3. Tink
TINK
The Mermaid Lagoon might not be the fanciest strip club in London Valley. But it’s never not a good time.
“I’m in a celebrating mood,” Pan announces as he swings through the doors. “You hear that, ladies?”
I have to assume the boys took to hanging here because it’s dead across from the shop and the loft. And that they continue to hang here because only Treasure puts up with their shit—our shit.
But it’s also one of the few clubs in The Strip, in all of London Valley, really that’s independent. From anyone. Treasure owns and operates it and swears allegiance to no one.
And that’s why I like it.
We stride our way over to the velvet club chairs in the corner, and a flutter of activity follows us, hair swinging and sequins winking as a cluster of Mermaids hustle their way over from the end of the bar, beaming.
“Hi, Pan! Hi, boys!”
“You want a drink?”
“You want a dance?”
“What are we celebrating?”
“One thing at a time.” Pan grins, and flashes a fan of fifties between his fingers as he drops into a seat. “Just a nice little payday is all.”
The girls ooh and ahh as Fox nods and smiles at them, Kit quietly slips into a chair, Blue takes a seat and really takes it, one black-clad leg sprawled out, the other bent and resting ankle over knee.
And I sit by Pan. Right-hand side, as always.
It’s emptyish, as you’d expect on a random Thursday night.
A few guys over at the pool tables, a few more at the bar.
One Mermaid on the stage, a leg hooked over the pole and her head thrown back so her long hair just skims the mirrored floor.
The blue-green lights flow and pulse like ocean waves—I guess—and the craggy fake rocks and hanging silk flowers loom over the bar, faintly gray with their usual sheen of dust.
To my left, another Mermaid drops right into Pan’s lap. No preamble. Pink shell bra, sequined shorts, boots all the way up her thighs.
Blonde hair. Long.
I scratch the side of my head.
“Well, hello.” Pan tips his face up to hers. “Have we met, ah…?”
She scoffs. “You know my name!”
“Emerald,” I mutter, so hopefully just he can hear.
“Emerald!” Pan cries, spreading his arms wide as she nuzzles into him. “And how are you this fine evening?”
Emerald sinks her teeth into her lower lip, which is plumped with filler and polished a glossy pink. “I’m good,” she says. Almost purrs. “Very good.” She bats her big fake eyelashes. “How are you?”
“Good.” He grins. Leans back a little to make room for her. “And getting better.”
They do this. He does this. I’ve seen it before, and I’m sure I’ll see it again.
Playful, flirty, teasing, his long fingers and leather-clad palms skimming the bare skin of her waist, her thin little wrists locking behind his neck as she laughs at whatever he whispers into the hollow above her spangly earrings.
A bill or two finding their way into the band of her hot pants.
But they like him. Genuinely. They all like him, finger-wave when he comes in, giggle when he leaves, fight over whose turn it is with him—except Treasure—in between.
They like the rest of us, too—Fox is plenty handsome and about as dangerous as an excited puppy, more likely to hurt you out of enthusiasm than anything else; Kit’s sweet and tips well even if he keeps to himself; and Blue is… Blue.
And me, of course. I’m fine.
I eye Emerald’s swinging curtain of soft, blonde curls, the glint of the charms on her fingernails.
Mermaids aren’t my type.
Even if I were a guy.
Clink. Another Mermaid, setting down a beer for me and bending over nice and low so I can get a view of her cleavage. I arrange my face in an appreciative look and hand her a twenty.
“Thanks, Sapph.”
“No prob.” She smiles. “You want…?”
She tips her head, points from where Emerald is rolling her hips over Pan’s lap and back to me.
I shake my head, like she knows I will. No, thanks.
I never do. I’m sure Sapphire can’t help but take it a little personally, but tough breaks.
There’s at least a handful of other guys in here and she’s got everything they want.
I don’t want to watch. It’s weird to watch.
But Emerald clearly wants attention, throwing her head back and flipping all that hair as she body-rolls against him, one knee clamped on either side of him.
Pan’s grinning, enjoying it—obviously, why wouldn’t he—even as her movements start to slide from lap dance to practically mounting him.
And that happens. Not out here. But somewhere.
I swallow some beer down a tight throat.
Emerald runs her fingernails up Pan’s neck, leaning closer, closer. Tilting his chin, his face, toward hers. Leans in, her own lips parted, until…
…until just at the last minute, he turns, so her slip-shiny kiss lands on the flat of his cheek instead.
“Aww.” Emerald pouts, scooping hair out of her face as she retreats. “No fair. Just let me—”
“No means no.” The familiar clack of heels rings out against the floor as Treasure, in a gold bodycon and gladiator stilettos to match, swings to greet us.
“What on earth did you do to your hair?”
“What’s it look like? Changed it.” Pan widens his eyes. “Why, do you not like it?”
Treasure looks him dead in the eye, flipping her own cascade of dark high ponytail. “I think it looks dumb as hell.”
