I don’t remember who booked the hotel.  Not me. Or Mads. Probably one of the other girls, after too many cocktails and not enough supervision. It wasn’t the Bellagio or anything fancy, but we had two connecting rooms, a working ice machine, and the kind of floral bedspreads that looked like they’d seen some things and wouldn’t judge if we added to the list.

Vegas for Summer Break-slash-birthday-slash-we-survived-our-freshman-year. Whatever the excuse, we came loaded: matching mini dresses, fake IDs from a guy Faye knew back home (okay, that’s me), and a playlist called Sin City Sluts Vol. 1. There was glitter on our collarbones, Advil in our handbags, and not a single thought of consequence in sight.

Every night was a blur of bass and bottle service, of squeezing into the same bathroom mirror and hyping each other up like drunk cheerleaders before prom. We had just enough downtime between clubs to sleep, rinse off the smoke and sweat, and pretend we weren’t dragging our feet by sunrise. And somehow, we always rallied.

The Strip was loud, tacky, and perfect. Girls with angel wings handing out promo cards. Guys in sunglasses who tried too hard. Street performers and bridesmaids, and that one couple fighting outside a limo like they were being filmed. I loved it. All of it.

But Madeline, Mads, she’d been different since we got here.

Still sweet, still smiling in all the selfies. But quieter. Distracted. Like she was half-watching a show only she could see. I caught her staring out the window at the lights more than once, phone screen dark in her lap, not saying a word. I figured it was something back home. Or maybe someone. I didn’t ask. Not yet.

Because this trip wasn’t about thinking, it was about letting go. About being loud and hot and free, even if just for a few nights.

And honestly? I had my own distractions to worry about.

--- 🐺 ---

By the third night, Madeline had had enough. She slipped out, mumbling something about “needing air” that none of us really heard over the curling iron and Bluetooth speaker blaring Kehlani. I figured she’d be back by midnight. She always came back.

The rest of us crammed into two taxis like sequined sardines, legs tangled, perfume clouding the vinyl seats, all of us laughing too loud for no reason. Our matching silver dresses caught every bit of streetlight like disco balls with legs, and someone shouted “bachelorette party!” out the window even though it wasn’t. But honestly? It could’ve been. That’s just how we looked, like a celebration with no specific reason.

The club was called something ridiculous, like Ego or Vibe, all neon cursive and black velvet ropes. The line was wrapped around the building, but our promoter was already texting, some guy one of the girls met at brunch who promised us “no cover, no wait, free drinks until midnight.” I didn't trust him, but I trusted the idea of him, which was enough.

Inside, it was chaos.

The air was humid with sweat, cologne, and whatever they used to fake fog. Strobe lights hit in sharp pulses, lighting up bodies in freeze-frames: open mouths, tossed hair, hands on hips. The walls pulsed with the beat, and the bass thudded so deep in my chest it felt like my body was syncing to it.

The dance floor took up the middle, a glossy dark pit of bodies grinding and jumping, all glitter and limbs and camera flashes. VIP booths hugged the perimeter, roped off in leather and LED strip lighting, where girls sipped from sparklers in champagne bottles and guys leaned in too close. Every ten minutes, someone would scream, or pop a bottle, or throw a napkin into the air like it was confetti. I loved it.

Above us, a mezzanine pulsed with people pretending to be cooler than us. Below us, probably regrets and spilled vodka. We floated in between.

A guy grabbed my hand as I passed and twirled me like I was already his. I laughed, twirled again, and let go. No names. No rules. Just heat, music, and movement.

I was tipsy, high on sugar and approval. And for the first hour, maybe three, I didn’t think about where Mads had gone. I didn’t think about anything at all.

At some point, I lost the girls. Not in a scary way, just the usual nightclub drift. One minute we were shouting over the DJ, next thing I knew I was elbow-deep at the bar trying to order vodka sodas for people I couldn’t see anymore.

That’s when he slid in beside me.

