After Midnight (Loaded God Complex)

chapter 1

Remi

ONSTAGE, I’M AN ILLUSION. A fantasy. Something to be seen but not touched, yearned for after the sun goes down but never spoken of once it comes back up.

Here, I’m a mirage.

And in this illusive fantasy, I hold all the power.

Every rotation around the pole is practiced, purposeful. The glitter adorning my heels sparkles as I twirl, drawing eyes from every corner of the club. When I make eye contact, it’s direct and strategic, and I’m always the one to break it first.

Men—even the soft, scared ones—like to think they’re the predators. They like to chase and capture their prey. They like to feel powerful.

What they don’t know is that here, this works in my favor. And in this game of chess, I’m the queen, and they’re the willing pawns.

The bass rumbles through the speakers, a deep, slow beat that the DJ plays just for me. I twist once around the pole, my rhinestone lingerie top catching the lights and making me shimmer. I close my eyes as I roll my hips in time with the music.

The club is full tonight: Friday-night crowd, which usually means good tips. There are three businessmen at a back booth, smaller groups drifting through the crowd, and a rowdy bachelor party that’s swarming around my stage. They’ll spend fast, and then I’ll move on.

I slide all the way down the pole. On my knees, I recline back, running my hands across my breasts, down my stomach, one hand dipping between my legs. At the same time, I open my mouth in a soft sigh.

The bachelor party boys toss dollar bills. I reward them with my attention, holding eye contact, smiling just a little, like I know a secret that they don’t.

And when my top comes off, the piercings in my nipples winking under the stage lights, two of the guys at the front get hard.

They throw more money. I’m not focused on how big the bills are, just that they keep fluttering down around me as I writhe across the stage, showing them something they can never, ever have.

Because I’m Mirage.

And that’s what they pay me to be. After tonight, one of them is going off to get married, and the others will probably return to college or their corporate jobs or whatever occupies their real life.

That’s not what tonight is for. Tonight, in Club Caliber, beneath the neon lights and thump of heavy music, it’s all about leaving real life behind.

It’s about living, if even just for an evening, in a fantasy.

Tossing my long hair, I rise onto my knees and meet the eyes of a man across the room.

And I’m not surprised when he stares right back. It’s almost two a.m., which means he’s right on time.

He’s in one of the VIP booths, a bottle of gin on the table in front of him, his glass half full as he watches me through lazy eyes, like nothing I do on this stage is particularly interesting to him.

It’s not true, of course. He wouldn’t show up every week if it were.

Many months ago, when he first started requesting me for private dances, he told me his name is James. I told him my name is Mirage. We both know I’m lying, but only he knows if he is. And I’m okay with that. He can be anyone he wants to be, as long as he pays me.

Here, relationships are transactional. I like them that way; it allows me to keep everything in tidy little boxes: feelings, conversation, touching. I never have to wonder what any of them mean. Because it’s just business. And it’s simple. Predictable.

Real relationships are nothing like that.

With the look James is giving me right now, I can tell he’s getting impatient, irritated that my stage is so crowded and that my tits are bouncing in front of a face that isn’t his.

But that’s good. He’s been my regular for long enough that I know he pays better when he’s jealous. So I keep dancing, shaking my tits and gliding my hands across my half-naked body, my fake nails sparkling in the light.

The bachelor boys still have hard-ons as I bend over on the stage and put my ass in the air.

Our club isn’t full nude—Vegas clubs can’t be if they want to serve liquor—so I don’t take off my G-string, but the boys empty their pockets for me anyway.

And when my song ends with me topless on a stage covered in money, I’m pretty sure they have nothing left for the next dancer.

This was my second song—that’s when my top comes off—so as the next girl gets ready to take my spot, I gather up all my bills and my shimmering lingerie top, then rise onto my five-inch heels and leave the stage, tossing a glance over my shoulder at the bachelor party as I go.

And right before I slip backstage, I catch James’s eye.

He’s waiting for me, tapping one finger against his glass impatiently. But I’m going to make him wait just a little while longer.

In the dressing room, I slip the money I made from my dance into a zipper bag in my locker, then close it and spin the dial to lock it again.

I don’t count my cash until I get home, but whenever James comes to see me, I know I’m going to make good money.

He usually gets at least one hour in a private room—two if I get him frustrated enough beforehand.

I touch up my hair and makeup in the big mirror, wipe a smudge of mascara from under one eye, then switch into a new outfit: a lacy bodystocking in forest green with matching heels. James likes this color; he compliments it every time I wear it.

