twelve
"Fuck," Samantha whispered, breath catching like it physically stunned her.
She handed the remote back to Heather with a shaky hand, then dragged her fingers through her curls like she needed something to do—anything to ground herself.
Heather looked between us, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Wait... do you know him?"
I didn't answer.
Couldn't.
My throat felt like it had closed in on itself. Like there was too much air and not enough oxygen. The room faded into the background—the chatter, the lights, the thump of bass from the main floor warming up. It all went quiet.
Because there he was.
Brooks.
Standing on a stage behind a podium, right next to the president of the United States. His face was calm, composed, familiar in a way that now felt like a trick. The caption underneath read: President's son announces Pennsylvania Senate run.
I didn't move. Couldn't blink.
The same mouth that kissed me last night was now giving a speech to a sea of cameras. The same voice that whispered "good morning" was now promising change for an entire state. And I was sitting in a strip club dressing room watching it all unfold like a movie I didn't audition for.
I sank into the nearest chair before my legs gave out.
My heart was pounding so loud it made my vision blur. My stomach turned, then dropped, then did something in between.
I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, but I didn't know if it was embarrassment or shock or that sharp, twisting feeling that comes when you realize you've only been given half the truth.
The president's son.
I pressed my hand to my chest like I could steady something.
Samantha crouched beside me, her voice low and urgent. "Mira. Are you okay?"
No.
Not even close.
But I nodded anyway, because it was the only thing my body would do.
Heather turned back toward the TV, and the room seemed to hum again—buzzing with a new kind of energy. Confusion. Curiosity. A thousand questions I didn't have answers for.
I stared at the screen for another beat, watching as Brooks smiled and shook hands with a row of officials.
The same hands that touched me like I was delicate.
The same smile he gave me—only now it was for the cameras.
Everything around me felt suddenly too loud. Too bright. Too unreal.
And all I could think was:
How the hell did I miss this?
My eyes followed Samantha's hand as she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a neatly rolled blunt and a lighter.
She didn't say anything. Just glanced over, gave the smallest nod toward the door.
I got up and followed.
The hallway was dim and quiet, the carpet muffling our footsteps as we walked past the private rooms and out the back. We didn't talk. Didn't need to. The silence between us was thick but not tense—just full. Like it was holding space for whatever came next.
Sam pushed open the heavy metal door at the end of the hall and stepped into the alley behind the club. The air smelled like fried food and smoke and last night's rain.
She lit up without a word, the flick of the lighter sharp in the stillness. The blunt crackled softly as she took the first drag, exhaling slow. Her lips stayed parted, eyes fixed on the bricks across from us.
Then she let out a breath.
"Shit."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a spot of paint peeling near the dumpster.
Another drag. Another long exhale.
"Did you know?" she asked finally, her voice low.
I didn't answer right away. I was still trying to make sense of it. Still hearing his voice in my head—soft, sincere, careful. Still remembering how he talked to me like I was more than just something to pass time.
My silence said enough.
Sam looked over at me, her brow creased. "I mean... you had to know something, right? The suits? The way he moves? That apartment?"
I closed my eyes for a second. "I knew he had money."
"That's not just money, Amira. That's fuck you money."
"I know," I murmured.
"He was at the White House, Mira. Standing next to the actual president and he calls him dad."
I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to keep everything from spiraling.
Bits of conversation started clicking together in my mind.
Leslie mostly works at my parents' house...
They work for law firms...
I don't usually come to places like this...
Little things I brushed off, let roll past me like they didn't mean anything. But they did. They all did.
"Finance for law firms," I repeated under my breath, more to myself than to her.
Sam narrowed her eyes. "Wait. Is that what he told you?"
I nodded slowly. "That his parents do finance for law firms."
She let out a sharp laugh. "Girl."
"I didn't know," I said again, quieter this time.
Not because I needed her to believe me.
But because I needed to hear it out loud.
I didn't know. Not really. I let myself fall into something without asking too many questions. Because it felt safe. Because he felt safe.
