Scattered Glitter (Glimmer & Gleam Duet #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Novalee

Every bad decision I’ve ever made started with a night like this—thick air, quiet streets, and a twin sister who should’ve stayed home.

At night, Phoenix feels like a secret, the kind that promises trouble if you’re stupid enough to go looking for it. Rosalee and I walk side by side down the cracked sidewalk while she tugs nervously at her glittery jacket, her eyes darting to every shadow as if something might jump out at us.

She’s always been like this, ever since we were kids—cautious and careful. Meanwhile, I’ve always been the one dragging her into trouble. We balance each other out, her caution and my recklessness.

“Can we go home already?” she pleads. “I really want to stay with this family until we age out. I’m so done with moving around.”

I scoff, waving a hand as if to brush away her worries. “Oh, come on, they don’t even know we’re gone.” I try to sound carefree, but my words only make her frown deepen.

That’s my sister, constantly worrying about the consequences .

I’ve never been that way. Consequences are a problem for tomorrow’s Novalee. Tonight’s Novalee wants to feel something other than the dull ache of routine.

“Yeah, it’s not like we have a reputation or anything,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. Her sarcasm hides her concern, but I know she’s probably right.

Still, I grin and bump her shoulder with mine, trying to lighten the mood. “ I have a reputation. You can stay home if you want.” I say it lightly, but a part of me wishes she would. Rosalee doesn’t belong in these places, these sketchy corners I drag her into.

She’s too good, too pure.

She’s also stubborn as hell.

“As if I’d let you go out and do shit without me,” she mutters but then laughs, the tension easing from her face as she hooks her pinky around mine. “From the cradle to the grave, remember?”

I squeeze her pinky, feeling that familiar swell of love for her. “Yeah, I remember.” And I do. Rosalee has always been there. She’s my constant, my mirror image. Even when we’re at odds, she’s the one steady thing in my life. “Seriously, you worry too much. This neighborhood’s not so bad.”

Rosalee glances around, her brow furrowed with doubt. “This place looks sketchy as hell.”

“That’s because you don’t know it yet,” I say, shrugging. “You were never afraid in the last place we lived.”

We went out like this almost every night, but it was different there. It felt more like a home, even if it was temporary. We had friends, people who watched out for us. Here, we’re two more faces in a sea of strangers.

No one knows us. No one cares.

“True,” she admits, but her eyes still dart around nervously. “This place looks even rougher, though.”

“Maybe next time you shouldn’t wear your glittery jacket when we sneak out,” I tease, nudging her with my elbow. “You’re shining like a disco ball.”

She huffs and lets go of my pinky to tug the jacket tighter around her. “Not everyone’s favorite color can be black.”

I laugh, a genuine one that’s swallowed by the empty street. “Touché.”

Rosalee sees the world in colors, sparkles, and glitter while I see it in shades of gray and black.

As we walk, the distant thrum of a bass beat reaches my ears, growing louder with every step. I perk up, my senses honing in on the source of the sound as I increase my pace. “That sounds fun.”

Rosalee hesitates, her steps slowing as she grabs my hand. “You don’t know that. Maybe they’re all criminals.”

“Come on. Let’s at least have a look.”

We follow the music until we turn a corner and spot a garage with its doors wide open and neon lights spilling out onto the street. It’s packed with people, some around our age, others older, their silhouettes moving and swaying to the beat of the music.

Rosalee hangs back, her hand gripping mine tighter. “I think I was right.”

“Well, maybe we look like criminals to them,” I joke, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

We stand there for a moment, taking in the scene. People laughing, dancing, and living in the moment. I feel a pull, a strange sense of belonging, and I’m about to step forward when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! You two wanna join, or are you just gonna stand there judging us?”

I turn to see a guy leaning casually against the garage wall. He pushes himself off and walks over to us, his gaze locking onto me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat .

He’s about our age, maybe a little older, and he’s cute in a rugged sort of way. He’s got a mop of unruly blond hair that falls over his forehead, and he’s dressed in all black with a worn leather jacket clinging to his lean frame. But it’s his eyes that catch me—ice-blue and piercing—the kind of eyes that seem to see right through you.

“Never seen you around here before,” he says smoothly.

Rosalee tugs at my hand, ready to bolt. “Yeah, we were just about to leave.”

But I can’t stop looking at him. Something about the way he stands there, so sure of himself, draws me in. He notices, and a slow smirk spreads across his face like he’s used to having this effect on girls.

“Got something to drink here?” I ask, more to keep him talking than anything else.