Kit softly cracks up. Fox whispers “oh, shiiiit.” Blue says nothing, but smirks.
“Oh yeah?” Pan folds his arms over his chest. “Hey, Emerald!” He catches her eye, then smooths a hand over his head. “You like my hair?”
“Um…yeah!” Emerald chirps from down at the end of the bar.
Pan grins, triumphant, at Treasure. “See?”
Treasure just sighs. “Another round?”
“Yes, please,” Fox pipes up, but Treasure’s already clack-clacking away.
Pan rummages for his phone, studies his reflection in the glossy black of the unlit screen.
“It looks good,” he says, preening.
I snort.
Pan lowers his phone. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, no, no.” Pan hoists a leg up onto the seat of his club chair so he’s half-crouching, and points at me with his almost-empty beer, one eye squinted shut. “I know that snort. That’s a Tink’s got an opinion snort. Don’t act like I can’t read you.”
The skin on my throat goes hot, and I’m glad for the collar of my T-shirt and the fact that the green-blue-green light rotation gives everyone alien coloring and blushes are invisible.
“Just, uh.” I cough, lean my elbows on my knees, and glance at him. “She paused.”
Pan lowers his beer, frowning. “Explain.”
“Before she answered. She paused. To, like, formulate.” I take a sip of my own beer. Shrug.
“Aw, whatever.” Pan scowls.
Now it’s Blue’s turn to snort. His icy eyes dart to the side of the room, to where Sapphire in her long copper curls is lingering, staring.
“Hey, Kit?” A Mermaid sidles up to him, petite with big brown eyes and an iridescent crop-top-and-skirt set that gleams like scales. “Um, I was wondering, do you do cover-ups ever?”
Kit, who’s scrolling through reels on his phone, the screen glinting in his glasses, looks up like he’s startled.
“Yeah, sure, uh—”
“Pearl,” she tells him.
“Pearl.” He lowers his phone. “What were you thinking?”
With zero warning, Pearl hikes down the waist of her spangled skirt, revealing inked script letters that crawl down the front edge of her hip.
I can’t really tell in the colored lighting, but I think Kit blushes.
“Just…anything to block out that name,” she says, and adds, in a mutter, “stupid motherfucker.”
Meanwhile, Pan’s got some more Mermaids arranged on his chair now, playing their favorite guessing game.
“Pandemonium,” he says. “That’s what it stands for.”
“More like pan…cake batter.”
“Pan…ty dropper.”
“Pan…da Express.”
Me, I’m quiet.
Quiet’s good. Life is good. Easy. Simple.
By the time I finish my beer, Kit’s slipping Pearl his card with a time and date scribbled on it, and Pan’s gaggle of hangers-on is getting back to their posts.
“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Fox says as the Mermaids depart, and clinks his beer to Pan’s. “But congrats.”
Pan smirks. “What, you need me to draw you a diagram or something?”
“No,” Fox says hotly. “I know how to—”
“Do you?” Pan leans back, grinning. “What’s your record?”
“Huh?”
“Like in a single night. What’s the most times you’ve, you know—”
“—made a girl come?” Blue finishes for him.
I almost spit my beer laughing at the look on Fox’s face.
“Aw, I don’t know.” Fox scratches the back of his neck. He glances at Blue, almost like he’s expecting him to go first.
Blue just snorts. “Please. I can’t keep count.”
Pan punches him, still smiling. “You’re full of shit.”
“Full of something.” Blue sips his drink, smirking at Fox.
I lean forward a little bit. Not too much, but I can’t help it. The night is young, the beer is cold, and I’m…genuinely curious.
“Well, like, twice, for sure.” Fox drums his fingers on his bottle. “Maybe more?”
“Maybe?” Pan laughs. “Fox, if you’re not sure, that’s a no.”
“Talking a big game, over here,” Blue murmurs.
“What, you want me to kiss and tell?” Pan sighs, fake-offended, then squints, like he’s trying to recall. “Are we talking just the same girl all night, or just the same night and the sum total of—”
“Jesus,” Kit groans and gets up from his chair. “I’m taking a piss.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” Pan waves a hand. Clears his throat. “Four.” He pauses. Shrugs. “But on five separate occasions.”
But then I catch Fox looking so shell-shocked that I have to laugh. “What, can’t count that high?”
“I…” Fox snaps his mouth shut. “Dude—”
“Yeah, speaking of talking a big game.” Pan points at me with his bottle. “What’s your PB, Tink?”
“Hah.” I exhale hard. “Let me think.”
The most times I’ve ever made a girl come in one night.
Counting myself?
Well, obviously I’m going to count myself. I’m the only girl I’ve ever gotten off, and I’m pretty damn efficient at it.
So fuck it. Why not brag?
“Seven,” I declare.
And I swear, the Lost Boys’ jaws literally drop.
“Seven?” Fox echoes.
“Seven.” I shrug. “What, like it’s hard?”