Neon Hunger Pt. 04: Black Chill

Chapter 4: White heat -- black chill

All characters depicted in Neon Hunger are fictional and over the age of 18. This story is a work of imagination intended for mature audiences only. It contains explicit content, psychological themes, and adult situations. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. The narrative explores complex dynamics and should not be interpreted as condoning or promoting harmful behavior. Reader discretion is advised.

The place smelled like fryer oil, citrus disinfectant, and the slow rot of male desperation. Hooters during a dead shift was purgatory in orange and white--stale beer breath, cellophane laughter, and the low drone of ESPN reruns nobody watched. Skye moved through it like lust incarnate in borrowed polyester.

Her thighs flashed with every step, pale and smooth like hand-carved alabaster. The orange shorts bit into her hips, cheeky cut hugging her ass like it owed her something. Her crop top clung to her chest like sweat and sin, showcasing the hard glint of silver nipple bars beneath thin cotton. Hair slicked into two long braids with violet streaks shimmered under the fluorescents, swinging like weapons. Her face was a mask: bleached brows, coal-rimmed eyes, and glossed mouth--so overdrawn it was practically obscene.

She dropped menus at table 9. They didn't even pretend to look at the laminated pages.

"Damn, baby, what's the sauce on you?" one of them asked, voice thick with beer and boredom.

"Hot, sweet, and too expensive for your mouth," she shot back, unfazed.

Another leaned in, not blinking. "You ever get off at midnight?"

She tilted her head, lashes fluttering. "Only on disappointment."

The third one handed her a twenty folded into a condom wrapper. "That's for making my divorce feel worth it."

Skye smirked, tucked the cash into her apron, and walked toward the next table with her hips set on stun.

"Welcome to Hooters," she said, deadpan honey. "Let me know if you want wings, beer, or emotional validation. We only got two of those."

More laughter. Louder. Hollow.

Back in the kitchen, Steph was elbow-deep in suds, gum snapping like gunfire. Her hair stuck to her neck in frizzed waves and she wore her exhaustion like armor.

"That table full of dickheads tip you yet?"

Skye dropped the condom-wrapped bill on the prep counter. "I think one of them believed I taste like peach lip gloss."

"Do you?"

"I smear it before, like, every shift. Right on my vagina."

"Classic flavor profile."

Steph tossed her a fry. "You picking classes next term?"

"Yeah. Gonna grab my books after this, actually. Thought I'd feel like a responsible human or something."

Steph groaned. "Ugh. You're so young. You still believe school might save you."

"I believe in buying shiny things with my student loans."

Steph leaned back against the wall. "Honestly? I might take a sabbatical. Or just quit and pretend I'm discovering myself in Montana."

"You'd last five minutes without Seamless and dick."

"Facts."

Steph eyed her. "You used to dance, right?"

Skye blinked. The question hit like whiplash.

"Yeah. Ballet. Pointe. All of it. Every night until my feet bled. Then I got ass and thighs and suddenly I was the wrong kind of pretty."

Steph raised an eyebrow. "You're nineteen and talking like a retired porn star."

"I age in trauma years."

"Bitch, I'd kill to have your body."

"It betrayed me."

"You sound like a Marvel villain."

Skye laughed, brittle. "I am."

Then, softer: "Wanna go shopping after? I'll dress you up like one of my sad dolls. Latex and heartbreak."

Steph looked up, surprised. "Wait, seriously?"

"On my boyfriend's credit card, ugh huh. Might as well spend his guilt."

Steph's grin widened like a warning. "Girl, you better drain that plastic before he changes his password."

Skye hesitated. Eyes darkening. "It's not like that, you know?"

"You're catching feelings," Steph said, sing-song and lethal. "You."

"No."

"Liar."

Skye turned away, voice clipped. "Thanks for covering. I've got a tattoo appointment."

"Sure you do," Steph called after her. "Ink that man's name on your ass while you're at it!"

But Skye was already gone.

In the changing room, she peeled the uniform off like skin she didn't want anymore. The mirror was scratched, cracked at the edge. Her reflection looked too flushed. Lips too swollen. Lip gloss smudged. Glitter bruising under her eye like a thumbprint memory.

She reapplied mascara with trembling fingers.

"You're not gonna cry over a man you barely know," she said to the girl in the mirror. "You're gonna get a tattoo, pretend it means something, and keep being a slut with a savings plan."

She didn't believe a word of it.

Because she already knew:

She wasn't going to the tattoo shop. She just needed a reason to pretend she hadn't already started falling apart.

Skye almost made it into the tattoo parlor. She ended up next door, at a Starbucks, legs curled under her in a faded armchair by the window. The neon sign from the tattoo shop buzzed against the glass like a dare. She looked like someone playing dress-up in grief--hoodie swallowing her, braids unraveling, lashes still thick but no longer defiant. She looked like someone pretending to be fine in case anyone was watching.

The café hummed with noise. A girl with a nose ring mouthed citations at her laptop. A guy in fleece scrolled Bloomberg like he was reading his own obituary. Two NYU girls in crop tops and lashes filmed TikToks by the drink counter, pouting between takes. Everyone was performing.