Button-down shirt, sleeves rolled. Not flashy like the rest of the guys here: no gold chains, no club promoter energy. Clean-cut but not boring. He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht or out of an Ivy League handbook. Tired eyes, but sharp. Hair that probably cost more than my fake ID. And when he leaned in to be heard over the music, his accent was unmistakable: clipped, polished, somewhere between Boston and Manhattan.

“You been here long?” he asked, voice close to my ear, not because he was being creepy, just because it was loud. His vowels curled just enough to sound expensive. Clean, almost like he’d done debate team and rowing.

I smirked. “That depends. Are we talking about drinks or something else?”

He laughed, low and warm. Didn’t back off. “Maybe both.”

The bartender finally noticed me, and I ordered two: one for me, one for the mystery prep school prince. He didn’t stop me.

He watched the crowd as we waited. Not nervously. Casually, like he was above it all but still curious. Like he was people-watching at a zoo.

“You here for a bachelor party or something?” I asked, sipping through the tiny straw. “You look...too clean for this place.”

He shrugged, eyes scanning the room. “Conference. I wasn’t planning to come out tonight.”

Of course not. He probably had a suite with a view and an early flight back to JFK.

I raised a brow. “Let me guess. Crypto? Law? Something that makes other people nervous at parties?”

Another smirk. “Finance. Close enough.”

Of course. He probably had a watch that cost more than our entire trip.

Still, there was something about him. Not just the voice or the looks, though, yeah, those didn’t hurt. It was the way he looked at me, like he already knew what kind of girl I was. Like he’d decided I was trouble, and didn’t mind.

“I’m Amy,” I said, flipping my hair off one shoulder. The same name that was printed on my fake California ID. No need to overthink it.

He didn’t offer a name back. Just tipped his glass to mine and said, “Nice to meet you, Amy.”

Our glasses clinked, and he didn’t look away when he drank. His eyes tracked the straw, the rim of my glass, the smear of lip gloss I left behind.

For a second, I remembered Madeline, somewhere out there walking alone, probably staring at sidewalk cracks or neon signs like they were poems.

Then I looked back at him.

And just like that, the night tilted, like a roulette ball slowing down, hovering between red and black.

--- 🐺 ---

He didn’t ask. Just touched my wrist lightly, two fingers, nothing pushy, and nodded toward the floor.

I let him lead.

The music was louder out there, deeper. Bass thick enough to feel in my knees, my ribs, the backs of my teeth. Bodies everywhere: some dancing, some just pretending to, and the lights flashed in bursts that made everything look a little more dangerous than it really was.

He didn’t grab me. Didn’t grind up behind me like some frat boy trying to reenact a porn scene. He stood close, gave me space, waited. Like he knew he didn’t need to rush anything.

So I closed it for him.

I turned my back to his chest, let my hips find the beat. Small, slow movements at first: a test, a tease. His hands brushed the sides of my waist, light as a breath, then settled just above my hips. Not controlling, not pulling. Just there.

He moved with me.

God, he could move. Not showy, not clumsy. Just... clean. Smooth. Like he was used to dancing with girls who knew what they were doing. Like maybe he'd learned this in a place with chandeliers and tuxedos, but had no problem getting dirty when the lights dropped.

My ass brushed against him, deliberate now. His fingers tightened for half a second, then relaxed. I smiled to myself.

His breath hit the back of my neck: warm, steady. I leaned into it. Rolled my hips, slow figure-eights, let my arms drift up into my hair. His hands followed my rhythm, trailing the curve of my waist, fingers teasing the line between touch and grip.

The crowd blurred. Music rose, fell, looped. Sweat trickled down the back of my thigh. I felt it all.

One of his hands slid up, grazing the bare skin just under the edge of my dress. He didn’t go higher. Didn’t need to. The point was already made.

I tilted my head back against his shoulder, lips parted, eyes half-closed. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Everything we needed to say was already there: in the music, the movement, the heat between us.

The music pulsed, thick and low, and I moved with it, not just to dance anymore, but to feel. To press back into him. To see what I could get away with.

