four
The floor always smelled like a mix of sweat, perfume, and cash. Not in a bad way—just familiar. Like walking into a church you didn't believe in anymore, but still knew how to kneel in.
It was just after midnight when I touched up my lipstick in the back mirror, adjusting the straps of my outfit with one hand, tugging the fabric into place like it mattered. It didn't. They weren't here for precision.
"Set three," Samantha called, leaning into the doorway with a drink in one hand and her blond hair piled on top of her head like a crown. "Your boys are already drooling."
I glanced over my shoulder. "Aren't they always?"
"They're doing a bachelor party tonight," she said. "Big spenders."
"I figured. Smelled the cologne from outside."
She snorted and reached for her perfume. "Please. They're walking wallets with skin. You'll probably get pulled into the VIP room later."
I didn't answer. Just smiled faintly and turned toward the mirror. The lights softened the edges of my face, but I knew what was underneath. This was armor. Glittered, powdered, perfumed—but armor all the same.
She laughed and popped her gum. "Come find me after—I have to show you this video. Some guy tried to lick my boot last night. Full-on tongue."
I smiled, but my eyes drifted toward the velvet curtain that separated us from the floor. The music shifted—my cue was coming.
"Go be art," she said with a wink before turning on her heel.
I stepped through the curtain and into the light.
The room hit me all at once. Blue and red strobes. Low, pounding bass. Glass clinking. Laughter. The clatter of bills and the scent of too many colognes warring for space.
But I didn't hear any of it the same way I used to.
It was just noise.
The music started—slow, steady, wrapped in tension—and I moved. Smooth and practiced. Every turn of my body a cue. Every look, a hook. I'd long since mastered the balance between mystery and control. They thought I was giving them something. I wasn't.
They all blurred together, anyway.
The floor was already full.
Girls weaving through tables with champagne flutes and painted smiles.
Security posted up like statues. Cash on the ground like confetti no one bothered to sweep anymore.
The DJ knew what we liked—slow builds, fat bass, something dark and moody with just enough edge to pull you in. And that's exactly what was playing.
I was used to it by now.
The lights. The ogling. The occasional guy who thought eye contact was a proposal.
Most nights I performed on autopilot. I didn't have to fake confidence anymore—I'd become it. I knew my angles, my pacing. Knew how to make a man think he was the only one in the room when I hadn't even looked at him. Knew which parts of my body to exaggerate, and when to take my time.
I'd learned that control was the real currency here. The illusion of access. Give just enough, and they'd pay to imagine the rest.
I was already into my second song—knees bent, body stretched out in a way that made time feel slow and intentional—when I caught Samantha off to the side, leaning against the bar. She lifted her drink in a quiet toast. I blew her a kiss.
We had each other's backs, even when we were on different stages. Especially then.
The crowd tonight was the usual mix—tech bros, rappers without real names, finance guys who wanted their egos stroked for the price of a stack. There were regulars. Men who tipped big but talked little. Men who talked big but tipped little.
I was already offstage and headed toward the bar when I saw him—Tony. A regular. Mid-forties. Always sat near the corner with a lowball of whiskey and some half-shy comment about how he "should be home."
"You're late," I teased, sliding onto the stool next to him.
He gave me a small grin, eyes warm. "I wasn't gonna come, but..." His gaze swept toward the stage. "It's Friday."
"And you missed me," I said, taking the water bottle the bartender handed over.
"Like hell," he joked. "But yeah. A little."
I liked Tony. He didn't touch. He didn't pretend. He just liked the atmosphere and being around someone who wouldn't ask why he was quiet. Sometimes he paid for a dance and then used the whole song to vent about work. Other times he just watched.
We made small talk for a few minutes. I stretched my legs out, letting the night roll off me like sweat. Samantha came over to snag a drink, bumped her hip against mine, and winked.
"We're needed," she said, nodding subtly toward the manager who'd just appeared near the edge of the bar.
I groaned. "Private room? Just us?
"Yep. VIP wants a "fun but classy" set. Us and Tatiana."
Tony lifted his glass. "Don't let 'em tip like assholes."
"I never do."
I slid off the stool, gave his shoulder a soft pat, and headed back toward the hallway behind the main floor. I didn't know who was waiting in the private room yet.
But something about the night had started to shift.
