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[*𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐓!]

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[*𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐄!]

❝ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄 ❞

❝he's been staring at you since you brought that bottle over to him and his lil' friend. seems like he likes you.❞

❝𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞, 𝐢 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬.❞

❝i guess? bitch, your pussy broke or something?❞

❝maybe...she's just interested in somebody else.❞

❝𝐦𝐢𝐦𝐢, 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐩!❞

Money fluttered down from the sky in bursts of green and blue dollar bills, blanketing the people below in a rainbow hue of colors as bright lights strobed across the club. The sweet scent of perfume, mixed in with the thick, masking scent of lemon and citrus, smoke wafting from hookah machines scattered across the club. The crowd seemed to double, almost triple in size from the moment I got here, patrons buzzing with anticipation, almost bursting at the seams with excitement. The atmosphere tonight was filled with sexual tension, fueled only by strong double shots of alcohol and loud music that filled the four walls of Club Crystal.

Bottle girls rushed past me to serve eager, intoxicated customers, almost sprinting across the club as they balanced gigantic bottles of alcohol topped off with sparklers in their hands.

Fancy danced on stage, performing acrobatic, concise movements as she spun around the pole, captivating her adoring audience below her. Money covered the floor of the stage around her in a sea of green - her tassel, silver platform heels stepping over the dollar bills with ease. Hands reached out for her, desperate, begging for a chance to touch her rich, chocolate skin, pulling at the baby pink straps of her outfit.

Humming along to the 21 Savage song that radiated throughout the club, I weaved through the dense crowd of people as I made a beeline to the bar.

Men that passed by me grasped at my hands, some handing me singular bills - others laying on thick, not so subtle compliments, thinly veiled as offers for sex. Others offered me an "escape" from the club, sprouting off nonsense about how I didn't belong here, how I deserved to be a housewife - a lot of which just sounded like unnecessary white noise, almost like television static as it filtered in one ear and out of the other.

At the far end of the bar, Mimi was consumed in a conversation with Club Crystal's newest bartender, Justin. Leaning over the counter as she talked to him, Justin rinsed out glasses and dried them with the rag in his hand. Mimi flipped long, curly inches over her shoulder as she reached her hand out, pushing her breasts up as she touched his long, blonde-tipped dreads that fell across his chest. I couldn't tell what they were talking about, but judging from how Justin stepped just a little closer, his eyes unable to focus on the two beautiful views in his face - Mimi's eyes and her breasts that poked out from her revealing one piece.

"Poor Justin, he don't even know Mimi is going to chew him up and spit him out," Giselle snickered, finishing up with a customer at the bar before sliding down to me. Without me asking, she readied me a glass of water, one hand squeezing the juice from two evenly cut lemon slices while her other hand dropped a slim, black straw down the center of the glass.

"That bitch just can't help it, I swear."

Feeling Fancy's arm draped around my shoulder, she leaned on me for support as she steadied herself in her heels. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, and I could feel the thin layer of sweat on her body, along with the fast paced, racing thump of her heartbeat. Her baby blue and white holographic platforms reflected and bounced off the strobing lights overhead, and Fancy adjusted the straps of her thin, dark blue bikini as she sat down, Giselle sliding over a shot of D'usse in her direction.

"I just can't believe it keeps happening," I sipped my water, the three of us watching in awe as Justin only moved closer to Mimi, our eyes glued to the scene that unfolded in front of us.

Giselle was one of our newest bartenders too - only she had been here three months longer than Justin, and three months longer than any other male bartender we seemed to hire. And in that short time frame, we've seen Mimi go through just about every male bartender that seemed to walk through these double doors. There was Malik, Christopher, Tyson - one named Shamar who had blonde hair and three face tattoos - Cory, who I remember wouldn't let any of us forget that he was from Chicago - and now Justin. Crazy part was, those were the only ones I could remember off the top of my head. I'm sure if I kept counting, I'd have to use both hands and all ten of my toes, too.