His hands slid lower, fingers skimming the curve of my hips like he was tracing something he already owned. One slipped down, knuckles grazing the top of my thigh, just under the hem of my dress. A warning shot. Or a promise.

I didn’t stop him.

Didn’t look around. Didn’t care who saw. The lights flashed too fast for anyone to really notice anyway: purple, red, white,  like a shutter trying to catch us and failing every time.

His touch drifted higher, lifting the silver fabric just enough to make me inhale. Then higher still.

I bit my lip.

He didn’t go straight for it. He teased. Danced his fingertips along the crease of my inner thigh, just barely inside. A whisper of pressure. A brush. Then gone. Then back again, like he was testing how close he could get before I’d flinch or pull away.

I didn’t.

I pressed back into him instead, my hips shifting, inviting. Offering. Daring.

He took his time. Fingers edging up, circling skin he shouldn’t have access to. My legs parted just a little. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to say yes without a word.

A fingertip slipped in, light as breath. Then gone again.

My whole body tightened. Heat flushed up my neck, across my chest. I tilted my head toward his, not kissing, just...closer. Our cheeks brushed, damp with sweat. He said something low, right into the shell of my ear, but I didn’t catch it over the music.

The song changed: heavier, filthier, all slither and bassline.

A crush of bodies spilled onto the floor like someone had tipped the whole club sideways. The air shifted, hotter, closer. I didn’t even notice at first, not until the couple in front of us started dragging my eyes their way. Or maybe he did.

She was turned toward me. Skinny, fake-tan bronze, hair bleached to the point of burning. Her little top had ridden up, or maybe he’d pulled it, and her tits were just out. Not a slip, not an accident. They bounced, jeweled with silver rings, catching the strobes, and no one around her gave a shit. Least of all her.

But him. God. He was huge. Dark skin, body gleaming, a bandana low over his brow. His hands were all over her like she was his favorite toy: twisting, tugging, not careful. Hungry. And the whole time, his stare wasn’t on her. Or the crowd. Or the DJ. It was nailed right into me.

I should’ve looked away. I knew that. But the way he was staring, like he already had me too, it pinned me still. I could feel the grin on his face before it even came, sharp and mean.

His eyes dipped lower, not at my face but down— down where the guy behind me still had his fingers pressed under my hem, lazy but so sure, right against the damp spot he’d made worse with every drag of the bass. My breath stuttered.

The lights smeared. The sound warped. I was tipsy and high on it, like the floor had tilted and I couldn’t find my balance. And then the bandana guy yanked harder on his girl, shoving her back into him. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, mouth open, a moan swallowed by the music. His hand slid between her thighs: quick, deliberate, and I swear no one else saw. Just me. Like it was staged for me.

Heat pooled low in my belly, shame and want fusing until I couldn’t tell which was which. My thighs squeezed, not on purpose. My skin buzzed. I felt caught, dizzy, like I’d stepped into a game I didn’t remember agreeing to play.

And still… I couldn’t stop watching.

The strobes snapped again: red, white, blue, freezing her expression mid-ecstasy, her eyes glazed, his hand slick and shameless. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

Then more: fumbling, movement, skin. A flash of something hard, heavy, real. My breath stuttered. My thighs clenched tighter around the fingers still working me under my dress, a pulse of heat spreading up my spine.

I was still dancing, or at least swaying, but my mind had fallen three beats behind my body. Every nerve was lit. Every part of me trembling, begging. I could feel the guy behind me watching it too: his mouth near my neck, breath hot, his grip bruising my hips like he knew exactly how close I was.

I wanted to say something. I think I even tried. But my lips barely parted before the girl in front of me let out a silent moan: back arched, head dropped, legs shaky, and I just… drowned in it.

I had no idea how no one else had noticed.

Maybe they had. Maybe no one cared.

I should’ve looked away.

I knew that. Knew it somewhere in the haze behind my eyes, beneath the music and vodka and whatever was humming through my bloodstream like static.

