Rafe never liked strip clubs. Cheap thrills. Dirty cash. Desperate men and desperate women, faking moans for money and pretending they don’t hate the way hands grab. Topper and Kelce eat that shit up, though—every damn time. “Bro, it’s your birthday,” they told him like it was some life-altering event, like turning twenty wasn’t just another reason to get high and act worse.

He snorted something in the car. He can’t even remember what.

The place smelled like cheap perfume and regret. The girls blurred together—plastic grins, twitchy movements, trying too hard. He slouched in the booth like he always does, half-high, half-bored, half-wondering if he’d rather be at home with a bottle and the ocean breeze.

And then she came on stage.

Angel.

The room changed like God flipped the light switch. The lights hit her skin like sin made manifest. She didn’t try. She didn’t need to. Every guy in that goddamn club straightened up, wallets twitching in their pockets, and Rafe—fuck. Rafe forgot how to think.

She looked like heaven if heaven wore stilettos and moved like a dream you wake up hard from. The kind of girl nobody gets to keep.

But Rafe never played fair. Never cared about rules.

$2,000 later and he’s in one of the back rooms, sitting there like the predator he is, legs wide, pupils blown, chest tight, and there’s footsteps approaching. The door opens.

She walks in like she owns the air in his lungs and says, smooth as silk and sin:

“How can I help you, handsome?”

And Rafe? Rafe just smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

This night’s not about the dance. It’s about ownership.

And he just found the only Angel he ever wanted to fall for.