He chuckles, nodding toward the back of the garage. “We do, but only for friends. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Novalee,” I share quickly. “And that’s Rosalee.”

“The twins, Novalee and Rosalee.” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sounds like your parents are creative people.”

I snort. “They were drug addicts, so honestly, I’m glad we’re not named Crystal and Meth.”

He bursts out laughing, and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. It has a hint of something wild underneath. He looks at me, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

I shrug, playing it cool despite my pulse hammering in my ears. “What’s your name?”

“Ace.” He leans in a little closer, his breath smelling faintly of alcohol, and his lips are curled into that same damn smirk.

“Your parents are pretty creative people, too, huh?”

“You have no idea.” He slips an arm around my shoulder as if we’ve known each other forever. “Let’s get you something to drink, friend .”

He starts to lead me toward the crowd, but when Rosalee lets go of my hand, I stop in my tracks, and we glance back at her. She’s standing there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and I give her a pleading look. She sighs, then shoots Ace a glare and steps closer to me, gripping my hand tightly once more.

“I don’t wanna stay here, Nova,” she whisper-shouts over the music.

Ace just grins. “Oh, come on, Glitter , don’t be like that.”

I grin and lean into Ace a little more, wrapping my free arm around his waist. It’s clear he’s already picked up on the fact that Rosalee needs a bit of coaxing to come out of her shell.

“Yeah, Glitter , don’t be like that,” I tease, feeling the warmth of his body against mine as Rosalee’s glare turns into a reluctant smile.

While we walk, I slip my hand into Ace’s back pocket and swipe his phone.

It’s always good to have more than one.

Or I could sell it for a few bucks.

His fault for getting that close to strangers.

We step inside the garage, where the music pounds louder and the crowd presses in closer.

Rosalee glances around, her eyes landing on a table covered with red Solo cups. “You got red wine?”

“You’re funny.” Ace laughs, grabs a couple of cups, and hands one to each of us.

Just as I’m about to take a sip, Rosalee stops me with a hand on my wrist, sniffing her cup suspiciously. Ace rolls his eyes and takes the cups back, taking a big gulp from each to prove they’re safe.

“Better?” he asks as he hands them back to us .

Rosalee still doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t know if it’s better to get roofied or to have your saliva in my cup.”

Ace laughs again, shaking his head. “Your sister doesn’t like me, does she?”

Rosalee’s glare intensifies. She’s clearly unimpressed by any of this, but I’m having too much fun to care.

“It’s not that. She doesn’t like anybody but me.” I grin, finally taking a sip of my drink, the strong liquid burning down my throat.

Whiskey?

“Huh.” Ace tilts his head, those ice-blue eyes still fixed on me. “I don’t think I like anybody anymore except for you, either.”

Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever felt my heart flutter like that.

We drink for a short while, talking and laughing, the energy between us crackling with something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Rosalee keeps glancing at her watch, and finally, she nudges me. “Nova, it’s late. We have our first day tomorrow.”

I glance at Ace, feeling a strange reluctance to leave. “You in school tomorrow too?” I ask. “We’re new… would be good to know someone.”

Ace chuckles, shaking his head. “No, but I’m here every night.” His eyes linger on mine in a way that makes my stomach flip.

I nod, a little disappointed but not surprised. We stand up to go, but when I reach into my pocket to check my phone, my hand comes up empty. Patting my other pockets, panic rises as I realize his phone is missing too.

Turning to Ace, I find he’s already watching me with a knowing smile. “You’re not very good at keeping track of your things, are you?”

What the hell ?

He stands and reaches into his pocket, pulling out my phone and holding it up with a grin. “If you want to learn how to pickpocket without the guy noticing, give me a call.” He slips my phone back into my hand with a smirk.

I’m stunned, a rush of adrenaline and surprise flooding through me. But before I can say anything, Rosalee tugs at my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

My mind is still spinning as we turn and walk away.

Nobody has ever noticed me stealing from them.

I’m not a fucking noob.

As we head back out into the night, my phone pings with a new text from an unknown number.

Sleep well, Trouble.

How the fuck did he manage to get my number?

I grin like an idiot while butterflies take flight in my chest. Rosalee leans in to read the text, then sighs, shaking her head. “Really, Nova? The first guy you’re ever interested in, and it’s that guy? ”

I think about those ice-blue eyes and that infuriatingly handsome smirk.

Yeah, it’s that guy.

