That same night at Shake It...
Dean and Ethan, perched in their VIP booth, were islands of stillness in a sea of writhing bodies. Their faces, illuminated by the flickering stage lights, were impassive, their thumbs scrolling relentlessly across their phones. The air hung thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and desperation.
On stage, dancers, both male and female, gyrated and writhed, their bodies oiled and glistening under the strobing lights.
A blizzard of dollar bills rained down, a chaotic confetti of greed and desire. The women’s wing, a swirling mass of men, roared its approval; the men’s wing, packed with women, mirrored the frenzy.
Fiona leaned against the railing, her eyes scanning the scene. The male strippers, their bodies sculpted and tanned, worked the crow
