The music shifts to something deeper, darker. Perfect. My gaze drifts over the crowd, not really seeing, just scanning, until—there. A group of four, standing in the middle of the chaos. One in a glowing Pierrot mask, another in a golden wolf guise with rubies for eyes, and the third donning a crystalline mask resembling an evil nun that sparkles when the light hits it.
Now, that’s one way to make an entrance.
But it's the man in the devil mask with curved horns that draws my attention. There's something in the way he stands, completely still, while everyone around him sways to the music.
I twist into my final drop, the silk tightening around my thigh as I spiral down, letting gravity do its thing. The crowd gasps—always does. I land smoothly, a bead of sweat sliding down my neck.
Maybe that’s why I do this.
Because I’m in control. All eyes are on me, so I determine what they do and don’t see. Never had that growing up.
I dismiss the notion as I step off the stage. Then, without missing a beat, I swipe a cocktail from a tray,the ice clinking against my teeth as I take a long sip. Something sharp, cucumber, gin . . . basil?
Whatever.
It’s cold. It’s wet. It'll do.
"Living for the spotlight, aren't we?"
I turn my head, raising a brow. Raiyne’s dressed head-to-toe in green snakeskin, his red hair styled to perfection. He’s magnetic, just like me, though where I glide, he strikes. His eyes glitter with that dangerous edge I’ve come to appreciate since we met a few years ago. Brutality wrapped in finesse.
We’re two sides of the same fucked-up coin, and we've got history—the kind that usually starts and ends in bathrooms. He’s taught me a few things about using my mouth, and I like to think I returned the favor.
"Please, the spotlight lives for me," I say as we arrive at the bar. “How’s the crowd looking?”
“Rich and thirsty.” He stretches his arms above his head so the muscles in his back ripple.
“How's the new routine coming along?"
He leans back against the bar and shrugs. “Eh. Too busy with sports and shit at school. Need more time to practice. Planning on making some tips?”
"Bills don't pay themselves."
Right on cue, the event manager slides up, looking slick, expensive, and slimy. His eyes zero in on me, thenRaiyne. “Platinum members requested a private show. Half a million-dollar membership. You know what that means.”
Private rooms are . . . different from my aerial stuff. "What's the deal?"
“Whatever they want, as long as you consent. They're particularly interested in you, Laurent."
So much for my low-key night. But rent is due, and my savings are still recovering. "Fine, whatever."
Raiyne smirks, bumping my hip. “Don’t sound too excited.”
I snort, flipping him off. “Like I haven’t fucked for a paycheck before. Or a meal.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the hallway. And, for a moment, just a fractional second, my heart kicks up, and my body stiffens. It doesn’t happen often. I’ve learned to control the PTSD—for the most part—but occasionally, the panic and the memories still hit me.
“Well, maybe we’ll just be sucking some dick tonight. Fuck, I hope so. I’ll be making bank then.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
He looks over his shoulder, shooting me that signature mischievous smirk where his nose crinkles slightly. “Didn’t hear you complaining last time. If I recall, you were screaming my name.”
I flip him off again as we step behind the velvet curtain, the party’s noise muffling behind us.
The private room is exactly what you'd expect—all crimson velvet and low lighting, with plush chairs arranged in a semicircle where the four masked men from earlier are seated.
Raiyne’s already at one pole, one hand gliding up like he owns the damn thing, his body moving with that slow, dangerous grace that always gets attention. He winks, and I can’t help but smirk as I take my place on the pole opposite him.
