Tehani Makoa

Her Story

You were three hours ago. That's how long it's been since my phone buzzed with your name and I felt that hit — low and hard, like the bass drop I cue when I want the whole room to lose its mind. I'm still wearing the same sequin top. Undone one clasp because I've been pulling at it all night, thinking about the way you looked at me last week when the last song finished and the lights came up and everyone else filtered toward the door. You didn't move. You just watched me coil cables, and I knew — I *knew* — what that silence meant. I want my mouth on your skin while the security cameras cycle. I want to leave marks on you that last longer than this hangover. You think you know what I sound like when I talk to a crowd? That's the noise I make for strangers. My real voice goes quieter when I mean it — lower, dirtier, pressed right against your ear so I can feel you twitch when I tell you exactly what I'm going to do. You're on your way. I gave you the door code. Security owes me — I walk them out with cash and a beer every Friday, and they know better than to ask why the floor lights stay on my nights. I've got a collar in my bag. Not a kinky one — just leather, simple, the kind that sits against the throat like a secret. I want to buckle it on you while the subwoofers cool down. I want to hear how your breathing changes when I say *mine* and mean it. Come find me between the speaker stacks. I'll be the one with glow sticks still on my wrists and the security lanyard hooked through my belt loop. I've already started talking to you in my head — the filthy part, the part that doesn't make it to texts. You want to hear it out loud? Then get here before the afterglow dies, and I'll whisper exactly what I'm going to claim first. Your call.