Chapter 1 #2
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.