Skye lifted her overpriced espresso--iced brown sugar, oatmilk foam, extra vanilla cold foam--took a sip and made a face. It was like drinking a $16 identity crisis. The lemon loaf beside it stayed untouched, perfect in its little wax-paper coffin.

She unlocked her phone, thumbs hovering. Then:

To Mike: miss that rooftop night tbh.

She sent it and gave a little smile. That night--vodka, strobe lights, the skyline like static around them. She remembered the touch of his fingers against her thong.

Next: Nico. She typed, deleted, retyped.

To Nico: finally saw that dumb juggling video u posted. ur HILLARIOUS

Sent. Delivered.

She rolled her eyes and fell back into the armchair, her legs tucked up beneath her like a kid waiting for something that never came.

To Tasha: wanna drink later or just spiral together?

Unread. Classic.

She swiped through Tinder. Left. Left. Maybe. Definitely not. Everyone looked curated and safe. No one looked like Marcus.

Then her phone buzzed.

Kevin the Tesla Boy. The guy who fucking didn't message for more than a month and now has the audacity.

Kevin:

Babes. Partyy tonite. Don't be flaky.

She stared at it. Didn't reply. Didn't smile. Just sipped her drink again.

Buzz.

Kevin:

Let's do something reckless. I'm in the mood for got times. U in?

Still nothing.

Buzz.

Kevin:

Champagne. Rooftop. You in my lap. That mouth saying yes before your lips do.

She exhaled through her nose. The drink was all syrup now.

Buzz.

Kevin:

What, you go soft on me? Don't tell me you got boring.

Skye flipped her phone face down. Watched the screen fade to black. Then turned it back over and opened a different thread.

To Marcus: I really looking to see your frown.

She didn't fix the grammar. It felt more real broken.

No dots. No reply. Nothing.

Outside the window, a girl with heart-shaped glasses and pink Space Buns walked into the tattoo parlor. Younger than Skye. Probably eighteen. Probably fearless. Skye watched her go in, then looked down at her lap.

She hadn't wanted the tattoo. She wanted the idea of permanence. Something that would still be there when everyone else stopped calling.

The drink had melted into sugar soup. Her lip gloss was a memory. She felt like a dress someone had tried on and left crumpled in a fitting room.

She stood, tossed the untouched lemon loaf in the trash like evidence, and stepped into the street.

She crossed the avenue and drifted into the NYU bookstore. It smelled like overpriced ambition and freshly unpacked cardboard. Her boots squeaked faintly against the floor.

She grabbed a psychology reader with a screaming face on the cover, then a used copy of The Bell Jar with someone else's pain bleeding through in purple highlighter. And finally, a warped gender theory textbook with a coffee stain blooming across the back.

The cashier didn't look up. Skye handed over Marcus' card, didn't blink.

Outside, her phone buzzed again. Kevin. She didn't check it.

The storefront glass caught her reflection: bleached lashes, tired gloss, baggy hoodie slouched low, braids loose like unraveling rope. She looked like static. Like someone buffering.

Like a selfie saved too many times, pixelated at the edges.

The front door slammed behind her with that familiar cheap echo. The apartment smelled like half-cleaned makeup brushes and mango body spray--Tasha's signature. Skye dropped her shopping bag by the door, kicked off her boots with a dull thunk, and peeled the hoodie off over her head. Static lifted her hair. Her black tank clung to the sweat across her ribs.

The wine was already open. Tasha was perched on the counter in a towel, legs crossed, a half-drunk glass swinging lazily between two fingers. Her skin was flushed from the shower, blonde curls pinned up like a halo that had seen better days.

"You're alive," she said without looking up.

Skye padded in barefoot, her braids sticking to the back of her neck. "Jesus, you're my fucking savior."

Tasha poured her a glass without asking.

"Got through the day?"

Skye grabbed the glass and sank to the floor with a dramatic sigh. "Barely. Got, like, a degree in ghosting today. Everyone's ignoring me. Even the weirdos. Even you."

"I got you the wine, didn't I?"

She took a gulp. It burned, in a good way.

Skye picked at the edge of the label, trying to seem normal. "So... any updates? I need gossip like I need oxygen."

Tasha raised a brow. "Steph's ex got back with his ex-ex. Dean and Jen are fighting again. And some guy on Reddit offered me ten grand to crush cake in a thong."

"Iconic," Skye muttered. "Chaotic princess behavior."

"You heard from your sugar prince?"

The glass froze near Skye's mouth.

"That a no?"

"I texted," she mumbled. "He didn't answer."

"At least he didn't cancel the card. Where there's money, there's, maybe, still heart."

Skye snorted. "That's, like, the darkest fortune cookie ever."

"We live in bleak, babe."

Skye rolled the stem between her fingers. "You ever fall for someone who makes you feel radioactive? Like... not just seen but scanned?"

Tasha blinked. "Jesus. No. That sounds like a trauma bond with extra glitter."