And I could feel it. In my ribs. In my throat. Like thunder you hadn't heard yet—but could already smell.
We followed the floor manager down the hallway, heels clicking in sync like muscle memory.
I already knew the type of crowd waiting on the other side of that velvet curtain—loud, young, rich enough to be obnoxious and just drunk enough to believe we were part of the package they'd bought for the night.
Samantha leaned over as we reached the door. "Smile check," she whispered.
I gave her the bare minimum. "Teeth are still there."
She laughed and tossed her ponytail. "Then we're good."
Tati was quiet behind us, but I felt her hand lightly tap my back—just once, like she needed the anchor. She always did that before a big room.
The music shifted as we stepped inside—lower, bass-heavy, pulsing like a heartbeat. The room was dim, but the table was lit like a stage. Bottles of 1942 and Veuve sat chilling in ice buckets. Ten men in sleek suits and slightly loosened ties turned to look at us.
Predatory. Eager. Like kids at a petting zoo.
Samantha led, like always. She had the walk down. Confident, flirtatious, practiced. She stopped in front of the table and smiled.
"Hi boys," she purred. "I'm Sam. That's Tati, and this is Dream."
That was the cue. I stepped forward and gave a soft, knowing smile. No need to explain myself. They'd know the name soon enough.
"Damn," one of them muttered, already leaning in. "Y'all do this together often?"
"Only for the right crowd," Samantha said, tilting her head.
Another guy—probably the groom, judging by the cheap plastic crown on his head—raised his glass. "We're definitely the right crowd."
Tati laughed politely. The introductions were always like this—playful, choreographed, easy. Just enough to make them feel like they were in control.
One of the guys, a tall one with slicked-back hair and a face that screamed generational wealth, zeroed in on Samantha.
"You're funny. You sticking around after this?"
She smiled sweetly. "We're working."
He leaned closer, undeterred. "When's your shift end?"
She glanced at me, then shrugged. "About an hour."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a wad of cash, fanned it out lazily, then dropped three thick stacks on the table like they were napkins. "Come back after. You and your friends."
Tati's eyes flicked to mine. We didn't speak, but it didn't take much.
Samantha gave a slow smile. "We'll see how the night goes."
I reached for a bottle and poured a neat splash into his glass. "Save a little of that charm for later."
The guys hooted, clinking glasses, already convinced we'd be back.
After the dance we headed back into the locker room.
Most of the other girls long gone. I wiped off my lipstick in the mirror and reapplied with one hand, the other already unzipping my bodysuit.
A different kind of shift now—out of costume and into something that could pass for casual, even if nothing about this night ever really was.
The black strapless bodycon slid over my hips like it belonged there.
Smooth. Fitted. The fabric hugged my waist and thighs, stopping just high enough to be intentional.
My skin gleamed, deep brown and warm in the low light.
I didn't fix my curls—just fluffed them once and pressed a little gloss over my lips.
Samantha fluffed her platinum waves in the mirror and tugged on a cherry red halter mini with silver heels to match. "How do I look?"
"Like you want someone to buy you a building," I muttered, popping in an earring.
She smirked. "Exactly the goal."
Tatiana kept it simple—an olive green corset top, low-rise jeans, and her signature black stilettos. Her gold hoops caught the light as she tossed her braid over her shoulder.
"They're staying at the Rosemark," Sam said, checking her phone. "Penthouse level."
Of course they were.
I grabbed my clutch, and we filed out—laughing, joking, moving like we weren't already thinking ten steps ahead. Like this was just another Friday.
The Rosemark was ridiculous.
Thirty floors up. A suite so big the air felt different. Colder. Clean in that sterile, expensive way.
Glass walls. Black marble floors that echoed when you walked. Everything sharp and curated. Like a magazine spread with liquor bottles. The kind of place you don't rent—it's comped for someone with a last name that matters.
It made my studio feel like a shoebox with a lock on the inside.
They were already there.
Loud, loosened ties. Shoes off. Laughter echoing like gunshots. The bachelor—his crown already crooked—held a glass of something he couldn't pronounce. A bottle of Dom spilled over in a half-filled flute on the bar.
It was all exactly as I expected.
I stayed back for a second while Sam and Tati floated into the room, all practiced laughter and eye contact. The air shifted around them. It always did.