" of licensed lawyers. In truth, the more experienced paralegals knew a hell of a lot more about how litigation and the courthouse worked than us young lawyers.
I was assigned as the most junior lawyer on a team in the Firm defending a large hospital system in a huge False Claims Act case. Without going into boring detail, the False Claims Act lets anyone sue a vendor who has overcharged the federal government. The damages are a multiple of the overcharge amount, plus penalties, plus attorney's fees. The person who files the suit and the Government share any recovery. This case alleged that the hospital system had overcharged Medicare and Medicaid systematically for years. There were many millions potentially at stake.
The plaintiff in our case had gotten a court order allowing her access to the hospital system's records on thousands of patients. That raised huge issues concerning the privacy of the patients, who were not parties to the case. I was responsible for ensuring that every page of every patient's chart was reviewed and that any information which might identify the patient was deleted, or "redacted," from the copies of the charts which would be produced to the plaintiff. That's how I met Denise Hines.
Denise was an SHM paralegal. She was about my age, 26, and about my height, just under six feet. That was where the resemblances ended. Denise had wavy blonde hair which she wore cut just above her shoulders. She had a somewhat round face; very blue eyes; prominent cheekbones; a small, pert nose; a strong chin; and a wide, sensuous mouth. Despite the conservative clothes Denise wore to work, it was obvious that she had a very attractive, athletic, body.
Denise was assigned to help me redact the records. The records were digitized and stored on two computers, not connected to the Internet, in a locked room which the Firm rented in an older building across the street from the Firm's offices. You needed a keycard to enter or exit that room, which generated a record of who went in and out and when. Denise and I were together in that room eight to ten hours a day for months.
Over the first couple of weeks, I learned that Denise was bright, with a good sense of humor and a pleasant personality. She was from a city about 50 miles northwest of town and had gotten her bachelor's at the local state university. SHM had hired her straight out of college. Her goal was to work at the Firm long enough to save the money that would let her go to law school.
Being together as much as we were five days per week, Denise and I were either going to annoy the crap out of each other or become friends. Fortunately, we became friends. After a couple of weeks, we were eating lunch together several times a week. I learned that Denise played tennis and liked to kayak. She learned that I had wrestled at 197 in college, although I'd gotten out of shape since given the time demands of law school and starting a career.
"You don't look out of shape," Denise had said, smiling.
Did that mean she was interested in me? I'd become very attracted to Denise. She was a great person, I thought, and drop-dead gorgeous. I went back and forth in my mind for over a week before, one Thursday, I mustered the courage to ask her out the following Saturday.
A slightly sad look came over Denise's face. "Harry, I'd love to, but I have a second job. I work nights most Fridays and Saturdays. I'm working this weekend."
Denise didn't tell me what she did as a second job. I didn't ask. If she wanted me to know, she'd tell me. I assumed that she bartended or waitressed somewhere. I doubted that she'd want people she knew at the Firm hanging around at her other job distracting her or trying to get her to comp them a drink.
We'd started reviewing and redacting patient records in March. By early May, we were more than halfway through the project. We'd learned early on that the old building we were in didn't have very effective heating. An unusually warm first week of May taught us that the AC was equally bad. Denise and I discussed wearing tee shirts and shorts to work but dismissed the idea. The partner in charge of the case occasionally showed up in our work area unannounced. SHM was a very conservative firm. We both feared getting into trouble for being "unprofessionally dressed" at work. We dressed as lightly as we thought we could get away with. That confirmed my belief that Denise had a stunning body.
I said SHM was in my hometown. I actually grew up about twenty miles east of the city in an area that had been rural but had since become suburban. An old high school buddy called me in mid-May wanting to meet up. Given my less than dynamic social life, I agreed.
I met Brett that Saturday night at a pizzeria out in our old stomping grounds. We drank a few beers, ate pizza, and caught up. While I'd done seven years of school after high school, Brett had done two years of trade school. He was now a licensed electrician and, if his Ram pick-up was any indicator, was doing much better than I was.
It was around 9:00 p.m. It had been nice to see Brett again, but I was thinking about going home. I had about a 45-minute drive back to my apartment. Thinking that I was wrapping things up, I commented that area didn't seem to have changed much in nine years.
