I pulled the Skyline up to the warehouse—long, low, and purring like it wanted trouble. Killed the engine. Doors echoed shut louder than I liked. This place didn't believe in soft landings.
Inside was all concrete bones and silence, stretched wide. Nothing moved but the dust in the sunbeams. Then I heard them—heels. Sharp, deliberate.
Natasha.
She emerged from between steel shelves, all hips and hellfire, clipboard in one hand and that same clinical disdain in her eyes. White blouse buttoned just high enough to be insulting, black pencil skirt carved around her like a second skin. No jewelry. No bullshit. Her lipstick could've been blood.
"You're late," she said.
"I'm hot," I replied.
She paused. Pen tapped the clipboard. "And yet not irreplaceable."
"I've been called worse."
She didn't smile. Didn't have to. Just turned and started walking—click, click, click—like the concrete obeyed her. I followed, because of course I did. She led me to a metal table near the center of the room, lit by a swinging bulb and surrounded by crates that smelled like danger and money.
"Smith wants to speak," she said, handing me a burner phone like it was a scalpel.
I took it, the plastic warm from her touch.
"Try not to embarrass yourself."
She stepped back. Arms folded. Watching. Judging. I put the phone to my ear.
"Lucien," came Smith's voice, slick as oil. "Tell me—how do you feel about crossing a line today?"
I glanced at Natasha.
"Depends," I said. "How many bodies are on the other side?"
Smith's voice came clean through the static. No background noise. No laughter. Just a man who made money off silence.
"There's a rich brat," he said, "goes by Carter Langston. Daddy owns half the condos on Biscayne. Kid thinks defaulting means forgetting to answer a text. He owes me. Repeatedly."
I said nothing. Just listened. But in my head, I couldn't help it—funny how he and I weren't all that different. I was just poorer, and still pretending I had choices.
"He doesn't need to bleed," Smith added. "He needs to understand."
"Message sent," I murmured. "Got it."
"There's a place he spends his nights—Velvet Vice. You know it?"
"I've heard."
Strip club on the west end, known for overpriced cocktails, barely-legal dancers, and being where Miami's coked-out rich boys pretend they're gangsters. Even the neon outside looked smug.
"He'll be there tonight. Spoiled little shit always is. Tall, blond, tries to dress ghetto. Likes the attention. Probably wearing some designer hoodie that costs more than your bike."
"Subtle or loud?" I asked.
"That's up to you," he said. "Just make sure he knows who he's fucking with. And don't kill him."
He hung up.
Natasha took the phone from my hand like it offended her. "Try not to get glitter on you."
"I'll wear black," I said, brushing past her.
"Good," she called after me. "It shows blood better."
I smirked, half a breath from letting something cocky spill—but Natasha beat me to it.
"Did you find out what makes your little house so... lucrative?" she asked, her voice casual like a knife left on the counter.
I looked her in the eye, unreadable, and lied through my teeth.
"Still on it."
She arched one of those perfect brows, like she didn't believe me for a second—but also didn't care enough to push. That's the thing with people like Natasha. They collect lies like wine—aged, labeled, and kept for leverage.
"Then don't keep Smith waiting too long," she said. "He doesn't like clutter."
I didn't answer. Just turned and walked out, jacket slung over my shoulder, the scent of her perfume and threat still clinging to the air.
Around 1 am, The bouncer barely glanced at me. One nod and I was through the red curtain, swallowed whole by the pulsing hum of Velvet Vice.
Inside, the club throbbed with slow bass and sex. Red lights pulsed across chrome poles, half-naked dancers clung to them like they were confessing sins. The air smelled like sweat, perfume, and money—the kind of place where secrets were stripped for a tip and shame got tucked into thongs.
I adjusted my jacket, stepped further in, boots sinking into the plush floor like the place wanted to hold me there.
Booths lined the edges, faces half-hidden in shadows, but I clocked him fast—Carter Langston. Blond hair slicked back, designer sneakers on the table, an entourage of two girls and one jittery guy who looked like he still lived on energy drinks and daddy's approval. His drink was something neon in a martini glass, untouched.
He didn't see me yet.
Perfect.
I slid onto a barstool. "Bourbon, neat," I told the bartender—a tall brunette in stilettos and nothing else but glitter and lace. She poured, didn't ask for a name.
I took the drink and didn't sip. Just stared across the club. Watched Carter laugh at something the brunette beside him whispered in his ear. He wasn't watching his back.
That was my job tonight.
I waited. No rush. No threat yet. Just me and the bourbon, and the club's heartbeat echoing somewhere deep in my chest.
