Chapter 3 Chapter Three
The drive wound through the wealthiest part of Los Angeles, the kind of street that Becky had only seen in glossy magazines – mansion hidden behind iron gates, driveway lined with Bentley and Ferraris. Her stomach churned as Red’s convertible turn into a privet line that ended at a glass tower glittering against the skyline.
The penthouse sat high above the city, music already thumping from the top floor, light pulsing like a beacon from the elite.
“This is it,” Red said casually, one hand draped over the wheel. She smirked as Becky through the rearview mirror. “Welcome to the high side of L.A.”
The other two girl giggled, fixing their lip gloss, their laugher edged with the ease of veterans. Becky sat stiff, ever nerve thigh as wire.
They parked near the entrance, where man in tailored suit and women in gowns piled in and out. Two bouncers in all black guarded the glass doors.
“Evening, baby” Red’s purred as she sauntered up, giving one of them a wink. He grinned back, opening the velvet rope without a word. The familiarity between them made Becky’s chest tighten. They’ve done this before. A lot.
Becky hurried to catch up, heart racing. “Red—wait” she whispered, grabbing her arm. “What are we even doing here?”
Red tilted her head, her curls shimmering under the lights. “Relax. Same thing you do at the club, Henny. You see a man with money? You give him a show. A lap dance, a tease, whatever they’re buying. These guys are loaded, and they pay heavy. Charge whatever you want—trust me, they won’t blink.”
Becky swallowed hard. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Red said smoothly. “Don’t overthink, Just…perform.”
With that, she flicked her hair and strode inside. The others followed, heels clicking like drum beats.
Becky paused at the doorway, drawing in a breath before stepping inside.
The penthouse gleamed with marble floors and glass walls, chandeliers spilling light like melting crystal. Beyond the windows, the L.A. skyline glittered. Men in sharp suits smoked cigars, women draped in diamonds, laughed too loudly, champagne glasses rang in the air. The place reeked of money, thick and toxicating.
The music pulsed low, sensual.
Almost immediately, Red and her girls spilt off, weaving between clusters of men like predators hunting their prey. Becky hesitated, trailing after them, but quickly realized she was alone. This wasn’t the club—no stage, no set routine. Here, she had to find her own “market”.
Her palms sweated as she drifted past a group of men tossing poker chips onto a glass table. Another pair leaned back on leather couches, watching two girls straddle them, bills fluttering like confetti.
Becky forced herself to keep moving, unsure where to land.
“Hey.”
She turned. A man in his forties, tall with slicked-back hair and the kind of confidence that came from money, watched her. Her smile was lazy, entitled.
“You’re one of the girls to hire?” he asked, swirling his whiskey.
Becky froze. “I’m….I’m a dancer. Not for hire.”
He chuckled, waving her off. “They’re all the same thing. Doesn’t matter. Come.”
Before she could push back, his hand pressed lightly against her back, steering her towards a side door. Red’s voice echoing in her head—don’t overthink, just perform. So she kept moving.
The door opened into a private cigar room, dim and hazy, leather chairs lined up under a cloud of smoke.
“Go on.” He said, sinking into a chair. “Show me what you can do.”
Becky swallowed hard. Her body moved on instinct—hips swaying, hands gliding over her frame, dropping low to the faint thump of music leaking through the walls. She gave him the same energy she gave the pole, though the floor beneath her was a carpet not a stage.
When she stopped, breath sharp in her chest, the man leaned forward, smirking.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re offering?” his voice dropped, dripping suggestions. “What if I gave you a little extra…for a happy ending?”
He pulled out a thick wad of cash, counting bills with lazy precision. Becky’s breath hitched. It was more than she’d seen in a whole week at the club. Maybe more than two.
Her throat dried. Her morals screamed. But her mother’s face flashed in her mind—the frail body, the trembling voice asking if she’d eaten, the doctor’s words like a death sentence without money.
“I’m not…not taking off my cloth. And I’m not having sex,” Becky said firmly, her voice shaking but steady.
The man smirked wider, “Relax, I don’t mind. Just please me, sweetheart. That all.”
He reached for her, pulling down for a kiss. Becky’s mind went black, survival screaming louder than her shame.
The door open.
A man stood there, frozen mid—step. He was tall, broad—shouldered, dressed in a black suit with no tie. His hair was dark, slightly tousled, his expression was sharp but unreadable—until eyes locked with Becky.
For a heartbeat, time stopped. His gaze was piercing, cutting through her, Becky chest seized.
“Sorry,” he muttered quickly his voice was deep, almost rough. “I was just… looking for somewhere quit.”
His eyes flickered between them—the kiss, the money on the table--and something unreadable past through his face. He turn on his heel and left.
Heat surged Becky’s cheek. She pulled always from the man, snatching the bill of the the table with shaking hands.
“Hey, where you going?” the man barked. “We are not finish!”
But Becky didn’t answer. She bolted out the door, heat hammering, money clutched like a lifeline. She push past stranger, the music roaring, until she found the terrace doors.
Outside, the garden was light with soft golden light, the air cool and quit compare to the chose inside. Becky stumble unto the grass, chest heaving. She dropped unto the stone bench, pressing her palm to her face.
What the hell am I doing?
She lowered her hands--and froze.
The man from the cigar room stood a few feet away, his back against the wall, head tilted to the sky as thought he’d trying to breath, too.
Becky shot up, flustered. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know any one was here, I will just--”