And it wasn't like they didn't know - I'd seen Giselle go out of her way to warn them, but her words would only go in one ear and out of the other as soon as they saw Mimi approaching with her dimpled smile, curves, and flower tattoos. She was nothing more than walking temptation to them, luring unsuspecting - and horny as hell - men who actually knew better. I couldn't lie - part of me felt bad for them - but that pity quickly vanished when I realized they were willing participants in whatever game she wanted to play. It was nothing more than that - a game - and sometimes they thought they could play it better than the stripper who had seen ten men just like them in the span of twenty minutes.

"She need to be banned from the bar," Fancy chimed in, shaking her head. She took a sip from my water glass, leaving a glossy imprint of her lips on the opposite side of my glass. I knew she was joking, but there was a hint of underlying seriousness in her voice, "If we go through anymore bartenders, we're gonna have to start hiring the crackheads on the street."

"You sure Mimi wouldn't fuck a crackhead?" Giselle questioned, tilting her head at us, refilling my glass and pouring another shot for Fancy.

"If it had dreads and ate pussy, I can't say she wouldn't."

Tossing back the shot, the three of us started to laugh. My cheeks ballooned as I tried to swallow the water in my mouth before it dribbled out, our eyes glued to the next arc of our free television show. Between Kiki's overzealous and dramatic stories she sprouted off in the locker room, and Mimi's ever increasing list of victims, nothing was ever dull here. I could feel the tension and anticipation that radiated from us as we watched Justin come around from the end of the bar, looking across the club from a manager or supervisor as Mimi took his hand. Our heads followed them as they walked past us, Mimi winking at us as she led him in the direction of the private rooms, Justin hot on her heels like a lost puppy.

"Well, Mimi knows what she wants," I shrugged, "And she certainly gets it."

Giselle parted ways with us to go attend to some customers that slid up to the bar, a group of girls who were already intoxicated. I could hear their voices over the music as they talked over one another, telling Giselle that they were celebrating one of their birthdays, and their drink orders all at once. Fancy told me that she was going to freshen up before her next dance, leaving by myself to scope out any potential customers for tonight.

Fancy called it the "Stripper-Solar".

As long as you knew what you were looking for, it was easy to find the best opportunities to make your money. Appearances were everything here - but the ideal guy gave off the aura of money. You wanted them not too flashy and out there - nine out of ten times that meant that they were overcompensating for a lack of funds in their wallet. You couldn't let the big, glittering chains and diamond watches fool you - a lot of those men were stingy with their money and most of the time wanted something "extra" for their attention. And you didn't want them too open, either. Those were the desperate, greedy types. You wanted someone who looked like they just wanted a good time, and nothing more than that.

"Oh my god Yaya, I'm so glad you're here."

Walking into my eyesight was Charm, one of the newest bottle girls the club hired recently. Even though she was twenty-one, her baby face and chubby cheeks made her look way younger.

"Could you do me a favor?" She asked, swaying from side to side as she held a slender, amber colored bottle of Don Julio in her hand. Her knees were practically about to cave in, and her face was scrunched up with discomfort, sloshing around the liquid in the bottle with her movements. She barely gave me a chance to respond before she continued, shoving the bottle into my hands, "Can you please go deliver this bottle to table eleven? I have to pee so fucking bad."

"Uh-"

"You're the best. Thanks Yaya!"

Charm rushed past me, hurrying in the direction of the bathroom, disappearing into the crowd.

Sighing, I looked down at the bottle of overpriced alcohol, my eyes drifting up to the VIP section of the club, which stretched high into the ceiling. At the club, there were two sets of table sections. The first section was seated on the ground floor, where you had a closer view of the stage and proximity to the bar. The tables and chairs were closely packed together, so you'd have to weave between dancers and people getting lap dances to get to your table. They weren't expensive seats - so you definitely got what you paid for.