She leaned her elbows on the bar, cleavage on full display, cherry-gloss lips curling around something close to a smirk. "You don't look like the usual crowd," she said, voice a smoky drawl. "Too calm. Too clothed."
I tilted my glass and gave her a look. "Guess I'm just here for the atmosphere."
Her eyes flicked down, then back up. "Shame. Atmosphere doesn't tip."
"I tip for charm." I let my gaze linger on her. "You got plenty."
She laughed, a low sound that slinked out between her teeth. "You're trouble, aren't you?"
I smiled. "Not yet."
She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and a little dangerous, like candy laced with something bitter. "You've got that face. The kind women regret in the morning."
"And still come back for more."
She licked her bottom lip. "You working or watching tonight?"
"Bit of both."
Her brow arched, intrigued. "Mmh. Well, if you get bored… there's a private booth in the back. Ask for Sasha."
"I'll keep that in mind."
I leaned forward on the bar, sipping slow, like I wasn't sizing up every inch of that velvet-roped brat's kingdom. "So," I said casually, "that one over there—Carter. He always drink that neon shit, or just saving up to piss Technicolor?"
Sasha didn't look up right away, but I caught the twitch of a smile. "That's his usual. Calls it 'The Loona cunt Special.' Thinks it makes him look less like a trust fund baby with daddy issues."
I smirked. "What's in it?"
"Mostly sugar and bullshit. Vodka. Blue Curaçao. Splash of lime. Tastes like sweet piss."
I chuckled. "And he's a regular?"
"Every Thursday. Shows up acting like he owns the place, throws money, flirts bad, and never tips."
"Bet he's real popular."
She leaned in, voice low. "He's got friends. Not the good kind. Rumor is he owes people. Big."
"Smith?"
Her eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. "You got a lot of questions for a man just 'soaking in atmosphere.'"
I raised my glass in mock salute. "Told you I'm not the usual crowd."
"Clearly," she said, biting back a grin. Then, softer: "If you're gonna do something, do it quick. That boy's dumb, but his backup isn't."
I followed her gaze. A guy in a cheap suit was blending in near the DJ booth. Subtle. Watching.
I finished my drink. "Thanks, Sasha."
"Be safe, leather jacket."
I stood, rolling my shoulders, eyes on Carter. The brat was halfway to blackout, laughing with a girl too drunk to notice his hand sliding too far up her thigh.
I turned just in time to catch the napkin sliding across the counter. Sasha winked, all casual, like slipping her number to strange men with dark eyes and bad intentions was routine. Maybe it was.
"Good luck," she said, grabbing her fur coat from the hook behind the bar. "Try not to make too much of a mess."
I held up the napkin. "Can't promise anything."
She chuckled, walking backward a few steps before turning and heading toward the door, hips swaying under that ridiculous coat. "Didn't think you could."
And just like that—gone.
I slipped the napkin into my jacket pocket, then turned back to Carter. He was too drunk to notice his world was about to get smaller.
I started walking.
I stopped a few feet from the booth, cool as marble, letting the bassline from the stage do most of the talking.
"Carter Langston," I said, voice low but carrying. "You've been a hard man to pin down."
Carter looked up lazily from behind his cocktail, one elbow draped over the plush backrest. Bleach-blond undercut, smug pout, blue satin shirt unbuttoned like he'd just been born into it. He had that spoiled look—like nothing in life had ever hit him hard enough.
"The fuck are you?"
"Let's call me a courier," I said. "Smith sends his regards."
He rolled his eyes and went back to his drink like I was a fly. "Tell Smith to suck my dick. I'll pay when I feel like it."
That's when the guy in the suit moved—tall, clean shave, square jaw, probably some ex-varsity wrestler who now moonlighted as a private goon. He was on his feet and lunging before Carter could finish the sentence.
But I was already in motion.
I caught him by the lapel mid-charge, used his own momentum to spin him, then shoved him down into the leather seat with enough force to knock the breath out of him.
Carter jumped up like that made him brave, and I leveled him with a stare.
"Sit. Down."
He didn't sit. But he didn't move either.
"Smith isn't asking anymore," I said. "Next time, it won't be me coming through the door."
Carter's smirk cracked—just a flicker, but it was there.
"Who the hell are you, his new dog?"
"Nah," I said, leaning closer, just enough that only he could hear. "I'm the leash."
I was halfway upright when I heard the rustle behind me—the grunt, the shuffle of polished shoes on carpet. The suit was already rising, his face twisted with bruised ego and a little too much pride.
"Should've stayed down," I muttered.
But he didn't. He came at me, fist cocked, aiming for my ribs.
I twisted sideways and blocked with my elbow—felt the shock ripple up my arm. My free hand cracked him in the gut, hard enough to stagger him backward into the edge of the booth.