Skye laughed, sharp. "It is. Like skydiving into a volcano. Except you apologize while burning."

Tasha topped them off again.

"Jen was crying in the laundry room. Again."

"Jen's been crying for, like, three semesters."

"She's in full feral mode. Might be PMS."

Skye tilted her head. "I think she had an abortion."

Tasha's eyes went wide. "Wait, what?"

"She was quiet. Sore. Holding her stomach like it owed her something."

Tasha chewed her lip. "Shit. You think?"

Skye nodded slowly. She didn't say it, but she recognized the look. Like your body had done something irreversible and you couldn't decide if you deserved it.

"So, what about you?" Skye said, stretching out her legs. "You seeing anyone? Any secret love stories from the DM trenches?"

Tasha rolled her eyes. "Dude. After twelve-hour cam shifts, I literally have zero flirt left in the tank."

Skye smirked. "Not even a little internet boyfriend?"

"Nope. If my followers find out I even liked a guy's selfie, they'll riot. Like 'queen you changed' level meltdown. No clout, no coins."

Skye tried to smile, but there was a weird ache in her chest. Like she wanted to protect Tasha and ruin her at the same time.

Skye sipped her wine, eyes narrowing a bit. "So basically, you're married to your simps."

"Ew. Yeah. Emotionally poly with the worst people alive."

There was a beat. The wine buzz had thickened around them.

Skye's gaze drifted lazily over Tasha--bare legs, flushed skin, damp collarbone catching light. There was something tender and stupid in her face, that bright-eyed cutesy softness like she hadn't figured out the world was going to eat her. It made Skye want to do something reckless.

"You know," she said slowly, "you're actually... really fucking pretty."

Tasha blinked, surprised.

"I mean, like... if I didn't know you, I'd still stare. You've got, like, those soft anime girl eyes and the whole towel thing? Kinda lethal."

Tasha giggled, cheeks going pink. "Stop."

"I'm just saying." Skye leaned a little closer. Her knees brushed Tasha's. "You're the only person who still looks at me like I'm not broken."

Tasha's eyes darted. "Skye--"

"You ever kiss a girl?"

"What?"

Skye smirked. "Bet you taste like vanilla lip balm and moral dilemmas."

"You're drunk."

"I'm tipsy. And, like, exploring."

She reached out, fingers ghosting the edge of Tasha's towel, tugging gently.

Tasha flinched. "Skye."

The tone cut. Flat. Uneasy.

Skye blinked. Realized her angle. Her body. Her breath.

She pulled back fast, like she'd touched fire.

"I was joking," she muttered.

"No you weren't."

"I didn't mean it like that."

Tasha stood, re-tightening the towel, jaw clenched. "You always mean it. That's the problem."

She paused, then added, quieter: "I don't wanna be part of whatever mess you're spiraling into."

She walked away. The wineglass sat on the counter, sweating quietly.

Skye stayed there, blinking. Her cheeks were hot. Her stomach twisted. The silence felt too loud.

She reached for her wine again, but the glass was empty. Just like the texts from Marcus.

"Of course," she muttered.

The wine tasted sour now.

The room was lit in washed-out LED pink, her cheap strip lights humming faintly, a dying halo around the edges of the ceiling. Skye lay flat on her stomach, legs bare, tank top twisted beneath her shoulder blades. Her phone was facedown beside her pillow, its cracked screen catching flickers of the pulsing light.

The last of the wine had settled into a syrupy drag in her veins. She felt floaty, stupid, warm in the wrong places.

She hated herself for what happened in the kitchen--how she'd leaned too far, said too much, went too far. Not because she didn't mean it, but because she probably ruined the one friendship that wasn't transactional. And like always, she blamed Marcus. Blamed his silence for making her starve.

She flipped the phone over. No notifications. No dots.

She opened the thread with Marcus again.

Instead of texting, she stood. Kicked off the sheets. Walked over to the mirror and peeled off her tank top. Then her panties. Stood fully nude in the violet-pink wash of LED light, watching her own reflection like it might offer something back.

She posed. Sat on her knees, naked, tongue out, one hand curled like a paw against her cheek. Took another. Bent at the waist, spread her ass cheeks in the mirror. Shot a few more. Deleted most of them, letting herself look ridiculous, obscene, starving.

She settled on one: glossed lips parted, nipples hard, stomach taut. She looked like a girl on the verge of becoming myth.

She sent it.

Then stood there.

Waited.

Nothing.

"Fuck you," she muttered. Dropped the phone onto the bed. Flopped after it.

She grabbed her chewed-up teddy bear from the corner, the one with one eye missing and an ear gnawed to thread. She punched it in the face, once, twice.

"Fuck you fuck you fuck you!"

Her voice cracked. She shoved the bear under her chin and curled into the sheets.

Then, quieter, she flicked to Mike.

remember that rooftop night? shoulda let you fuck me fr.

Ping.

Mike: yo say less. i'm around. send me something to think about?

Mike: fr you looked so good that night. Also miss that late night convo... u free now?

Mike: come over. or i'll pull up.