And now?
I didn't even know what story I'd been cast in.
Sam passed me the blunt. I took it, fingers shaking just slightly, and inhaled. The smoke hit the back of my throat, earthy and sharp. I held it for a second, then exhaled slow.
"What are you gonna do?" she asked gently.
I shook my head.
I had no idea.
I took it, inhaled slow. "I didn't know who he was, Sam. I swear. I had no clue."
She nodded, but her brow was furrowed, like she was still trying to wrap her head around it. "The President's son, though? That's not some light shit."
"I know."
"And he never told you?"
"No."
She leaned back, looking up at the dark sky. "Damn."
"I keep thinking about everything now," I said. "Trying to figure out if I missed signs. If he ever tried to say something and I just... didn't ask."
Sam didn't say anything right away. She handed me the blunt again.
I didn't take it this time. Just stared at it.
"Maybe he was scared," I offered quietly. "Or maybe he didn't trust me not to react like this. Maybe he thought I'd look at him different."
"Do you?"
I didn't answer right away. Then: "I don't know."
Sam nodded. "That's fair."
We were quiet again.
"I mean, who even is he?" I asked suddenly. "I've been sitting with this feeling that he's... different. Like he doesn't belong in the same rooms as other men who throw money around to feel powerful. But now I don't know if that's just what he wanted me to think."
She looked over at me, more serious now. "I don't think you're wrong, Ami. From what you've told me, it doesn't sound like he's that type."
"But he's still that guy, Sam. The president's son."
"Yeah. And you didn't chase that."
I looked at her.
She looked at me then, really looked. "You two didn't..."
"No. We kissed. Twice."
She tilted her head. "When's the last time you saw him?"
I hesitated. "This morning."
Her brows lifted. "Damn."
"I fell asleep at his place."
"On the couch?"
I nodded. "It wasn't even like that. It was just... quiet. And good."
I wrapped my arms around myself, unsure how to stand still. "I keep thinking... maybe he was going to tell me. Maybe it's too early. Maybe he didn't think it mattered yet."
"Or maybe he was scared."
I looked at her.
She shrugged. "People make up stories in their heads before they ever give you the truth. You know that. Maybe he liked how things were, and he didn't want to watch your face change when you found out."
My throat tightened. "But it did change."
"Yeah," she said. "Because it means something."
We stood there in the quiet for another beat.
"I liked the way he made me feel," I admitted.
"Then don't let this mess that up," Sam said gently. "Let it confuse you for right now. Don't make any rash decisions yet though."
I nodded.
She nudged my arm with hers. "We still got a shift to get through."
"I know."
"You wanna head out early?"
"No," I said. "I need to get through this night like it's any other."
Even though it wasn't.
Nothing was going to be the same after this.
But for now, I let her hold the silence with me a little longer, before we slipped back inside.
"He just texted," I sighed.
"Busy tonight question mark," I read out loud.
Sam scoffed, "I'm sure he was real busy tonight himself."
"You know what I just thought about," a smile starting to creep up on my face.
"Hm," she hummed.
I looked down at the text again, shook my head once, then tucked the phone into my back pocket.
"I probably look like an idiot."
Sam frowned. "What?"
"I mean, how do you not recognize the president's son?" I said, more to myself than her. "Or at least know who he is? Like—how dumb do I have to be?"
"You're not an idiot," she said, nudging me with her shoulder. "The only president kids I could recognize were the Obama's."
"I just feel dumb."
"You're not."
I sighed. "He was standing next to the actual president, Sam. And I was over here thinking he was just... some guy with a penthouse and a driver."
She tilted her head. "I mean... he is a guy with a penthouse and a driver."
I let out a small laugh, dry and tight. "But come on. I didn't even Google him. Not once. I didn't ask questions. I just... showed up at his place. Fell asleep on his couch. Kissed him like—like I had any clue who I was dealing with."
