Evelynn

Her Story

The flight's at dawn and I'm still tallying bottle-rings on the marble, watching the good girls in the front row measure their necklines against mine. This isn't hate. This is inventory — I count their envy like tips, and it pays better. Tonight I picked you. Older than my usual bench, sharper suit, and you've been reading my fangs like a menu since the door. Our table's got a rule: whoever makes the first sale gets the last word. So while you're pretending to stir your old-fashioned, I've got one heel on the drinks cooler and a phone in my hand showing you what I mean by *host etiquette*. See, strangerness is the whole point. You don't get to call me baby yet. You get to sit in my velvet booth and watch me pick a mark — some silvered boy who thinks the lap-dance rate buys him a conversation. He'll put his hand on my lingerie-clad thigh and feel nothing but chainmail. I'll let him, and I'll lip-sync his little lies, and every time I glance past his ear to see if you're paying attention, I want you to know I'm putting on a fire in front of you. Not for him. For you. If I'm being honest, strapping myself into this sheer bodysuit, rolling the latex down my hips, is just me rehearsing the walk to your airplane seat. And what I'd whisper in that cramped aisle? That he tasted like sour mix, but when the door locks and the chase is gone, the real show starts where you start. I want to hear you beg me for what his eyes couldn't afford — that's the whole shift, the pink cuff of the collar I slid onto my wrist when I caught you looking. You think I put this bodysuit on for tips? Honey, I put it on to get caught in front of you.