She stared. Didn't open any of them. Just tossed the phone to the side.

Buzz.

Kevin. Fucking figures.

Kevin: Come oooooon. Tonight'll be one you won't forget.

She hesitated.

Kevin: Me and my boy are doing a real binge. Clubs, rooftop, private booths. It's gonna be some Hollywood shit.

Kevin: My boy's in town from LA. NFL body, model face. Told him I know a girl who eats bottle rats for breakfast.

Kevin: Don't make me a liar.

Kevin: You've never met my crew, right? You should. They'd fuckin' love you.

That made her pause. Kevin never introduced her to friends. It had always been just him, just the Tesla and the flex and the not-quite-touching. If he was inviting her in, that meant something.

Her fingers hovered.

maybe

who else is coming

not into, like, cokehead freakshows

you actually want me there?

Kevin: Yes. You. Come out. It's private. It's clean. It's exclusive.

and ur buddy's chill?

Kevin: Totally. He's a model. You'll love him.

mmm idk

why now?

Kevin: Because you're the main event tonight.

Kevin: I want to show you off.

That line lit something in her chest.

... fine.

just don't flake or i'll end you.

Kevin: Never. Dress expensive.

Skye grinned bitterly at her closet.

"You have no fucking idea, Tesla boy-o."

She yanked the doors open like a girl choosing weapons.

And started to get ready.

The Tesla slid up silent and sleek, matte black like a panther in heat, gull-wing doors lifting like a promise. It could seat four in the back, easy. Kevin emerged first--black hoodie with a subtle Balenciaga logo, tousled hair, chain winking against his collarbone. Movie-star handsome with the vibe of someone who never worked for anything.

He stared. "Holy fuck. You look like a war crime in heels."

Skye stepped forward, the sidewalk catching fire under her smoked-glass heels. Ultraviolet latex crop top gleamed, hugging her like second skin, silver zipper slicing down the spine. Her asymmetrical wrap skirt slashed high, exposing a flash of tattooed thigh. Her braid, cuffed and sleek, snapped across her back with every step. She smiled a thin snake smile and presented herself like queen of the podium.

Kevin's friend leaned out the passenger seat, eyes low-lidded and smiling. Tall, Black, built like a catalog fantasy--clean fade, gold toothpick chain, black tee stretched across his chest like it owed him money.

Kevin nodded toward him. "Skye, this is Dre. Dre, meet Skye."

"Kev wasn't lying," Dre said, his voice deep and warm like melted vinyl. "You look like something conjured, not born." Where Kevin radiated hype, Dre exhaled cool.

Skye smirked and slid into the back. "That why you're gawking, or just, like, allergic to silence?"

Dre laughed, eyes flicking over her with lazy heat. "She's got claws. I like her."

Skye grimaced, doing a scratchy gesture with her black curved acrylics. "Kevin should have warned ya, I also bite!"

They pulled off into the New York heat, windows cracked just enough to let in city noise and weed from the next car over.

"So how do you two know each other?" Skye asked.

"Highschool buddies. Football team," Kevin answered, tapping the wheel. "Saratoga Tigers, woof woof."

"He threw. I caught," Dre added with a grin. "He also cried when we lost state."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Now he's an actor-slash-club parasite. I do fashion shoots and whisper into ears."

Skye leaned back, letting her fingers skim over her thigh. "Sounds toxic. I approve."

The first club was tucked behind SoHo's glittering streets, entrance guarded by velvet ropes and glowering doormen who clearly recognized Dre. They were ushered in with a nod, no names checked. Inside, the lights stuttered to the rhythm of a remix Skye vaguely recognized. A blonde hostess brought sparklers to the table after Dre told her that it was his birthday.

Soon Kevin disappeared into the haze, and Skye found herself accompanying Dre for refills, away from Kevin's explosive attention. Dre leaned on the bar, expression softening. "Not gonna lie, I don't do this kind of shit often."

Skye raised a brow. "Could've fooled me. You seem, like... super in your element."

He laughed, low and warm. "That's the trick. Just fake the rhythm until the room believes you."

She grinned, reaching over to rest her hand on his bicep. "Well, you're killing it."

He tilted his glass. "Also, I lied. Not my birthday. Just said it for the sparklers."

Skye let out a small cackle, eyes rolling. "Of course you did. Fucking sparkles."

Kevin reappeared at her side, dragging two girls into the conversation.

"Ladies, meet Georgia and Gracie. Tennessee twins. Tell 'em why you're in town."

"We're just, like, visiting!" Georgia said, breathless. "Gracie got into NYU! We're checking out the city before move-in."

Georgia had the more innocent vibe--tangled red curls, soft freckles like a dusting of cinnamon, a silver sequin dress that clung to her like a melted disco ball, sharp shouldered, high hem, with silver jelly heels and rhinestone barrettes clipped into her bangs like a baby beauty queen. Her lips were glossy pink, pouted just enough to look accidental.