They were still at it: right there, right in front of me, like we weren’t in the middle of a packed club. Like no one else existed.

Her jeans were bunched at her ankles now, tanned thighs trembling as he pressed into her. Not rough, not frantic— just slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. His arm locked around her chest, keeping her upright, her back arched against him with every thrust, while his other hand stayed low, guiding her hips into the rhythm, dragging her down onto him deeper and deeper.

Her head tipped back toward the ceiling, lips parted around a breath that never seemed to make it into sound. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to the sweat on her neck. She looked like someone unravelling in real time. Every ripple of her body told its own story: the shudder when he bottomed out, the taut stillness when he held her there, the twitch in her thighs when he pulled back just enough to make her chase it.

And God… I could feel it. Not just see it. The echo of each thrust crawled up my own legs, fluttered sharp and insistent between them. My dress clung damp against my skin, my thighs locking tight around the fingers still buried there. Every squeeze of her, every helpless arch, every soundless cry vibrated through me like I was tethered to her body by some invisible wire.

The club didn’t exist anymore. Not the music, not the crowd, not the guy behind me with his hot breath at my neck and his hands holding me in place. It was just her. Him. That steady, obscene rhythm. The rawness of it, the intimacy, the audacity… fucking in plain sight while the whole room pretended not to watch.

I should’ve looked away. But I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because with every slow, deliberate stroke of him inside her, I swore I felt it too.

The stranger behind me seemed to take the couple in front of us as his cue. His hand didn’t linger this time: it slid with certainty, bold now, beneath the hem of my dress. No hesitation, no testing. Just heat. His fingers found the thin strip of fabric between my legs and pushed it aside like it was nothing, like he already knew what he’d find.

And he was right.

I was wet. Slick, shamefully so. My thighs pressed together too late, and the movement only smeared it higher, made me more aware of how ready I was for something, anything. My body was telling on me before I even had the sense to realize it.

He didn’t whisper anything. He didn’t need to. His breath was hot against the curve of my ear, the shape of his mouth brushing me like he could swallow every little gasp I made. Two fingers slid inside me, slow, curling, dragging along a spot that made my legs weaken instantly. He pulled back almost out, then pushed in again, measured, deliberate… each time like he was teaching me to chase it.

I did.

In front of me, the girl had bent forward, one hand braced against her thigh, while her partner’s hips drove into her harder now. The sound of it: skin on skin, breath caught between them, her body rocking forward, cut through the pulse of the bass. She was trembling with it, mouth open, head tossing back like she was breaking. I felt it in my knees, like I was tethered to her rhythm.

The whole world blurred around us. Just their bodies. My body. His hand, his chest against my back.

I couldn’t tell if it was the music vibrating through me or my own pulse hammering in my ribs. Couldn’t tell if the ragged little moans I heard were hers or mine: hers breaking free, mine trapped, half-swallowed, every one of them sharper when his fingers curled deep and hit that place again.

It was porn, but raw and live and too close.

And god, I was soaking it in.

My hips moved before I knew they were moving, rolling with him, begging silently for more. My mouth parted on a helpless sound, one I hadn’t meant to let slip. He answered without words: just pressing deeper, harder, as if he’d been waiting for that crack in me. My head tipped back against his shoulder, dizzy and floating, body tugged between the show in front of me and the relentless, aching pull inside me.

And the guy in front of me? He was still watching, too. Not just glancing… watching. Right over the girl’s shoulder, right through the dark and heat and sweat, right at me. Eyes locked. Like he knew exactly what I was feeling.

And he wasn’t finished showing off yet.

The music dropped lower, bass thick and rolling, shaking through my ribs. Like the room itself knew what was about to happen.

The girl in front of me was spiraling, unraveling in real time. Her knees buckled again and again, each stumble caught by his hand, his body anchoring her while he worked her apart. Her hair clung to her neck in damp strands, mouth open but soundless, chest rising and falling like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Her fingers didn’t know where to land: clawing at his forearm, skimming her own thigh, grabbing at air.

And then it hit her.

