It’s thick in here — that sticky perfume of sin and survival, a humidity made of breath and want and the quiet, exhaustedresignation that comes when you know you’re dying slowly but you’re doing it in stilettos and body glitter and a smile sharp enough to slice through a man’s wallet.
The lights are low and bloody, the kind of red that stains more than it illuminates, casting everything in a warm haze that makes skin glow, makes lies easier to believe, and makes bruises look like deliberate art. The mirrored ceiling above the main stage reflects everything back twice — the girls, the men, the money, the ache — a kaleidoscope of hunger and performance. Suspended in the centre, the giant black cage hangs empty for now, chains clinking softly when the bass trembles through the floor; it won’t stay empty long.
Girls are already working the poles.
Indigo — tall, all legs and attitude, spinning with a precision that says she’d break the pole in half if it dared slow her down.
Cherry — crouched low, heels stabbing into the stage like she’s hunting something and smiling at the thought of catching it.
They’re beautiful.
But it’s a hollow beauty, learned and sharpened and worn like armour. The kind of beauty you build when the world teaches you the only thing worth valuing is the way you arch your back, the curve of your mouth, the sway of your hips.
The bartender catches my eye when I approach — a small tilt of his chin, a softening around the mouth that tells me he knows better than to ask questions — and without a word, he slides me a glass of flat soda with a twist of lime and a shot of sympathy.
I take my place at the far corner of the bar, back to the wall like always, because some habits are survival, not choice.
I watch the men.
The same types every night — business suits with loosened ties, Rolexes glinting under the red lights, wedding rings they forgot (or forgot on purpose) to leave at home. They toss moneylike it’s redemption. They cheer like it’s a game. They look at the girls like they’re starving, like the stage is a buffet laid out for their consumption.
But they never see me.
Not unless I’m bending over their drinks or laughing at their jokes.
And tonight, honestly? I’m grateful.
I don’t want to be seen.
Not after last night.
Not when every part of me still feels like it’s echoing his name, vibrating with the ghost of his hands, aching with the memory of a man who kissed me like he wanted to keep me and then threw me back into the fire.
Dax.
I close my eyes and let out a slow breath that doesn’t calm a damn thing.
God, I can still taste him.
Still feel the weight of his hands — bruises he didn’t leave on my skin but carved straight into bone, deep into the soft places I never let anyone see.
I came here to forget.
But all I’ve done since walking through the door is remember.
I stir my drink with a straw, watching the ice melt into nothing, and try not to think about how easy it would be to disappear in a place like this. How many girls already have. How many more will.
Indigo hops off the stage and sweeps past me, blowing a kiss as she goes. “Cass, baby, you back for real or just slumming it?”
I manage a weak smile. “Little of both.”
She smirks, eyes glittering like she knows exactly what that means, and disappears behind the curtain, her heels clicking out a rhythm like war drums marching toward the night.
The music shifts — slower now, dirtier, something sultry and dangerous that curls around the room like smoke.
The lights dim even lower.
And I wonder — not for the first time — how many pieces I have left before I stop being a person altogether. Before I become just another girl in bunny ears and a tight dress with a laugh that isn’t real and no exit plan.
