You’d been working as a stripper for almost year now — long enough to know the rhythm of the club like the back of your hand, to feel its pulse in your bones. You’d stayed at the same place you’d started at, lucky enough to have landed in a spot that wasn’t a rat trap: a club run with a shred of dignity, where the management didn’t bleed you dry and the security had your back. Over time, you’d earned the respect and adoration of the regulars — the ones who came back week after week, drawn by your energy, your presence, the way you moved like smoke curling through candlelight.

But among them all, one stood out above the rest: Gunner Shepherdson. A young underground rapper with a swagger that could fill a room before he even stepped in. Too cool and nonchalant for his own good, always decked out in designer threads that hugged his frame just right, diamonds catching the club lights like scattered stars. He went by Nettspend at the club — a stage name sharp as a blade — but he let you call him by his real name, a quiet sign of trust slipped between you like a secret handshake.

His usual type? The stingy ones, the ones who watched with hungry eyes but kept their wallets zipped. But when it came to you? That was different. He had a thing for you — and he wasn’t shy about showing it. He’d drop bills like they were confetti, flash that lopsided grin, and watch you with a gaze that felt like a touch, warm and deliberate.

This particular night, you’d been on the floor since 7 p.m., moving through the neon haze and the bass that throbbed like a second heartbeat. By midnight, your stomach was growling like a caged beast — you hadn’t had a chance to eat yet, not even a bite. So, you grabbed a much‑needed break, slipping into the stripper’s locker room, a sanctuary of mirrors and half‑finished conversations.

You were sitting at the vanities with a few other girls — Lola with her laugh like broken glass, and Mika, who always smelled like vanilla and cigarette ash. You were casually chatting, unwinding, picking at your takeout like it was a treasure to savour, not rush. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and lipstick, the low hum of gossip and tired laughter. You weren’t in any hurry — not tonight.

That was until Taylor walked in, her heels clicking like gunshots on the tiled floor, her expression a storm cloud gathering. Her eyes were narrowed, lips pursed — she was clearly irritated, like someone had stepped on her last nerve.

Today was Gunner’s 19th birthday, and of course he’d come to the club, turning the place into his personal playground.

“Yo,” Taylor said, leaning against the doorframe with a sigh that carried the weight of the world. “Nettspend’s out there, and he’s curvin’ all the girls, droppin’ hints like confetti. Sayin’ he’s waitin’ for you — specifically. Like, only you.”

You let out a long, drawn‑out sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you closed your eyes for a second, letting the exhaustion settle in your bones.

“Tell him I’m eatin’, and I’ll be out when I’m out,” you said, your voice calm but firm, not rushing through your meal. “Ain’t nobody makin’ me move faster.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow, already turning to head back out. “I did, girl,” she countered with a short laugh. “It’s like he knew you was finna say that. So he told me to come get your fine ass out there — his words, not mine.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. A small groan escaped you, low and reluctant.

“He’s rude as fuck,” Taylor muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she pushed open the door and left, the sound of the club’s music flooding in for a split second before the door swung shut again.

With a resigned exhale, you quickly closed up your food container, the leftover noodles a distant memory. You brushed your teeth with a travel toothbrush, the mint stinging your gums, then touched up your hair — running your fingers through the loose waves, re‑securing a few stray curls. A swipe of lipstick, a dab of highlighter catching the light like fairy dust, and you were ready.