He growled like some frat-house pitbull and surged again, this time going for a headlock. Sloppy move.
I ducked, wrapped an arm around his waist, and used his own momentum to slam him into the floor. The thud echoed louder than the club's bass. Couple heads turned. One dancer paused mid-grind on the pole, heels still clacking in rhythm.
The suit rolled and got his footing fast, but I was faster. I stepped in, grabbed him by the tie, and yanked him off-balance—straight into my knee.
He went down, blood trailing from his nose like a signature. Tried to stand, wobbled. So I helped him. One hand gripping his jacket, the other delivering a clean uppercut that rattled teeth.
Carter shouted something, but I didn't hear. Too busy watching his watchdog crumple like a folding chair.
I straightened my jacket, looked at Carter—face pale, jaw slack.
"Tell Smith I won't forget this," he spat.
"Good," I said. "Means you're finally listening."
But I didn't stop there.
I took a step toward Carter. He tensed, shoulders jerking back, eyes flicking like he was calculating exit strategies.
I bent down just enough to meet him eye to eye.
Then I pulled my arm back and cracked him across the face. A wet crunch—his nose broke clean under my knuckles. Blood sprayed across his shirt, bright red on crisp white.
"For the theatrics," I said coolly, standing straight. "Now fuck off. Pay up on time."
Carter cupped his face, groaning in disbelief, half-laughing through the pain.
He stumbled off with his battered bodyguard, leaving a trail of blood and bruised ego behind him.
I turned, adjusted the collar of my leather jacket, and eased myself into his still-warm booth like I owned the place.
The bouncers? Didn't move an inch. Either they were bought, or smart enough to know when not to pick a side.
The music throbbed on. Dancers slid down poles. Neon lights buzzed. The Velvet Vice didn't skip a beat. And me?
I sat back, kicked one leg up, and let the sweat and blood dry on my knuckles.
Another message delivered. Another problem handled.
And the night was just getting started.
That's when she slid into view like smoke—long legs wrapped in thigh-high boots, skin glinting under the stage lights. Cotton candy pink hair spilled over her shoulder in waves, and her glittered lips curled as she leaned into my booth.
"Private dance," she purred, fingers brushing the table like she was tracing a contract. "On the house. For the man who made Carter piss blood."
Her perfume was strong—sweet, floral, laced with something dirty. She wasn't waiting for an answer either. Her hip cocked, one hand already extended, like the invitation had claws.
I took her in. The sheer black bra. The chain-link skirt. The tattoo snaking up her ribs, vanishing under the swell of her breast. Her heels were ridiculous, designed to hurt men or floor them.
"I don't even know your name," I said, playing it cool.
She smirked. "You won't need it where we're going."
She took my hand, and I let her. Because fuck it—my knuckles were still buzzing from Carter's nose, my blood was hot, and my ride home didn't need to come just yet.
The booth faded behind us. The music shifted. She led me into the back—low lights, red curtains, velvet walls that swallowed sound and secrets.
She pushed me onto the seat, slow and theatrical.
I sat, the leather sticking to the backs of my thighs. She didn't smile as she started her dance. No wink, no over-the-top seduction. Just slow, deliberate movements. One hand braced on the mirror, the other trailing down the inside of her thigh like she wasn't performing for me but for something darker, hungrier.
She stepped close. Straddled the chair. Close enough to taste her perfume—vanilla and sweat. Her bare tits grazed my chest, soft friction through my tank top. She grabbed my tie—wait, did I even wear one? No. She imagined I did. That's the kind of energy I gave off. Buttoned-up menace.
She leaned in, voice warm against my ear. "You collect for Smith?"
"Tonight, I do."
Her hips rolled forward, grinding against my jeans with lazy pressure. I didn't move. Let her do the dancing, let her think she had the power. But she wasn't stupid. She felt the tension in me. The coiled stillness. The patience.
"You don't look like his usual brand of thug."
"That's 'cause I'm not."
She bit her lip. Sat up straight. Ran her hands down her own sides like she was wiping off my gaze. "You ever think about being your own boss, pretty boy?"
"Only when the pay's good."
She laughed, quiet and dry, then dropped low, her mouth nearly grazing my stomach through the fabric. She looked up, hair falling across one eye.
"Don't blink. You'll miss something."
I didn't. And she didn't disappoint.
Her body pressed tight against mine now, moving slow, hypnotic. Every grind deliberate. A warning and a promise wrapped in pink skin. I let her keep control. For now.
Song ended.
She pulled back, breathing a little harder than before. Fixed her thong. Fixed her face.
I stayed seated, adjusting myself with no shame. "You should charge more."