Gracie, on the other hand, was the wildcard. Her hot pink latex mini-dress barely qualified as fabric, with sheer mesh cutouts that flashed her piercings and a thong strap looped high over her hips. Stiletto platforms in glittered Lucite, hoop earrings the size of bracelets, and a choker that read BABY GIRL in diamanté. Her hair was straight-ironed to death and sprayed stiff, one tendril stuck to her cheek with gloss. She looked like a cartoon femmebot set loose in Manhattan.

Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and dressed like slutty sorority sacrificial lambs.

"You picked a hell of a night to lose your morals."

"Are we?" Gracie blinked. "Losing them?"

"That's the vibe," Dre added, handing her a drink. "Stick with us girls. This rich asshat is taking us all clubhopping! Ready for your New York private club tour?"

Club Two came in flashes. Georgia's chest became a shot tray, sequins catching every flash. Gracie danced on the bar, thighs clapping to a bassline too filthy for FM radio, while Kevin howled like he was watching his team win the Super Bowl. Dre got dragged into a velvet booth by a cougar in gold lamé, her nails tracing his jaw while her laugh cut through the music like broken glass. Skye blurred into it--her braid cracking behind her like a whip, heels stomping down with dominatrix precision, latex sweating into her skin.

Then the world snapped back. Tesla heat. Leather scent. The future humming beneath them.

Kevin tapped the touchscreen and the interior shifted. Seats retracted, lighting dipped low and red. Now they faced each other, thighs brushing, glitter colliding. Skye, Georgia, Gracie--all squeezed into the back like glossy, gift-wrapped chaos. Georgia's dress bunched around her hips, and her freckled thighs sparkled where sequins met sweat; Gracie giggled as she yanked her hemline down, then gave up with a shrug and sprawled back, knees wide, stilettos grazing Skye's chrome-painted toes; both girls clinging to Skye as in search of protection.

Kevin twisted from the front seat, uncorking a slender bottle. "Self-drive activated," he said, voice drunk on adrenaline. "We're headed somewhere that makes the last venue look like Chuck E. Cheese. Underground. Unlisted. You'll beg to go back tomorrow."

Gracie squealed. "That's, like, illegal sexy."

They passed the bottle around. Toasts got dirtier. Someone licked salt off a collarbone, someone else moaned tequila. The Tesla filled with smoke and sparkle, like sin in a snow globe.

Dre grinned and pulled a tiny paper strip from his wallet. "Party favor."

His tongue, glaring against white teeth and dark skin, got the lion's share of the crystal.

The twins exchanged glances. "Is it safe?" Georgia asked, lips already parting.

Skye didn't hesitate--tongue out, eyes closed. She hissed when it touched, like it bit her. "Nothing in New York is safe," she purred, then opened her mouth again like a brat demanding seconds.

Twins obeyed --tongues out, eyes wide -- church girls waiting for communion.

Georgia beamed. "Oh my god."

Gracie giggled. "Cheers, sluts."

The Tesla hummed. The acid hit like a freight train dipped in glitter. Gracie, still giggling, leaned into Dre, syrup in her voice. "Mine tasted like bubblegum!"

Dre laughed back. "Let me taste!" He slid one hand firm around her thigh, the other slipping up under her cropped top, fondling her breast through the pink. He kissed her--long, unhurried, tongue gliding in like a slow invasion. Gracie straddled him without hesitation, her sequined hem riding up over his lap as she rolled her hips, moaning softly into his mouth. Her tangled hair bounced against his shoulder as her thighs clamped around him. Dre's black hand gripped her ass through the fabric, grinding her against him with easy strength.

Across from them, Georgia flushed hard. She turned to Skye like a lifeline. "Your outfit is, like... insane. What even is it?"

Skye tilted her head, lips lazily parted. "Namilia latex. Mugler skirt. Vintage Demonia. Choker is custom set, gurl!"

Kevin barked from the front, "You are out of control, Skye. Even your pussy probably wears couture."

Skye grinned, unbothered. "Wouldn't you love to know."

Kevin hit another button. The car dimmed to sex-lit red. He slid into the back like a shadow with intent, nestling between Skye and Georgia.

Gracie, still riding Dre's thigh, gasped as his hand crept under her waistband. "Shit--I'm, like, overheating. I need water or something." She wriggled off his lap, face flushed, and stumbled toward the drink selection in the door's pocket.

Without missing a beat, Dre reached for Georgia. His hand hooked her waist and pulled her onto his lap. "Wait--I'm the wrong twin," she protested, but it dissolved into a breathy whimper as his mouth claimed hers. His hand spread wide across her sequined thigh, gripping like he owned her. Her leg hitched over his hip. Sequins tore somewhere. He palmed her breast, her gasp turning to a helpless groan as her body gave in.

Skye watched it all from Kevin's lap. Watched Georgia melt into Dre's mouth like sugar on heat. Watched Gracie turn around just in time to see her twin consumed. Her lips parted--not shock, not pain. Something deeper. A flicker of betrayal or hunger or both. Then her eyes flicked to Kevin and Skye, saw his hand disappear beneath Skye's skirt, and she froze.