Sam looked at me, serious now. "You didn't fall for some title, Mira. You liked him before you ever knew the headline. That says something."
I looked away, toward the sky beyond the alley wall. The clouds were thick tonight, swallowing whatever stars might've been visible.
The breeze picked up, stirring a loose strand of my hair across my face. I tucked it behind my ear and glanced back at the club's back door.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You don't have to do anything yet," she said. "You just found out. Let it settle."
"And then what?"
"Then you decide if he's still the same guy to you. Or if that changes now that you know who he really is."
I nodded, slowly.
She gave me a look, half-playful, half-sincere. "Besides, it's not like you told him everything either."
That made me pause.
"I guess we're both keeping secrets," I murmured.
I took a final hit and let it burn slow before handing it back.
Then, after a long pause "I think I need to talk to him."
"Yeah," she said. "But not tonight."
"No," I agreed. "Not tonight."
And with that, we pushed off the wall and walked back toward the club—shoulders brushing, heels echoing softly down the hallway, both of us trying to act like everything hadn't just changed.
Because it had.
But the music was still playing.
And the night wasn't over yet.
Hours later, the neon haze had dimmed into something quieter—less electric, more routine.
Back in the dressing room, the music from the main floor was starting to dull.
End-of-night energy pulsed through the walls—girls packing up, makeup half-wiped, cash being counted with tired fingers.
I sat at my station, slowly peeling off my lashes and watching the numbers in my head rearrange themselves.
Four thousand.
A good night and luckily I knew exactly what to do with it.
Three thousand was going straight into the suite savings.
The rest, I'd keep tucked away for groceries, rent, small things that wouldn't feel so heavy if I already knew where they were going.
Evelyn had called the space a "starter dream," and I was beginning to believe her.
I could see it now—soft lighting, neutral chairs, a sleek brow cart with my name etched on a brass plaque.
I slipped off my heels and exhaled slow, the way you do when your body starts to come down.
Sam walked over, her blonde hair tied into a loose knot, purse already slung over one shoulder. Her glasses were now on and she changed into sweats and wiped off most of her makeup, but still looked unfairly pretty.
She leaned against my table and nudged my arm. "You feeling alright?"
"Yeah," I said quietly. "You heading out?"
"Yeah. Got a quiz tomorrow and I haven't even opened the review sheet." She made a face. "Pray for me."
"My studious girl."
She smiled, then leaned in and hugged me, quick and warm. "Text me when you get home."
"I will."
She pulled back, giving me one last once-over before heading out the door.
I sat there for another minute, then finally stood, packing up slowly. Shoes in one hand, bag slung over my shoulder, hoodie pulled tight around me. I didn't say goodbye to anyone else.
The Uber ride home was quiet, save for the occasional dispatcher on the radio.
The city blurred past my window—streetlights smearing gold over sidewalks, bars letting out clusters of drunk laughter and cigarette smoke.
I kept looking at my phone, even though there was nothing new. No texts. No calls.
Just the one from earlier:
Busy tonight?
The words felt like a joke now. Like something written in a different language I no longer understood.
I made it up the stairs to my apartment without even remembering the steps. Let myself in. Locked the door behind me.
I dropped my bag near the door, stepped out of my heels, and padded into the kitchen. Poured a glass of water I didn't drink. Just held it. My hands were cold.
The silence here was different than the club. It had weight. Echo. Space for thoughts that didn't have time to finish forming earlier.
I sat on the edge of my bed and finally let out a long breath.
I didn't know what to do.
Was I supposed to be mad? Embarrassed? Did it make a difference that he hadn't lied—he just hadn't told me?
And why did that somehow feel worse?
I looked around the room, like the answer might be hiding in the corners.
I pulled my phone out again and opened our messages.
The last thing he sent sat at the bottom of the screen, innocent and plain.
Busy tonight?
I didn't type anything back.
I didn't delete it either.
Instead, I tossed my phone on the nightstand, curled my legs under me, and stared up at the ceiling.