Back out on the floor, I take my time making my way over to James’s booth. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t give him any attention, instead stopping along the way to flirt with the other men and women in the club.

When I do finally get to his booth, sometime after two thirty, he’s already on his second glass of gin, and the muscle in his jaw is taut.

Good. That means I made him wait just long enough.

I ease myself into the booth across from him and push my long hair over my shoulder. My lips lift into an easy smile. “Miss me?”

He swirls the gin in his glass, then glances at the bachelor party, where they’re now watching Fantasique dance. But they already spent all their money on me, so she’s paying very little attention to them, focused on two women next to the stage instead.

“Did you save any energy for me?” he asks.

I love when men get pouty and jealous like this. It makes them much more easily moldable.

Reaching across the table, I trail a fingertip along the rim of his glass, then lift it to my lips, taking a sip and tasting the bitter bite of gin on my tongue. “I always do.”

As I lower the glass, his chest rises and falls with a sharp breath. Then he finishes his gin, and we head to a VIP room.

This is where the real money is made. Every girl in the club sets her own price, and mine doesn’t come cheap: one hundred an hour. And tonight, like I hoped, James wants a two-hour window of time with me.

The VIP room has a door for privacy, soft lighting, a velvet couch, and a small, intimate stage.

James takes a seat, and I start our time together the way I always do: with a slow, sexy stage dance.

With him, it’s all about the buildup. He doesn’t like to be rushed. And I’m fine with taking my time.

After the stage dance, I move to his lap.

He watches me with restraint, never touching more than to lay his hands on my hips.

Just like with prices, every dancer sets her own boundaries.

Some girls will offer extras in the VIP rooms: hand jobs, blow jobs, a full fuck.

But my lines are clear, and James knows this by now.

Every so often, though, he likes to press me, just to see how far I’ll let him go.

I’m perched in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. His hands are on my waist, where they’re allowed to be. Then they slowly slip lower, inching toward my ass.

Arching a brow, I take his wrists and guide his hands back to my hips without breaking eye contact.

“Hands stay here,” I say.

A small smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth, but he obeys.

Two hours later, I leave the VIP room with two hundred-dollar bills tucked into my bodystocking.

The bachelor party boys are nowhere to be seen, and the night is starting to slow down.

There aren’t any clocks in here—losing track of time is part of the fantasy—but I know it must be close to five in the morning.

Which means my shift is over and the club will be closing soon.

Back in the dressing room, I organize all my money, setting aside what I owe the club and the DJ. Then I zip my cash into a bag, get changed, and head out the back door to the private parking lot, lifting a hand to wave goodbye to one of our security guys as I go.

By the time I get through the city and back to my condo in Summerlin, the sky is already lightening with the coming dawn.

I park in my one-car garage, then head inside, feet aching with every step. The air is cool and quiet, with only the low hum of the AC to disrupt the silence. My ears buzz from the loud music in the club.

After dropping my heels and dance bag by the door, I head straight to the bathroom to wash off the night. In the shower, I let the hot water run over my head, rinsing eye liner and mascara and body glitter down the drain. When I step out and look at myself in the mirror, I’m no longer Mirage.

I’m Remi.

Blue eyes. Black hair. A scar on my hairline from a bad fall back when I was learning how to skateboard.

Just me, without the armor of fantasy to cover everything up.

I get changed into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a tank top, then grab a glass of water before sitting down at the kitchen table with my money and my cash counter.

This is my favorite part of the night.

The steady whir as the machine counts my bills is comforting, and the number on the screen continues to climb. When I’m done, it blinks up at me with happy little digits: $524.

I type the number into the spreadsheet on my laptop, then pull up the second spreadsheet, the one for Riley’s college tuition.

She graduated from high school this past spring and got accepted into Caltech—she’s fucking brilliant.

She was born with book smarts, and I’m determined to make sure she’s able to make something of her big, beautiful brain.

But Mom and Dad can’t afford college in California, and they definitely can’t afford Caltech—especially not now that Gram moved in with them and they’re focusing on caretaking for her.

So, I’m going to pay the tuition instead.

I finish with my spreadsheets, then save my documents, move my cash into my lockbox, and grab a tray of leftover Whole Foods sushi from the fridge.

Then I collapse onto my couch, pull a blanket over myself, and flip the TV on, keeping the volume low as sunlight tries to creep around my closed blinds.

Tomorrow night is another shift, another room to command and control.

Saturday nights are always eventful. It should be a good payout.

I yawn and pop a sushi into my mouth. And I fall asleep before I’ve finished the last of my avocado rolls.