Page 1 of After Midnight

chapter 1

Remi

ONSTAGE, I’M AN ILLUSION. A fantasy. Something to be seen but not touched, yearned for after the sun goes down but never spoken of once it comes back up.

Here, I’m a mirage.

And in this illusive fantasy, I hold all the power.

Every rotation around the pole is practiced, purposeful. The glitter adorning my heels sparkles as I twirl, drawing eyes from every corner of the club. When I make eye contact, it’s direct and strategic, and I’m always the one to break it first.

Men—even the soft, scared ones—like to think they’re the predators. They like to chase and capture their prey. They like to feel powerful.

What they don’t know is that here, this works in my favor. And in this game of chess, I’m the queen, and they’re the willing pawns.

The bass rumbles through the speakers, a deep, slow beat that the DJ plays just for me. I twist once around the pole, my rhinestone lingerie top catching the lights and making me shimmer. I close my eyes as I roll my hips in time with the music.

The club is full tonight: Friday-night crowd, which usually means good tips. There are three businessmen at a back booth, smaller groups drifting through the crowd, and a rowdy bachelor party that’s swarming around my stage. They’ll spend fast, and then I’ll move on.

I slide all the way down the pole. On my knees, I recline back, running my hands across my breasts, down my stomach, one hand dipping between my legs. At the same time, I open my mouth in a soft sigh.

The bachelor party boys toss dollar bills. I reward them with my attention, holding eye contact, smiling just a little, like I know a secret that they don’t.

And when my top comes off, the piercings in my nipples winking under the stage lights, two of the guys at the front get hard.

They throw more money. I’m not focused on how big the bills are, just that they keep fluttering down around me as I writhe across the stage, showing them something they can never, ever have.

Because I’m Mirage.

And that’s what they pay me to be. After tonight, one of them is going off to get married, and the others will probably return to college or their corporate jobs or whatever occupies their real life. That’s not what tonight is for. Tonight, in Club Caliber, beneath the neon lights and thump of heavy music, it’s all about leaving real life behind. It’s about living, if even just for an evening, in a fantasy.

Tossing my long hair, I rise onto my knees and meet the eyes of a man across the room.

And I’m not surprised when he stares right back. It’s almost two a.m., which means he’s right on time.

He’s in one of the VIP booths, a bottle of gin on the table in front of him, his glass half full as he watches me through lazy eyes, like nothing I do on this stage is particularly interesting to him.

It’s not true, of course. He wouldn’t show up every week if it were.

Many months ago, when he first started requesting me for private dances, he told me his name is James. I told him my name is Mirage. We both know I’m lying, but only he knows if he is. And I’m okay with that. He can be anyone he wants to be, as long as he pays me.

Here, relationships are transactional. I like them that way; it allows me to keep everything in tidy little boxes: feelings, conversation, touching. I never have to wonder what any of them mean. Because it’s just business. And it’s simple. Predictable.

Real relationships are nothing like that.

With the look James is giving me right now, I can tell he’s getting impatient, irritated that my stage is so crowded and that my tits are bouncing in front of a face that isn’t his.

But that’s good. He’s been my regular for long enough that I know he pays better when he’s jealous. So I keep dancing, shaking my tits and gliding my hands across my half-naked body, my fake nails sparkling in the light.

The bachelor boys still have hard-ons as I bend over on the stage and put my ass in the air. Our club isn’t full nude—Vegas clubs can’t be if they want to serve liquor—so I don’t take off my G-string, but the boys empty their pockets for me anyway. And when my song ends with me topless on a stage covered in money, I’m pretty sure they have nothing left for the next dancer.

This was my second song—that’s when my top comes off—so as the next girl gets ready to take my spot, I gather up all my bills and my shimmering lingerie top, then rise onto my five-inch heels and leave the stage, tossing a glance over my shoulder at the bachelor party as I go.

And right before I slip backstage, I catch James’s eye.

He’s waiting for me, tapping one finger against his glass impatiently. But I’m going to make him wait just a little while longer.

In the dressing room, I slip the money I made from my dance into a zipper bag in my locker, then close it and spin the dial to lock it again. I don’t count my cash until I get home, but whenever James comes to see me, I know I’m going to make good money. He usually gets at least one hour in a private room—two if I get him frustrated enough beforehand.