That Night
I gaze out at the crowd. They're drooling, staring, and wishing they could touch me. I've been in the spotlight my whole life, but not like this. These people aren't trying to figure out what makes me tick or how to fix me. No, they're looking at me because I drive them wild. Because I'm a fantasy. A dirty little desire that teases the darkest, most depraved parts of their psyche.
They're staring at me because I'm the embodiment of everything they've ever secretly craved - to touch, to hold, to possess. And I love every minute of it. The attention.
I sweep my gaze across the room, acknowledging my regular tippers so they can lavish me with their entire life savings. They think that by tossing their hard-earned cash on stage, they can take a piece of me home with them - to their beds, their wives, their miserable lives. Hey, I don't judge. I get it.
Once I've made eye contact with my generous fans, I glance out into the audience, focusing on the central VIP coves. Those seats are reserved for the elite. They're not as generous or loyal. We call them "takers" at Lux. It's ironic - the more money they have, the less they're willing to part with it. These aren't just the 1%; they're the 0.001% - the rarest of the rare.
I give them a courteous glance nonetheless. It's essential to be polite. When my rehearsed gaze floats across the coves, I catch a pair of piercing black eyes staring at me, and I freeze. My chest expands as I inhale a sharp breath of air. I know those eyes. I've seen them somewhere - a dark, deep place I seldom visit.
I discreetly scan the man's other distinctive features: sharp jawline speckled with stubble, strong nose, full lips, and his hands - clasped, strong, and commanding. The rings on his fingers are intertwined like a complex puzzle. Inwardly chuckling at his smitten demeanor, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as he refuses to pull his icy gaze from mine.
Someone call TMZ; he's back. Continuing my routine, I make sure to check in on the missing billionaire every so often, ensuring he's still watching. And he is. Always. Even when I'm grinding on a football player's arm, I feel his gaze stabbing me in the back - hot, then cold, scolding, then frigid. I like it - the unknown. It's cute when they get jealous.
He doesn't even know me, and yet, here we are, already having our first argument. As my song nears its end, I position myself center stage, thighs spread apart for one last view. They pack dozens of bills into my panties as I lick my lips, open my mouth, and suck on my index finger - every man in this joint visualizing it as their tiny little cock.
His jaw visibly tenses as I snap my eyes upward and slowly drag my finger out of my mouth, a string of saliva glistening under the light like a spider web. And he's the poor little fly trapped inside. He doesn't like that. Not one bit.
"Give it up for Luna Lush," TJ announces as my set comes to an end. God, that was freaking exhilarating. I'm exhausted. Leaving the tip collection to the back staff, I rush offstage and head to the dressing room for a sip of water. It's so draining being me.
"Did you see him?!" Coco squeals, swapping out her nipple tassels as I walk into the back room. "I literally thought he was dead."
"Same!" Ginger giggles, reapplying her lipstick. "Maybe he was secretly in jail or something!"
"That's fine with me," Coco smirks. "I love a man in uniform."
She notices me lingering by the water cooler. "You see him out there, Luna?"
"Who?" I ask innocently. Oh, I saw him. And he saw me. And he won't forget me for a long time.
"Who are you guys talking about?"
"Damon Cavanaugh." Ginger nearly falls off her seat while swooning over his name. "Ugh, he's so fine."
Coco scoffs, perking a brow. "Fine? That man is not fine. He is..." She kisses the tips of her fingers. "A God."
I roll my eyes. "He's a man."
"A very rich man," Ginger adds.
"They're all rich," I note, shrugging. "He's just another John with a black card. Nothing we haven't seen before."
"Honey," Coco tilts her head, "he doesn't just have a black card, he owns the black cards. That man's daddy could've paid off this country's debt."
"I doubt it." I snort. "The gross federal debt, held publicly and federally, is roughly 33 trillion dollars."
Coco scowls at me. "You know what I mean."
I shrug. "If you want to win an argument by throwing out comparables, make sure they're at least factually accurate."
Ginger tosses a tube of lip gloss at my head. "There. Maybe she'll be dumber next week."
"Ow!" I rub my temple, chucking the tube back at my Friday night friend. "That hurt!"
Before Ginger can fake an apology, the club's manager waltzes into the dressing room and makes a beeline toward me.
"How much did I make?" I ask, holding out my hand.
"Depends." Georgina purses her lips. "You willing to entertain a table for an hour?"
