The bass thumps in my chest, a heavy, constant beat that makes my teeth ache. Blue and purple neon lights flicker across the stage, turning the dancer’s sweat into shimmering diamonds. I stand at the edge of the VIP bar, my hands tight around a damp rag. I hate this rag. I hate this bar.
I watch the girls on stage. I watch the way the men in the front row reach out, their fingers twitching, desperate to touch skin they haven't paid enough for yet. My own skin feels itchy. Tight. Like I’m a bottle of soda that’s been shaken too hard and the cap is about to blow. I want to be the one they’re looking at. I want to be the one who doesn't have to say no.
Then, I see them.
They’re sitting in the corner booth, the expensive one with the deep leather seats. The man is leaning back, a glass of a