And if you were willing to spend a bit more, a pretty penny to enjoy your night - you were seated in the balcony section on the second floor. All the big spenders and folks with money lounged up there, and you'd be rubbing shoulders with football and basketball players, rappers, and all kinds of celebrities who reserved their own tables. The balcony overlooked the stage and the rest of the club, giving you a birds eye view of everything that was going on below you. It was private, secluded, and when people threw money from the balcony, it rained throughout the club like storm clouds.

The music only grew louder as I approached the stairs, and I could feel the vibrations from the loud bass of a familiar Drake song as my hand slid along the black, metal railing. I planted my feet firmly as I walked up the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief when I reached the top, adjusting my sweaty hand around the neck of the bottle. I had been up those stairs plenty of times back when I was a bottle girl, but it felt entirely different now. Especially with the amount of eyes that lingered on me as I walked past each table, other bottle girls sliding by me to get back down the stairs as they attended to their tables.

Table eleven was at the far end of the balcony, tucked off in the corner, obscured by the view of the same girls from the bar earlier toasting drinks as one of the dancers danced on the table in front of them.

"Hi, did you guys order a bottle of Don Julio?"

"Damn, since when did bottle girls start dressing like you?"

The two men occupying the black couches cut their conversation short when they realized I was standing in front of them. Both of them were well dressed, while the one that spoke was dressed in a white collared shirt with gold chains that dangled from around his neck. A blunt was nestled between his thumb and index finger, filling the slightly intimate space with the smell of earthy herbs. He leaned forward, tapping his blunt against the side of the ashtray, staring me up and down as a smile made its way across his face. I couldn't help but inwardly cringe as he started to get up, only interrupted by his friend who leaned over to take the bottle from me.

"I'm sorry about my friend," he apologized, he smiled, "He still hasn't figured out that not everything he thinks needs to be said all the time."

Our hands touched as he wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle below my hand, his other hand supporting the bottom of the slender, cold glass. Soft, hazel green eyes stared back into mine as he held our eye contact, tattoos decorating his face symmetrically. For some reason, he looked familiar - but I couldn't figure out exactly where I remembered him from. I figured I had seen him in passing at the club, feeling like maybe I had given him a dance before. His appearance stood out definitely, but after a while, all the men here started to look the same in one way or another.

"It's fine," I replied, my hand slipping from around the neck of the bottle, "I'm used to it."

For a moment, his eyes flickered to my outfit, analyzing the white, sheer netting that clung to my body. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, over the rings pierced into the corners of his lips, dragging up to meet my eyes again. I'm sure he didn't mean to, but his subtle scrutiny suddenly made me self conscious, my eyes falling from his almost immediately. His voice was low and baritone, and he leaned closer, speaking clearly over the music. The sound of his voice vibrated in my ears, leaving a lingering rumble in my ear drums, "Still, my friend's an asshole."

"I-It's fine," I reassured him, stepping back. "I hope you guys enjoy it."

"We will, don't worry your pretty little head, mama!"

Leaving their table, I headed back down the stairs, looking over my shoulder as I could still feel the two of them watching me from afar. I shook it off, trying to clear my mind, the sight of Mimi twirling around the pole being a welcomed distraction. Her movements were graceful - a shimmery, black, tiny monokini leaving little to the imagination as the material sparkled in the spotlight that steadied on her. Money rained down over the railing, falling over her and onto the stage as she spread her legs open, gliding down to the stage floor smoothly. From the pattern in her movements, I could recognize that she was coming to the end of her second song, which meant that my turn was quickly approaching.

"You're such a lifesaver!"

Charm greeted me at the bottom of the stairs, clasping her hands together.

I shrugged, "It's no problem. Don't forget to make sure they pay for that."

"Totally."

As Mimi's third song drew to a close, I could feel those pre-dance jitters rise up in my stomach. Even though I had been dancing full time for almost eight months, I still hadn't been able to shake the nerves that came along with it. Fancy told me that I'd get over them eventually, but they only seemed to grow in intensity until sometimes, I was full on trembling in my heels. The whole thing just made me nervous, and even though I knew what to expect and knew that I would be fine, it was like I couldn't help the anxiousness that radiated throughout my body. It made my palms sweaty, and my body run hot. And the more my brain seemed intent on focusing on it, the worse the feeling got, up until I felt like I almost couldn't breathe.