I could see it, like a wave breaking against her skin. Her whole body seized, not violently, but absolutely. Back arched, toes curling inside her heels, shoulders pulled taut like strings. A cry shivered out of her, silent and broken, as his hand held her firm: one palm pressed flat to her stomach, steadying her, the other still driving slow and deep, relentless, as if he were dragging her climax out by force.

It went on forever. Or maybe it was only for a heartbeat, a flicker. But I felt every single second of it.

The heat inside me spiked, sharp and blinding. I whimpered… actually whimpered. My legs trembling from how deep his fingers were now, how steady he kept them. Every curl of his knuckle, every drag inside me felt timed, like he was trying to tune my body to hers. To pull me into the same fall.

But I didn’t cum.

My muscles clenched, shook, begged for it— but something held it out of reach. I was teetering, stuck at the top of the drop, looking down at the rush, and still the release wouldn’t break. The beat hammered, the girl shuddered against his chest, and I stayed locked in place, desperate.

I was soaked. Absolutely soaked. My dress clung to my skin, my thighs slick, my breath sharp and shallow. Heat shimmered across me, need clawing at my ribs.

And still, nothing.

Just pressure.

Just want.

Just the edge.

The guy behind me slowed his hand, lingering just long enough to press one last pulse against me before retreating. I swore under my breath, grinding back against him, desperate to chase what had almost been there.

The girl in front of us was gone… her body slack in his arms, jeans around her ankles, top forgotten somewhere above her ribs. He… he looked like he had savored every ripple, every tiny surrender. One final, deep thrust, and he pressed into her hard, sharp, and deliberate, like closing a chapter.

And all the while, his eyes never left mine.

Jaw tight, breath exhaled in a slow hiss, and I knew. Knew exactly what had just happened. Felt it in the way her legs trembled, in the way he clutched her hips like they were all that kept him grounded.

Then… silence.

Not the music or the lights: they were still raging, still thumping, but inside me. A stunned, echoing quiet, like someone had knocked the wind out of me with something I couldn’t see.

I was panting, shaking, still aching.

Still not there.

Still raw.

The guy behind me leaned closer, lips brushing my ear again. Warm. Soft. Dangerous. His hand lingered near my hip, idle now, and for a long beat I let the heat linger, my body humming, breath still coming in ragged bursts, trying to catch up with everything my mind had just witnessed— and everything my body still wanted.

The club spun around us. Neon, sweat, bass, lights, bodies. But for me? It was just us. Just that pulse. Just the quiet ache that refused to let go.

--- 🐺 ---

He grabbed my hand and yanked me off the dance floor like he owned the place. I stumbled a little… okay, a lot, but somehow kept up. The crowd pressed around us, bodies bumping, elbows grazing, music pounding through the floor straight into my ribs. And him? Totally steady. Confident. Like he’d done this a million times.

“Uh… where are we going?” I gasped, barely keeping my balance, my words swallowed by the bass.

“You’ll see,” he said, voice low. Not a lot of words. Just… control. And I wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but my brain was fuzzy with heat and booze and… yeah. That “I have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels good” feeling.

We pushed past the bar, past the velvet ropes, past a guy who looked like he’d just realized he was at a nightclub instead of a strip club. And then— the bathroom. Men’s bathroom. I blinked at the sign like maybe my eyes were lying.

He didn’t wait for me to think. Just shoved the door open, dragging me inside. The lights hit me like a slap: bright, harsh, unflattering. The smell hit next: bleach, sweat, something sharp, a tinge of cologne that made my head spin. Faucets gurgled. A fan rattled overhead. Drips from a leaky faucet added a staccato beat to the whole chaotic symphony.

I tried to gather myself, wiggle my dress down, and think of something clever to say. Something… normal. Anything. But he was already weaving us past sinks and a row of urinals, past the half-stunned, half-too-drunk guys who probably didn’t even notice, and then… BAM, he shoved open a stall at the far end.

“Okay,” I managed, voice a little shaky, a little breathless. “Definitely… not what I expected tonight.”

