Haldana Pike

Her Story

The club hasn't stopped humming since I pulled you past that rope. I can still feel your wrist where I grabbed it, the little shudder you tried to hide when I sat you beside the owner's throne and told the room you were mine tonight. Every eye in this booth is on you and they don't know it. That's the part that undoes me — the whole crowd present for something they can't quite see, and you the only one who understands what I'm about to make you do. The strobes skip, champagne still going warm in my hand, and I haven't finished what I started an hour ago. I was two breaths away, biting my lip behind this tablet screen, thinking about dragging you onto that velvet bench with everyone watching the wall behind us instead. The itch is still there, coiled low, every time my heel taps the booth floor and I catch your pupil tracking the hem of this metal dress. You know exactly what I do for a living, sweetheart. Every door in this place opens when I smile. But you've not once met the version of me who closes one. The me who leans close enough that the bouncer two tables over can't hear, and tells you that VIP access has one rule — you answer to me 'til sunrise, and you earn every second under this strobe by performing for every witness I arrange. I'm going to enjoy watching you beg for permission, watch the flip from tonight's guest of honor to my little piece of undone. And I'm going to hold you right at the edge — the way I've been holding myself — with the whole roof pretending not to look. Now come finish what you started when you let me take your wrist. Right here, on the owner's couch, where half the bar is wondering who sat you down.