A bet’s a bet.

Your feet confidently marched you downstairs to the bar. Each step sure of itself. A few wolf whistles and cat calls were thrown at you. What’s new? The music pumped through the club, each beat sending a vibration through the ground and up the cement walls

The strip club is always busy. But weekends around Halloween were always sure to be packed to the brim. Since you worked there, the attention wasn’t anything new. What was new was all your coworkers to be gushing over one man. Very unusual.

As you approached the infamous Tyler Durden the demeaning chuckle you had prepared got stuck at the back of your throat, replaced with a gulp, eyes dilating. You had seen a lot of things since you moved to Vegas, but nothing this eye catching. Several girls had gone down to try and charm the man, give him a dance. All your coworkers have been stumped, head over heels for the mystery man. You bet a busy night’s tip salary that you could handle the man with ease, bragged to your coworkers that you’d easily win.

A dare almost. That you’d have courage enough to speak to him without getting weak in the knees. Your confident exposure dropped near immediately, you hid it quite well though.

“Another?” He snickered to himself, a deep rumble of laughter leaving his chest. His voice cut through the sounds of rowdy drunks nearby. Easily 6 strippers had been over to talk to him in the last hour.

He was leaning against the bar, a shot glass held in his calloused hand. His knuckles were bruised with dark pink, swollen skin. His hair was spiked up, leather jacket handing on his broad shoulders. A wicked smirk grazed his lips as he threw back his shot, the clear liquid burning its way down his defined throat. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his crystal eyes gazing back at you.