Kevin turned to her, his voice a velvet growl. "Come here, sweetheart."

Gracie didn't move at first. Just stared. Then her gaze cut to Skye, checking her expression--but Skye didn't flinch, didn't care. She was somewhere else, already gone.

Gracie stepped forward, slow and uncertain, as if crossing a threshold. Kevin reached, pulled her in. Not asking.

She slid beside them, her thighs brushing Kevin's, hands shaking slightly as she placed them on his chest. He guided her into the kiss like she belonged there, his other hand still teasing Skye beneath her skirt. Gracie melted, not from lust--but heat, humiliation, something heady. Her breath hitched as she gave in.

Dre devoured Georgia. One hand in her hair, the other under her dress, sequins rasping as fingers dug into her flesh. She arched into him, breath hitching, her protests lost in wet gasps.

The Tesla slid through Manhattan like sin wrapped in glass. Inside, everything bled--latex, lipstick, pulse. Skye didn't fight it. Didn't want it. Just floated there, someone else's fantasy pressed between velvet seats and synthetic skin.

And the club wasn't even close yet.

The alley reeked of old champagne, piss, and the iron tang of heat off a greasy sidewalk. A velvet rope cut through the grime like a joke, guarded by a bouncer who looked like he benched small cars for fun--black Armani shades, expression glacial. Neon sputtered above the entrance, flickering like a dying pulse.

They spilled out of the Tesla in a blur of sweat and shimmer. Georgia's sequins clung like static; Gracie's latex mini looked sprayed on, already creeping up her thighs. They tugged at their outfits, adjusting where skin had stuck to fabric. Kevin swaggered forward like he owned the zip code, Dre hanging back with an amused smirk, lighting a cigarette with one hand.

"Private guest list tonight," the bouncer said flatly. Arms folded, no blink. "Not on my list - no hay entrada."

Dre tried the oldest trick--crisp bills folded neat, slid with grace. "Come on, man. One bottle, two hours."

The bouncer didn't even fake a reaction. "Not tonight, sir."

Skye stepped up like something summoned. Her corset clung like a second skin; coiled snakes tattooed along one thigh catching the dim light like warning signs. She grabbed Georgia's wrist, leaned in, voice dipped low. "Follow my lead."

She turned back to the bouncer, gaze feral under lashes like razors. "She'll suck you off if you let us in."

The bouncer raised one brow, unimpressed. "Right."

Skye smiled like a wolf. She yanked Georgia into a kiss--deep, wet, obscene. One hand slid under Georgia's halter, peeled the sequins aside just enough to flash a wide, flushed nipple. Neon shimmered across it like spotlight. Kevin whistled low. Dre muttered, "Holy fuck."

She let the fabric snap back into place. Then Skye caught Georgia's hand, dragged it under her own latex hem, pressed those fingers directly into the soaked heat between thighs. Georgia gasped--sharp, stunned--eyes fluttering shut, lips trembling. Her other hand clutched Skye's wrist like an anchor.

Skye sucked Georgia's fingers into her mouth, slow, obscene, eyes locked on the bouncer. "See?" she purred. "Wet already. She's got a thing for big hunks in uniform."

Georgia staggered, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Her brain screamed protest, but her body sang. Skye had peeled something open inside her--something wet, wild, and deeply wrong.

The bouncer looked left, right. No one watching. "Fuck it. You're all VIP tonight," he said, rope dropping like a leash undone.

"VIP check-in! Give 'em bracelets!" he barked, then leaned in toward Georgia, voice a low growl. "Upstairs bar. Third door. I'll find you in an hour."

Kevin let out a breathless chuckle. Dre blew smoke. Gracie stumbled forward, eyes round, dragging the train of her dress. Skye's hand slid from Georgia's wet one, already forgotten.

They stepped past the velvet and filth, and the night swallowed them whole--bass like a blunt object, perfume like poison, heat like breath from a concrete throat. Every heartbeat matched a strobe flash. Every scent--weed, champagne, Chanel No. 5--slammed them sideways.

Skye didn't look back. She never did.

The VIP booth was a sunken leather pit overlooking the madness below--undulating bodies, lasers cutting through synthetic fog, every pulse of music a bodyblow to the sternum. Neon veins crawled along the ceiling like electric ivy. The place was excess made flesh.

Skye straddled Kevin in the booth, his hand low on her naked thigh, fingers curling with ownership. Champagne fireworks flared as two bottle girls in mesh skirts and rhinestone bras arrived, hoisting magnums aloft like sacrificial offerings. The girls screamed and cheered. Kevin winked. "Go ahead, brother, it's your birthday after all!" Dre grabbed a bottle--too fast, too hard. It exploded, fizz spraying everywhere. Waitresses shrieked. Champagne hit Georgia's chest, Gracie's thighs, Skye's latex like rain on vinyl. Everyone laughed, drenched in glitter and drink.

Flutes were filled. Kevin toasted with the cocky ease of someone who thought champagne should come with every breath. "To nights you forget and the bodies you won't."