And really, when had I ever done anything expected?

Once inside, the small stall wrapped around us like a cage. Cold metal walls. Sticky floor. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

His hands were on me before I even caught my breath.

Without a word, he lifted my dress. Fingers brushing over my skin, just enough to tease, just enough to make my thighs tingle and pulse. I gasped: half surprise, half need, half warning.

Then he pinned me. Back flat against the wall, body flush with mine, chest pressing, heat radiating, impossible to wiggle. No room. No space. No time to think.

My fingers scrambled at his belt, clumsy, desperate, fumbling. The zipper was a barricade I was too impatient to wait through. His hands slid back under my dress, warm, deliberate, steady, and every brush sent sparks crawling across me.

His breath hit my ear: heavy, quick, intoxicating, and I pressed back against him without thinking. Wanting everything. Wanting nothing. Wanting him. Wanting to see what came next.

Metal cold against my back, skin alive with friction. My knees instinctively hooked around his hips when his hands lifted me slightly, shifting me closer. Heat pooled between us, raw and dizzying.

The belt finally gave way with a clink. The zipper followed, loud in the small stall, loud in my ears, like a countdown. My hands didn’t hesitate. Found him. Hard. Thick. Already alive in my palm. Heat that made my knees weak, pulse banging in my ears.

He murmured something low. Didn’t matter what. It was permission, promise, warning, all rolled into one. And then his hands were under my thighs, lifting me higher, closer, until my back slammed against the wall and the world outside the stall didn’t exist. My breath caught, short, ragged, and I held on however I could, knees tight, chest pressed, every nerve screaming.

The stall closed in around us like a world made just for this, just for him and me. The walls were hard, cold, unyielding… but every brush of his skin against mine made me forget that. The stickiness of the floor, the smell of bleach, the dripping faucet somewhere behind the wall… it all melted away.

His hands were everywhere. Under my dress, on my thighs, pressing me up against him, pulling me closer, harder. I was breathless, dizzy with heat, feeling the weight of him, the pulse of him, the raw certainty that he wanted this just as badly as I did.

My fingers tangled in his hair, fingertips grazing his jaw, tracing down his neck, while the other hand gripped him, hot, hard, thick in my palm. Every curve, every ridge, every pulse inside me made me shiver. My back pressed flat to the wall, my legs hooked tight, every muscle alive.

He moved me, lifted me higher, and I could feel the heat of him through me, the way he fit, perfectly, impossibly, into the small space we’d claimed. The pressure, the friction, the delicious impossibility of it. It was maddening. I pressed into him without thinking, grinding, moaning, hips rolling, letting every inch of me respond to the push and pull of his hands.

He whispered something low, more breath than words, and it set me on fire. I couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Just feeling, just wanting, just letting go.

Every touch sent sparks through my thighs, up my spine, into the hollow of me that was burning and desperate. His lips brushed my neck, his chest pressed to mine, and the stall felt too small, perfect, suffocating, alive.

I was shaking. Moaning. Pressing. Arching. I didn’t care who might hear. I didn’t care where we were. I didn’t care about anything but the fire that had ignited and refused to die.

His hands gripped my hips, lifted, steadied, guided. Mine clutched him, dragged him closer, wrapped him into me. Every tiny movement, every little grind and press, was exaggerated, magnified, because there was nowhere to go. We were trapped together in heat and desire, and it was perfect.

I was so wet, so desperate, so hungry for everything he was giving and more. And still, he teased, slow and relentless, making me chase every pulse, every friction, every shiver. My body tightened, arched, rolled against him. I whined into his neck, head thrown back, breath short, heart hammering in a rhythm I’d never felt before.

Then, with a sharp, delicious pull, he shifted me just so: close, flush, locked together in the smallest space possible, and everything coiled, tightened, and broke. My back pressed to the wall, legs trembling, chest heaving, head spinning. Heat and friction and sweat and lust tangled into a wild, dizzying wave that crashed through me, over me, and I didn’t care who saw, who heard, or what happened next.