I needed some fresh air, and retreating to the locker room was my best bet.

I still had time before I had to get on stage. In between dances they bagged up each dancer's money, and depending on how much was thrown, it took a few minutes. In the time it took them to clean everything up, I could refresh my makeup, give one more pass over my hair, and breathe somewhere quiet that wasn't filled with smoke.

"Shit!"

Nearly sweeping me clean off my feet was a man who bumped into me, too drunk to see where he was going. I closed my eyes, bracing for impact as I could feel the wind get knocked out of my chest, anticipating an embarrassing and harsh tumble to the ground - but a strong arm wrapped around me, catching me moments before I hit the floor. Whoever it was held me suspended me in their hold, fully supporting my weight, and when I opened my eyes I recognized him as the guy from table eleven. His head was turned to the side, yelling at the drunk man who staggered past the two of us, his jaw clenched.

"You ain't fucking see her?"

My hands rested against the soft, terry cloth material of his pale green polo shirt, tattoos fully covering every inch of his neck that peeked out from around his collar. Realizing that he was still holding me, he slowly lifted me up, my hair swinging against my hips as he planted me on both feet. He asked if I was okay, his arm snaking from around my waist, careful to avoid touching me inappropriately.

I ran my hands through my hair, tossing it over my shoulder and adjusting my dress, pulling it up over my breasts, which only made it begin to ride up over my thighs. "Thank you," I breathed, placing my hand over my heart, "These niggas don't watch where they're going sometimes.."

"These niggas can't hold their drinks, that's all," he attempted to reassure me, his eyes scanning my face. I could tell he was trying to gauge if I was as okay as I had said, but I was almost a hundred percent sure I didn't look the part.

He lingered in front of me, towering over me even in my heels. I was finally able to get a good look at him, yet I still couldn't remember where I recognized him from. He was handsome - dark skin amongst the tattoos that neatly covered his exposed skin, intricate patterns and lines shooting off in all directions across his skin, even down to his palms. We were standing so close, I could smell his cologne, the light scent of green apple and mint dancing across my senses - a subtle intimidating energy radiating off from him.

As nice as his gesture was, I hope he didn't think I was going to strike up some meaningless conversation with him because of it.

"Did you want something?" I asked him, staring up into his eyes. My voice came off harsher than normal, my nerves only worsened by my near tumble and the anxiety that bubbled in my stomach. It slowly made its way up to my chest, making itself home at the bottom of my throat. My heart still raced in my chest - not as fast as before, but still thumping away, pumping almost loud enough that I swore I could hear it in my ears.

"Yeah, actually," my "savior" cleared his throat, like he was anticipating for my response to be different, "I wanted to get a dance from you." He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket, the money wrapped tightly with a rubber band. "A private one," he emphasized, gesturing in the direction of the private rooms behind me. "I can make it real sweet for you."

"I don't-"

"Yaya!"

Instinctively looking over my shoulder behind me, I recognized the familiar pitch of Andre's voice.

Even over the loud, slightly obnoxious beat from the song playing at the moment, I could hear him damn near clear as day.

Approaching from the entrance of the club, his eyes were focused on me as he wandered away from his friends, a toothy smile spreading across his face. Dressed in a Palm Angels wool-blend, green bomber jacket and white shirt, a shimmering diamond chain hung around from his neck, spelling out his nickname in bold letters. A black, duffle bag hung off his shoulder, while white Valentino sneakers crushed dollar bills beneath gray soles. He stepped in front of me, the faint scent of weed and Burberry cologne gently blanketing his jacket, the smell slowly surrounding the two of us.

"Hey Ant," I found myself smiling, the nerves that churned in my stomach subtly subsiding for a brief moment.