"Let me guess," I say, "VIP table? Center stage?" I hear Coco and Ginger gasp behind me. Fangirls. All of them.
"How much?"
"He must've liked you," Georgina smirks, holding out a check. "He gave me a blank."
Coco and Ginger rush to my side. "A blank check?!" Coco snatches it from Georgina's hand, holding it up to the light as if it were a hundred-dollar bill. "Holy shit, it's signed! Damon Cavanaugh. Says so right here at the top." With wide eyes, she looks at me. "You're gonna go, right?"
"Fuck yeah, she is!" Ginger insists on my behalf. "You can write ten grand if you want. Or twenty!"
Coco chimes in, shimmying her shoulders. "You know my birthday's coming up..."
An idea pops
"Did you see him?!" Coco squeals, swapping out her nipple tassels as I walk into the back room. "I literally thought he was dead."
"Same!" Ginger giggles, reapplying her lipstick. "Maybe he was secretly in jail or something!"
"That's fine with me," Coco smirks. "I love a man in uniform."
She notices me lingering by the water cooler. "You see him out there, Luna?"
"Who?" I ask innocently. Oh, I saw him. And he saw me. And he won't forget me for a long time.
"Who are you guys talking about?"
"Damon Cavanaugh." Ginger nearly falls off her seat while swooning over his name. "Ugh, he's so fine."
Coco scoffs, perking a brow. "Fine? That man is not fine. He is..." She kisses the tips of her fingers. "A God."
I roll my eyes. "He's a man."
"A very rich man," Ginger adds.
"They're all rich," I note, shrugging. "He's just another John with a black card. Nothing we haven't seen before."
"Honey," Coco tilts her head, "he doesn't just have a black card, he owns the black cards. That man's daddy could've paid off this country's debt."
"I doubt it." I snort. "The gross federal debt, held publicly and federally, is roughly 33 trillion dollars."
Coco scowls at me. "You know what I mean."
I shrug. "If you want to win an argument by throwing out comparables, make sure they're at least factually accurate."
Ginger tosses a tube of lip gloss at my head. "There. Maybe she'll be dumber next week."
"Ow!" I rub my temple, chucking the tube back at my Friday night friend. "That hurt!"
Before Ginger can fake an apology, the club's manager waltzes into the dressing room and makes a beeline toward me.
"How much did I make?" I ask, holding out my hand.
"Depends." Georgina purses her lips. "You willing to entertain a table for an hour?"
"Let me guess," I say, "VIP table? Center stage?" I hear Coco and Ginger gasp behind me. Fangirls. All of them.
"How much?"
"He must've liked you," Georgina smirks, holding out a check. "He gave me a blank."
Coco and Ginger rush to my side. "A blank check?!" Coco snatches it from Georgina's hand, holding it up to the light as if it were a hundred-dollar bill. "Holy shit, it's signed! Damon Cavanaugh. Says so right here at the top." With wide eyes, she looks at me. "You're gonna go, right?"
"Fuck yeah, she is!" Ginger insists on my behalf. "You can write ten grand if you want. Or twenty!"
Coco chimes in, shimmying her shoulders. "You know my birthday's coming up..."
An idea pops into my head. A fun little game to see just how badly the fly wishes to remain on my web.
"A pen?" I hold out my hand, and Georgina immediately gives me one. I scribble down a number, smirking at the absurdity. "There. Let's see if he agrees."
Coco hovers over my shoulder, her voice ringing in my ears as she screeches, "One million dollars?! Luna! Have you lost your damn mind? Obviously, he's going to say no!"
"Luna, come on." Georgina frowns, knowing that she won't make her cut if I go in with such a ridiculously unreasonable amount. "Be realistic."
"I am," I say, folding up the check and slipping it into my bra. "He's a billionaire, right? What's a puny million to him?"
Before any of the women can protest, I blow them a kiss and head into the club, ready to tease my poor fly a bit more before I eat him. I know it's rude to play with your food, but times are tough these days. Anything for a laugh.
When I round the corner toward the VIP section, I tilt my head and give Mister Money Bags another once-over. He is a rather attractive man. That's unarguable. He's got that golden ratio symmetry that your brain is hard-wired to recognize and appreciate. He's visually appealing. I'll give him that. But in the past 23 months, I've learned that those who win the genetic lottery often have the IQ of a turnip. Let's see what this root vegetable has to offer.
When I'm six feet away from the table, his head snaps in the direction of my attention-commanding heels. I knew these babies would be popular