"Lyra! You're on!" Mira called as she weaved past a barback balancing a tray of cloudy glasses. Her voice cut through the hum of bass and smoke like it owned the room.
I shot Mira a glance, slipped past the open-mouthed regulars, and took the stage like it belonged to me—a battered platform with just enough height to keep most hands where they belonged.
Chrome Daisy—cute name. No flowers here, just sticky floors, busted lights, and chrome that hadn't shined since I started. Neon buzzed like a headache waiting to happen, casting the crowd in harsh greens and blues. Holos flickered behind wire mesh. One screen had a bullet hole patched with tape. Still worked, barely.
The air stank—cigars, fake fruit, and spilled booze soaked deep into the floorboards. It scraped the back of my throat like sandpaper. I coughed and spat, tasted all of it.
I grabbed the pole, one hand clenched around the cold metal, the other tugging the mesh top down though we both knew it wouldn't stay. Boots laced tight and knees already sore from too many shifts. The crowd leaned in before the music even hit. Their eyes twitched, always hoping for something they couldn't touch.
The bass punched low in my gut and I moved. Hips first, then shoulders, then everything else, the way you do when you're not just performing, but telling them without a smile: keep your distance.
This place didn't run on romance. It ran on habit. Same faces, same hands, same hollow looks. Nothing here changed, except who got chewed up next.
They didn't want me. Just the shape my ass made under the lights.
"Work that ass, sweetheart!" someone hollered.
"She's better than last week," came from a booth. "Colder too. Look at her."
"I'd double the tip if she smiled."
"Yeah, she saves the smiles for corpos."
"I'd still bend her over and go doggy," a voice laughed.
I turned slow, arms up, body curved just enough. Let them talk; they weren't getting more than the show.
Slipped a little — synth-juice, still wet. Recovered with a twist. Straw caught my boot; I kicked it loose.
A punk cracked up while another shouted something about my hair. I flashed a grin and moved on.
Then Mira was back, nudging me with her tray.
"Booth three," she muttered. "Guy with the gold tie. Been staring like he's got x-ray mods."
Before I could reply, she disappeared into the crowd.
When the set ended, he was already at the edge of the stage. He wore a slick suit and a grin like he already had the deal sealed, waving a black card like it was supposed to impress me.
"Miss... " he said. "Private event. Just one night."
He tried to sound confident, but his jaw was tight. I leaned in just enough for him to feel the heat off my skin, his pupils going wide
"You think I haven't heard that before?" I said. "I don't do takeout."
His smile wavered. He held the card out anyway.
"I'm just the messenger."
I took it and read the name: Stairways to Heaven. My fingers clenched around the edge, breath stuck mid-thought. Then I tucked the card into my boot.
I nodded toward the bouncer by the bar. "You want to keep standing there, you have to put something in my bra. Otherwise, keep your hands and fantasies to yourself."
He stiffened. "If you change your mind, call the ID on the back."
"Don't count on it."
The next track rolled in. I stepped back up. I grabbed the pole again, steadying myself for the next round.
Lights skimmed my skin as sweat traced its way down my spine. I looked at Mace behind the bar. He gave me a half-nod. That was enough to say I wasn't breaking rules—no talking unless they pay.
The rhythm pulled me in. I danced slower this time. My eyes locked forward, body moving in rhythm because stopping wasn't an option. The strobe hit, purple and fast; jaws slackened and a drink slipped—perfect.
I dropped low, rolled through the beat, mesh rising higher to flash breast and curve. Something for them to stash in their heads for later.
The guy near the rail with the torn sleeves and greedy eyes brushed my butt. I let it linger, not because he could, but because I liked the heat in his stare, the way all of them wanted to fuck me but couldn't. Let him think he'd won something. That's what made the slap sting more.
Then I turned on him, fast. My hand cracked across his face with a sound sharp enough to silence the front row.
He blinked, stunned, then laughed.
The bouncers didn't move. They knew the routine. I'm a good girl.
The city outside ran on lies, and in here, we sold them prettier.
I moved because that's what they paid for, while they stared like it meant something—until the lights cut, fast and final.