The memory lingers, fragments of Ace’s ice-blue eyes and Rosalee’s glittery jacket swirling in my mind, refusing to let go. This isn’t the first time they’ve haunted me—those moments of reckless joy wrapped in the weight of everything that came after. But tonight, something about it feels sharper, more vivid, as if time has folded in on itself and brought them back to me.

Maybe it’s the guy beneath me, the way his cologne clings to the air, something woodsy and warm that reminds me of the night Ace wrapped an arm around my shoulders and called me Trouble for the first time. Or maybe it’s his Rolex, its gold face glinting like the one Ace stole from some business guy just like this one. I used to slip it off Ace with a smirk, daring him to steal it right back.

Damn him.

The ache in my chest deepens like an old wound that never quite healed. Time is supposed to dull the pain, but it hasn’t. Not for me. It’s only sharpened the edges, carving out hollows I can never seem to fill. Eight years later, Ace’s face has started to blur at the edges, but the feel of his presence and the sound of his voice are things my mind refuses to let go of.

I push the memory down, locking it away as I refocus on the suit beneath me. The guy is too entranced to notice my hesitation, his gaze fixed on the slow roll of my hips.

He paid good money for this lap dance and is obviously enjoying himself.

Good thing Glitter never falters. She can’t. Not when everything depends on keeping her untouchable, magnetic. But the ache in my chest doesn’t vanish as easily as the memory. It lingers, a dull throb beneath the surface, daring me to break.

So, I concentrate on the Rolex, my focus narrowing as the weight of the memory shifts into something sharper.

Watches are the easiest to take. And they’re my favorite.

There’s something so intimate about them, something that speaks to a man’s wealth, his taste, his ego. A good watch is an extension of the man, and when I take it, it’s as if I’m stealing a little piece of him too. I’ve got a collection—dozens of them, tucked away in a velvet-lined box back at my place. Some girls collect shoes, bags, jewelry…

I collect time.

It’s a reminder that I’m still in control .

And tonight, I need that control more than ever.

The itch in my fingers is impossible to ignore, the craving for the rush building with every beat of the music. The Rolex is perfect. Not just because it’s an easy mark but because it’s what he would’ve done. Ace, with his teasing smirk and quick fingers. The one who taught me how to take without being caught all those years ago. Maybe that’s why I do it—to feel close to him, even now, even when I know I shouldn’t.

I’m almost completely naked, save for the thin G-string and pasties that barely conceal anything. My skin glistens under the lights, every curve dusted with glitter I carefully painted on, turning me into a shimmering, untouchable fantasy.

The guy’s eyes are glued to my chest as I shift on his lap, his body tense with anticipation. He doesn’t even flinch when my fingers brush his wrist, the touch so light, so casual, that it might as well be part of the dance.

Pickpocketing is an art. How could a stripper in nothing but a G-string hide anything? The magic of misdirection and sleight of hand lets me slip a watch from his wrist without him even realizing it’s gone.

It’s a personal challenge to see how far I can push it before anyone catches on.

They never do.

His hands hover near my waist, not daring to touch. They know the rules— look, don’t touch . I smirk to myself, feeling the subtle weight of the Rolex as I slip it from his wrist and let it disappear into the palm of my hand. One flick of my fingers, and it’s gone, sliding down into the cushion next to us, where I’ll retrieve it later when the dance is over and the guy is gone.

Ace’s voice echoes in my mind.

Timing is everything, Trouble .

Not only in the dance but in the steal. The slightest hesitation, the faintest tremor in my fingers, and the whole thing could fall apart. I’m too good for that, though, with years of practice, learning how to read a room and move with precision. I’m in charge of every moment, every beat, and he’s none the wiser.

I could take his wallet, too, if I wanted, but that’s not the game tonight.

As the song winds down, I shift one last time, sliding off his lap with the grace of a cat, intentionally letting my palm feather over the bulge in his pants. His face is flushed as he fumbles for his wallet to tip me.

I already tipped myself, thank you very much.

He slides a few bills into my G-string, his grin lazy, his gaze a little glazed over. I don’t even have to look to know they’re hundreds. Men like him always tip big, as if throwing money at me makes them feel like they’ve won something.

He walks out of the private room, adjusting his suit jacket, oblivious that his wrist is bare. I watch him disappear, the pulse of the club swallowing him whole before the curtains close behind him, leaving me alone in here. Only then do I reach down, my fingers slipping between the cushions of the velvet couch, retrieving the Rolex. It’s still warm from his skin when I slide it up my arm, my body prickling with the thrill of the steal.

It’s the art of illusion—the push and pull of control.