"I don't charge at all for pretty boys doing dirty jobs." She winked. "Tell Smith I said hi."
She walked up and straddled me without hesitation. Her breath tickled my jaw.
"House rules?" I asked, just to see how far she'd go.
She leaned in. "Break 'em."
And then the lights dimmed, and the real dance began.
"What's your name?" I asked, voice low.
"Cherry." She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. "But you can call me anything when you come."
Fuck.
Her hips rolled, slow and deliberate, grinding against me through clothes we both pretended were barriers. She didn't look away—not once. Her gaze stayed locked on mine, daring me to flinch, to break the tension first. I didn't.
She dragged her fingers down my chest, slow, teasing, stopping just above my belt. Her mouth curled.
"Dancer's intuition says you're tense," she whispered.
I smirked. "That obvious?"
"Mm. You've got that look—like someone who just did something dangerous and liked it."
I didn't confirm it, but I didn't deny it either.
Her body moved like smoke—no wasted motion, just heat and friction and intent. My hands stayed planted at my sides, like I was some model of restraint, while she rolled her body against mine with purpose. Her thighs pinned me. Her tits brushed my chest. She bit her lip and exhaled a soft, pleased hum.
She didn't get up.
She slipped off my lap with a smirk, all pink hair and sin, her knees brushing the floor like it was familiar territory. And I didn't stop her. How the fuck could I?
Her fingers wrapped around me—warm, tight, confident. No hesitation, just that perfect squeeze from base to tip, like she was teasing me into hardness just for her. She spat in her palm and gave me a few slow strokes, coating me with slick heat before her lips parted.
Then she took me into her mouth.
The first inch disappeared behind that glossy pink grin. Her tongue was everywhere—sliding under, swirling around, flattening against the underside with a slow drag that made my eyes flutter. Her lips were soft, pillowy, but she sealed them tight like she wasn't going to let me go until she was finished with me.
She moaned low, and I felt it. The vibration buzzed through me, sharp and dirty. Her throat clenched around the tip as she pushed deeper. Hot. Wet. Tight. Velvet and fire.
I bit down a groan, knuckles white on the booth. Her head bobbed in a steady rhythm—slick, obscene. Her mouth made that perfect suction sound, every wet slurp and messy gasp echoing off the walls like she wanted me to hear it. Like she wanted to turn this into a goddamn soundtrack.
She pulled back slow, her lips dragging up the length, tongue flicking the slit before diving again. Faster now. More spit. She was getting into it—hungry. Her hand joined in, stroking what she couldn't swallow, twisting at the base while her mouth worked the top like she needed me to unravel.
And fuck me, I was.
Her cheeks hollowed. Her throat swallowed. Every time she gagged just a little, her nails dug into my thighs, and it only made me twitch harder in her mouth.
My hips bucked once—reflex. She didn't flinch. She held me there, buried in her throat, lips wrapped tight around the base. Eyes closed. Moaning.
That's what did it.
The way she held me—tight, choking, her lips sealed at the base like she wanted to disappear me. Her throat fluttered around my cock, tense and twitching, and the sound she made… a muffled hum like she was tasting something sweet and forbidden. My hand clamped in her hair without thinking, like instinct took the wheel and didn't give a damn about manners.
I came hard. Violent. Too fast, too deep.
The first jet of cum shot down her throat and I felt her flinch—just slightly—but she didn't stop. She stayed down, eyes shut, jaw slack, taking every fucking pulse like she'd trained for it. My abs locked up. My knees twitched. I was halfway out of breath before the second spurt hit, thick and hot, flooding her mouth in greedy waves.
She swallowed. Not just because she had to—because she wanted to. Her throat worked around me with every pump like she was milking the last of it out.
By the third pulse, my vision had gone hazy. I grunted, low and wrecked, hips jerking like I'd lost control of the machinery. I could hear the wet sounds—obscene, sticky gulps and the faint slap of her palm against my thigh for balance. She'd made a mess—slick saliva, a smear of spit trailing down her chin, glistening around the base—but she didn't seem to care. My cock throbbed in her mouth and she stayed there, tongue flicking at the underside, nursing me through the aftershocks like she liked feeling me twitch.
When I finally eased back into the booth, chest heaving, she slid off slow, her lips dragging along the length until the tip popped free with a wet sound that made me twitch again.
She looked up. Smirked.
Opened her mouth—cum on her tongue, thick and gleaming—then closed it and swallowed without breaking eye contact.
"Sweetheart," she whispered, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, "if that was just a thank you, I might start doing charity."
Then she stood, hips swaying, not a trace of shame on her face—only pride, satisfaction, and a wicked little glint that said I own what I do to men like you.
She was gone before I could even say a word.