Skye danced next. Not with Kevin. Not with anyone. Just moved--pure motion, pure abandon. Her braid cracked the air like a whip as she spun into the crowd. Her hips rolled like she was conjuring storms. Glitter caught in her lashes. Strangers touched her in passing--wrist, waist, lower--and she let them. Just the moment, just the rhythm. Her smile was pure serotonin, a high with no comedown. She threw her head back, eyes closed, her body an offering to the music. Around her: girls shrieking in glowing corsets, a man doing body shots off a drag queen, a couple grinding against a column like they wanted to merge into it. The club pulsed around her like a fever dream.

She returned sweaty and glowing. Gracie was perched at the edge of the booth, legs crossed tight. "The boys went out to smoke," she said, voice flat. "But I think it's more than that. They've been gone like twenty minutes."

Skye blinked, grabbed a flute. "Where's Georgia?"

Gracie scowled. "Said she went to find that bouncer. You know, the one from earlier?"

Skye almost choked on her drink. "Are you fucking serious? That was just a bit. Like, babe--she actually bought that?"

"She totally bought it." Gracie folded her arms. "Also? Your boyfriend was all over me while you were gone."

Skye stiffened. Then laughed, too loud. "Kevin's not my boyfriend. He's, like... too much man for me. Trust fund Adonis. Son of the Guess CEO, if you can believe. His dad literally bought him an island."

Gracie blinked. "What."

"Yeah," Skye sipped. "And tonight, he's flying his favorite girl out for the weekend. Spa, champagne, the whole influencer fantasy. Could be you."

Gracie shifted, nervous. "But we just met. He barely knows me."

Skye grinned. "He likes you. I'd say... maybe ditch the underwear."

"I'm not that kind of girl."

They sat in silence. Down below, the crowd churned like a storm cloud.

"Okay, but how would we even fly?" Gracie asked, quieter.

"Private jet, obviously."

Gracie stood suddenly. "I'll be back."

She vanished into the crowd. A few minutes later, Dre returned, blinking like he'd been slapped by the moon. His pupils were oceans.

"You good?" Skye asked.

He nodded. "Where's Kevin?"

She pointed to the dance floor. "Over there. Busy."

Kevin was grinding against Gracie, shirt half-open, hands on her hips. She looked stunned, tits half-out, hair tangled from motion. She was going wherever he pushed her. Her eyes darted toward Skye once--desperate, unsure--but Skye only smiled and looked away.

Skye turned to Dre, her voice dipped low like a secret unwrapping itself in a back alley. "You look like you just saw a girl get eaten alive."

He didn't answer, just stared past her at the mess unfolding on the dance floor.

She leaned in slowly, her breath warm against his cheek, her voice silk over switchblades. "You think I can say no to a black guy?" Her hand landed gently on his thigh, fingers curling like vines. "Kevin's occupied. Your hands are free."

Her scent hit him--oud and salt and burnt cherry--like sin bottled in crystal. The gleam of her lip gloss caught the lights as she turned, the latex of her outfit squeaking faintly as she shifted, arching her back just slightly. Her eyes never left his.

Dre hesitated. She leaned in, letting her body rest against his muscular shoulder, tongue tracing the rim of her glass. "Wanna know a secret?"

"Huh" he answered, distracted by music, or maybe her, or maybe drugs.

"Gracie's not wearing underwear."

He blinked. "How do you know?"

"In a minute, the whole club will."

Gracie's top slipped. Her breasts bounced free. She gasped, tried to cover them, but Kevin pinned her arms and danced harder. She let him, face flushed, mouth slack. He kissed down her neck, his hands now roaming her hips and under her skirt, gripping like he was trying to mold her into something new.

Skye grinned like the devil. Then licked the curve of Dre's ear, slow and deliberate, like she was claiming territory. He froze, breath catching, eyes fluttering closed for a half-second. The scent of her perfume--sweet, electric, dangerous--hit him like a drug. His thighs tensed. She pulled back just enough to watch the reaction bloom across his face, smirking like a predator who'd already won.

"You're next."

He didn't resist when she leaned into his lap, her breath hot against his neck. She breathed hard into his ear, tense and obscene. His hand moved on instinct, grazing her exposed thigh, finding the chain details at her hip, the heat under the latex. Their lips crashed --his hands fumbling with the sharp zipper down her spine. She pushed him back, laughing, and straddled his thigh, grinding slow, letting him feel just how far she could go without removing anything.

For a moment, her consciousness faltered.

She remembered the taste of him--not just lips or tongue, but the feral thrill of biting into his neck, her crooked teeth dragging across black skin gone hot and damp. His grip on her thighs--those long, pale legs split like ribbons--was bruising and divine. Her own pleading voice echoed in her ears, distant and unreal: "You are too fast, Dre, it's too public for me..."

Then it cleared up.

Dre pushed the restroom door open with one hand and fished out a crumpled hundred with the other, flashing it like a badge of intent. The attendant barely looked up before taking it, his eyes lingering a little too long on Skye.