I gasped. Whimpered. Shivered.

And when it eased just a little, when the pulse slowed but didn’t go away, when my breath found a shaky rhythm again, I clung to him like a lifeline, every nerve alive, every inch of me still humming.

--- 🐺 ---

We stayed like that for a moment, both of us gasping, sticky, grinning like idiots. My back pressed to the cold wall, legs still hooked around his hips, chest heaving, his forehead resting right above my collarbone. Drip. Drip. Somewhere outside, a faucet. The bass from the club leaking in like it hadn’t missed a beat.

Finally, he exhaled, low and lazy, and eased me down. I wobbled like a newborn deer, legs jelly, thighs aching deliciously. My dress was still all kinds of messed up, riding high around my hips, and I dared a peek down. Yep. Total disaster.

He stepped back, zipped up, ran a hand through his hair like that was supposed to fix anything. I tugged my dress down, grabbed a crumpled piece of toilet paper, and dabbed at myself like I was trying to be civilized. Mirror? No thanks. Not ready to face that full picture yet.

“Jesus,” I muttered, trying to smooth my hair without looking too frazzled.

He grinned, crooked, flushed, still a little wild-eyed. “You okay?”

I gave him a shaky nod. “Yeah. I mean… obviously.”

He straightened his shirt and gave me this look, part impressed, part catching up. “You’re unreal.”

I snorted. “Not bad yourself, mystery finance guy.”

He tilted his head. “Not bad? That’s it?”

I rolled my eyes, smirk sneaking back. “Okay, fine. Very not bad.”

We laughed, soft and quiet, like kids sneaking candy in detention, like the world outside didn’t exist.

Then he cracked the stall door, peeking out. I held my breath. “Coast is mostly clear,” he said, nodding.

Stepping out, two guys froze mid-hand-dry. One had a paper towel, the other just stared like he’d forgotten he had a body. I didn’t meet their eyes. Lifted my chin, strutted past like I hadn’t just been… well, you know.

Behind me, I heard a faint, “Damn.” I grinned. Vegas, baby!

Outside, the club swallowed us again. Lights strobing, bodies swaying, bass rolling. And we fit right back into the chaos.

He glanced at me, a small smirk, satisfied, like he owned the aftermath. “You’re trouble,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” I said, bouncing on my toes, playful, teasing. “But I’m on vacation.”

And I didn’t look back. No point.

Vegas wasn’t for catching people. Vegas was for fast sparks, for burning bright, for feeling lit all the way through. And right now? I was glowing. Lit from the inside out, and not even close to cooling off.

--- 🐺 ---

I pushed through the buzzing crowd, heartbeat hammering, eyes hunting for flashes of silver and familiar hair. Then I spotted them: a glittering, chaotic beacon by the bar. Daisy and Lila, center stage as usual, pulling everyone in with the sheer force of their ridiculous, reckless energy.

Daisy, blonde hair tumbling like a waterfall, was draped over some tanned brunette with a belly ring, catching the light like a tiny disco star. Lila, fiery and wild-eyed, crouched on the other side like she was daring the world to interrupt. Salt, lime, tequila: shots flying like fireworks, gulped and whooped over with manic precision.

When the lime slipped off the edge, Lila shrieked and Daisy nearly face-planted into the bar, and I swear the entire crowd lost it: applause, cheers, whistles. Their laughter tangled like live wires, cutting through the music and the chatter, and I just… grinned. God, I loved them.

I whipped out my phone, snapped a pic. A perfect, blurry mess of pure tipsy chaos.

Sent to: Sin City Sluts 💋🍸

Madeline would die laughing at this. Probably off wandering in her quiet little midnight world, journaling by a fountain or whispering to the moon like some serene lunatic.

Phone stashed, I caught the bartender’s eye, tapped the center of my chest like a signal.

“Another,” I said, all casual chaos.

He raised a brow, shrugged, and poured.

Why the hell would I let the fun stop here? Not on my watch.