"Lots has changed," Brett replied. "For instance, you know the big plant out in New Bethel closed back in '09? Well someone opened up a bar in one of the buildings out there that has nude dancers."
That was surprising. The area had always been conservative. Back in school, the teachers had reminded us weekly that we needed to go to church on Sundays and Wednesday nights. None of the few stores that had magazines had ever carried Playboy.
After a moment, Brett said, "Hey, let's drive out there and see some naked pussy."
I really didn't want to. New Bethel was another ten miles east, and I cringed at the thought of who would dance nude in a redneck place like that. Brett, however, was insistent. I finally agreed.
Most of the factory site had been cleared. What remained was a single-story concrete block building that had a long front facing the road. The building had no windows but illuminated beer signs on either side of a solid steel door made clear this was a bar. The gravel parking lot was about 75% full, with a lot of pick-up trucks but also BMWs and Subarus. I reluctantly followed Brett to the door. Shitkicker bars out in the boonies were something I'd gladly left behind when I'd gone to college.
Inside was a shock given the grim exterior. The bar had more light than I expected. The tables and chairs looked new, clean, and unabused. The floor was finished concrete, but my shoes didn't stick as I walked. A long bar with, maybe, thirty different taps on the wall behind it ran the length of the room to my left. A low stage was built against the wall to my right. A half dozen female waitresses circulated among the tables in uniforms that had obviously been copied from Hooters.
The tables were all taken but Brett and I found seats at the bar. A cute redheaded barmaid got me a glass of Boddington's draft and charged me fifteen dollars. I'd just taken a sip of my beer when a voice came over the PA saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for our ten o'clock show." The announcement was understated, not hyped. Looking around, I saw, of course, predominantly men but also a reasonable number of women.
Music started, thankfully not painfully loud. A slender brunette came onstage. This was not a strip bar; the girl came onstage completely nude save for a garter. The dancer was much more attractive than I'd expected. Watching her dance, I thought that the girl had some ballet training. She was also amazingly flexible and frequently extended a leg into the air over her head or above her shoulders. Those moves had the effect of exposing her fully to the audience. I assumed that was the point.
The brunette danced three songs. After each song, she walked around the edge of the stage taking cash and putting the bills in her garter in time-honored stripper fashion. The brunette was followed on stage by a very well-built black girl. Her dancing was more athletic and less artistic than the first dancer but was equally effective in showing us all her body. She was worth seeing.
I like nude women at least as much the average heterosexual guy. But I've never been a big fan of strip clubs. Although the dancers are the ones who are naked, I always feel it is the customers getting screwed. You overpay for 'look but don't dare touch.' I'd finished my beer and was about to leave when the third dancer came on stage.
The third dancer was a stunningly beautiful blonde. She reminded me of Denise Hines. The longer I watched, the more I thought she looked like Denise. Of course, that was absurd. Denise was a paralegal at Sparks, Herman & Mann. She was classy and a college graduate. Denise wouldn't be dancing nude in a concrete-block bar out in the sticks. Besides, I'd only seen Denise clothed. How could I say that a nude dancer looked like her? I could only guess what Denise looked like naked. Still, I couldn't shake the thought that the dancer looked a hell of a lot like Denise.
The blonde's dancing wasn't as balletic as the first dancer or as assertively athletic as the black girl. I guess I'd compare the blonde's dancing to college cheerleaders or a college dance team. Like the two previous dancers, the blonde made sure that the audience saw every part of her body. However, while the previous dancers had been good-looking, the blonde was gorgeous. She gave the impression that she was really having fun. Although I'd intended to leave, the blonde was like a magnet holding me there.
The blonde dancer's resemblance to Denise Hines bugged me. During her third dance, I pulled a bill out of my wallet and walked over to the stage. I stood against the back wall of the room, next to the entrance from the back onto the stage. The blonde would have to pass me as she made her exit. I hoped that the bill in my hand would make me look like another guy waiting to tip her rather than a creep about to molest her. I just wanted to satisfy myself that the blonde dancer wasn't really Denise.