This is my game, one I’ve perfected since I stepped into this city. Vegas—the city where dreams come to die, where souls get lost in the neon lights and endless nights whether they want to or not.

And God, do I want to get lost.

I step out, the velvet curtain swaying behind me as I move into the club’s pulsing heart. Carl, one of the bouncers, waits outside, his massive frame leaning casually against the wall. His eyes flicker to me, a silent acknowledgment as he straightens up to escort me to the back. His eyes land on the Rolex, but he doesn’t comment.

Carl walks in front of me, making sure no drunk patron touches me. I’m grateful for his unspoken protection, though I hardly ever need it.

The air out here feels heavier, thicker with the smell of sweat, perfume, and the lingering heat of bodies pressed too close together. The music is relentless—the bassline thrums beneath my feet, reverberating through the floor and my platform heels as the lights swirl around the place.

To my right, the main floor is alive with movement. Girls twirl and slide around the poles while men lean in with bills clutched in their eager hands.

Annabelle is up there, mid-routine, twisting effortlessly around the pole, her face set in a focused smile. As I walk by, our eyes meet, and she throws me a quick wink, her blue hair catching the light.

The adrenaline starts to fade, and that familiar hollow feeling creeps in like it always does. On stage, I’m all sparkle and shine. When I step off it, I’m just waiting, always waiting—for what, I’m not quite sure.

The hallway beyond the stages is quieter and a little cooler, the lights here softer and more subdued. My feet glide across the plush carpet, the sound of my heels muffled as I follow Carl toward the back.

Finally there, I thank Carl and slip into the luxurious dressing room, with its vanity mirrors lined with soft lights and personal lockers. I remove my pink wig, placing it inside my locker of six years, then I place the Rolex in my purse. The lounge area is filled with laughter and the scent of designer perfumes, but I’m not in the mood to chitchat with the other girls .

Grabbing a towel, I push my long brown hair behind my shoulders to wipe the sweat and glitter from my skin, my thoughts already drifting to the next song, next dance, and distraction.

Because that’s all this is—one big, glittery distraction from the things I don’t want to think about and the ghosts that still haunt me. That’s the life I’ve chosen. Or maybe it’s the life that chose me.

I barely have time to somewhat towel off the glitter on my chest before Annabelle bursts through the back door, a bundle of energy and excitement as usual. Her eyes are practically sparkling, even brighter than the sequins on her outfit.

“Oh my God, Nova! It’s finally over!” she squeals, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “My last shift! Can you believe it? We’re so going out tonight. We have to celebrate!”

“You’re done already?” I ask, feigning surprise as I toss the towel aside.

“Yup! No more shaking it for tips. Starting Monday, I’ll be a boring secretary, typing away at a desk all day. But tonight?” She toys with her blue wig. “Tonight, we party!”

“Hell yes, we do,” I agree, grinning with happiness for her.

Annabelle has been counting down to this day for weeks, ever since she landed a secretary job with a law firm. It’s not her dream job but more of a step toward the life she wants—the kind that doesn’t involve late nights on a pole. In a way, I envy her, not just for leaving but for believing she can.

She skips over to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me back toward the lockers. “Come on, let’s get changed and hit Vortex. I need to dance for fun, not for money.”

I laugh, letting her drag me along. Annabelle might be moving on from our life at the strip club, but I’m glad she found something better. She’s pure and sweet, too good for the guys who usually haunt these places.

Her new guy is this nice, stable guy, and he’s good for her. Not like the losers she used to date, the ones I had to chase off more than once.

“Okay, okay, let’s go,” I say, slipping into a short black skirt and a bralette that shows off just enough skin to keep things interesting, then grab my purse. I catch a short glimpse of my body in the mirror, spying the glitter still clinging to my décolletage and shoulders. I don’t bother trying to wipe off any more.

It’s part of me.

Annabelle is already changed into something equally tiny and sparkly, but she keeps on her blue wig, which is the reason she’s called Ice around here. She twirls in front of the mirror, the fake locks that match the color of her eyes bouncing with her movements. “I’m gonna give her one last ride,” she explains through a smile. “Let’s make this a night to remember.” I smile, watching her glow, free in a way I can’t imagine for myself.

When Annabelle leaves the club for good, it will be another reminder of the life I didn’t choose.

I used to think this place would swallow me whole. The first time I stepped through the doors, I was eighteen, still too angry to cry about what I’d lost. Glitter wasn’t born here, but she was perfected under these lights with every smirk, stolen glance, and flick of my wrist.

Euphoria isn’t just where I work, it’s where I learned to survive, to take control when the world tried to rip it from me.