Licking his bottom lip, he tilted his head to the side, "I was hoping I didn't miss your pretty self dance yet."

I playfully rolled my eyes, "You say that like you don't already know what time I go on. You're a little early tonight, you know?"

"You ain't see that we were in the middle of something?"

Unmoving from his position was the man from before, still waiting for my answer about a dance. He put his hand on Andre's shoulder, which made Andre turn slightly in his direction. Ant paused for a moment, eyeing him up and down before pushing his hand off his shoulder, a smirk weaving its way across his features. I could see that familiar flicker of amusement that flushed Andre's eyes, who briefly glanced at me before back to the man before him.

"Oh, I know," Andre raised his eyebrows, "But it don't look like you were talking about much, honestly. What - you get you a lil section and now you ready to ball out for the night?"

"You talking a lot of shit for a nigga who don't know me."

"And I'll keep talking," Andre stepped fully in front of me, turning his back to me as he sized the man up again, narrowing his eyes, "She's good for the night, nigga. Go find someone else to bother, okay?"

I could both see and feel the disdain and tension that rose between the two of them - and so could a few others who watched the two of them, ready with their phones in hand in case anything decided to happen. At the bar, Giselle watched things closely, drying glasses with a rag in her hand - while a security guard stood off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, itching for something, anything to happen, ready and willing to throw the both of them out. Kiki eyed all three of us as she gave a lap dance close by, focusing more on us than the man beneath her, who looked like he was starting to get annoyed with her lack of actual dancing.

"And who are you? You don't intimidate me, nigga."

Seeing Andre's jaw clench, I pulled at his arm, grabbing his attention. I could see his shoulders tense, and I pulled him back harder, attempting to defuse the situation before it ballooned into something completely else. It was making me nervous, and everything seemed to lull into a standstill as they stared each other down, the other man seemingly itching, waiting for Ant to say the wrong thing. And knowing Andre - he wasn't about to let someone just talk to him any kind of way - even if he did start it.

And I wasn't about to let Andre star in a two man, testosterone filled, alcohol fueled show for everybody to see - especially his sister.

"Andre, come on," I wrapped my hand around his wrist, pulling him back, "Let it go. It's not that serious."

Looking at me over his shoulder, he rolled his eyes, relaxing his shoulders. Tossing his hands up, he stepped back, "My bad, bruh," he told him, "You got it."

Without another word, the man walked off, leaving Andre and I to ourselves. People returned back to their own business, filling themselves with drinks and food from the kitchen, while they let money slip between their fingertips.

"Now was that necessary?" I asked Andre when he turned to me, wiping the satisfied grin off his face. I crossed my arms over my chest, my hair falling off my shoulders, the ends of my long weave dusting against my lower back.

"Don't act like you were finna give that nigga even a millisecond of your time," he spoke, smirking, swiping his finger underneath my chin. He was right - I wasn't - but I didn't like things like that. Especially when I knew he was better than some cheap display of his ego. I didn't think it was funny.

Sighing at my unamused face, he uncrossed my arms, holding onto my hands. "I'm sorry," he told me, staring down into my eyes, chocolate, dark brown eyes peering back into my own. "I already know what you're thinking - and I know you don't like shit like that."

"You're right," I confirmed, attempting to stand my ground in front of him.

"Besides, I came in here to pay your rent tonight," he smiled, "And whatever any of these niggas think they throwing, I'll double that shit."

I bit my lip, trying to hide the smile that poked at the corners of my lips. Overhead, I heard them calling for me on the speaker, letting me know it was my time to dance. I pulled my hands away from Andre's, noticing how relaxed and calm I felt at the moment, all of the nerves that were just running haywire throughout my body subsiding. I could feel myself blushing the longer we stood this close together, and I shook it off, tossing my shoulders back as I pushed those thoughts to the back of my head.

"Stop flirting with me," I told him, shaking my head.

"Come on. You know you like it."

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