"Private enough?" Dre growled, slurring slightly, breath hot with champagne and weed. Skye turned, stepping sideways, letting his gaze slide off her latex like water on glass. "You bribed that guy, sure," she said in mockingly cute voice. "But, like, didn't pay me anything!"

He laughed, pulling his entire wad of bills from his wallet and shoved it into the front of her corset. His dark fingers against her pale skin sent a jolt of something wicked through her.

The beat shifted.

Rihanna. Slow, bass-heavy. Erotic enough to peel flesh.

Skye tilted her head, smirking. "You've got one song."

Dre blinked. "One what?"

"One song," she purred. "That's what you bought."

Dre reached out, but Skye was all dance and no flesh. The music vibrated under her skin. She stepped back slowly. Latex creaked as she moved, the sound sticky and illicit. Her arms lifted, back arched, hips starting to roll with the rhythm. She mouthed: "I got a secret that I wanna show you, oh"

She unzipped the bolero first, letting it slide down her arms like smoke. Then the crop top--unzipped with excruciating slowness, the surgical zipper screaming down her spine. The top peeled away to reveal pierced nipples, her chest slick with sweat and glitter. You got me moanin' now

Her skirt went next--unhooked from the silver chain at her hip, unraveled like it was never real fabric. Baby strip down for me, go on take 'em off Underneath: nothing. No panties. No pretense.

She bent forward, hands on her knees, ass in the air, then slid one hand between her thighs and the other up her belly, grazing each tattoo as if to remind herself who she was. Her breath came in rhythm with the bass.

Baby strip down for me, go on take 'em off. A hypnotic loop. She swayed, turned, a low moan in her throat matching Rihanna's voice as she whispered along. No teasin', nigga, you waited long enough

Then she stood, legs parted, hips grinding slow. One hand grazed her nipple, the other stroked between her thighs. Her fingers glistened. The smell of her arousal, raw and ripe, hit Dre like perfume and punch. And now you want it like... "Oh o-o-oh" she groaned with Rihanna, reaching out with thin soaked palm.

He took it in, sucking her filth off, pulling her forward. She snatched something off the floor, moving in. Dre looked confused, as she handled his phone, set on recording.

"This is for you, Dre, my hunk of a god. This is a memento to remind you how I fell for you and your big black cock."

Locking eyes, she lifted her shin onto his shoulder, guiding his hand into her. He groaned as she directed him, pistoning fingers in and out. Don't hold back, you know I like it rough.

His biceps flexed, breath ragged. Still confused, still unbelieving. Still recording. Go deep, I'mma throw it at you can you catch it?

"Oh yes," she trilled, "Fuck me with your thick palm, Dre. This is what white girls are good for..."

(O-o-oh oh oh oh your skin) (o-o-oh oh oh oh just skin)

She spasmed, slid down to the lens, face sweating and mad, her voice gleeful: "You are a real man, Dre--not some white soy boy in designer shoes."

She moved up, turned, let him taste her. His mouth on her, wet and worshipping.

Know I'm feelin' you (huh), know you liking it (huh)

"Like the taste of your nasty white girl?" she gasped, as he sucked at her slit, "You're the best at this.... Ohhhh you are best at everything, Dre. Please let me worship your black cock..."

I got secrets I'mma drop 'em to the floor, oh

She dropped between his legs, ignoring the lens now. Her face flushed, her hands fast as she uncovered him.

Know I'm feelin' you (huh) He groaned louder as she took him in her mouth. She moaned around him, slow at first, letting her tongue tease the underside, tracing the veins.

Between sucks, she muttered:

"Mmm... shit, Dre... your black cock is the best I ever tasted... I can barely fit it in my mouth."

(O-o-oh oh oh oh your skin) (o-o-oh oh oh oh just skin)

She licked his balls, wet and slow, sucking one then the other. Her fingers dug into the inside of his thighs. She swallowed him again, deeper. Gagging, performing. Her other hand pinched her nipple, her eyes wild.

"So this is what a real man's cock tastes like," she moaned. "I'm getting addicted to you, baby."

Go deep, I'mma throw it at you can you catch it?

Down down down she went, lips touching the base. He cried out, his knees buckling, her throat sealed around him. Her name a broken mantra.

Moving in rhythm, eyes glistening, throat bulging--Skye thought of Marcus.

Compared to Marcus, Dre wasn't big at all. His fucking dick will not leave her raw. Not anymore. Not after him.

The song ended.

Skye pulled off, wiped her mouth, stood like nothing happened. Fixed her skirt, smoothed her hair.

Dre was panting, cock still out, dazed. "The fuck?"

"I said one song."

He blinked. "But--"

She took the phone, smiling brightly, and tapped the screen. "Oh, don't worry. I will fuck with you soon enough, baby. But first, let me send your memento."

Dre still dazed from drugs, sex, and rhythm was struggling to follow.

"Wait--how're you sending it? You don't even got my number."

Her smeared smile thinned into a razor.

"Really?" she ask hoarsely. "Oopsy. Where did I send it then?"

She tossed the phone in the clutch and walked out, heels clicking like a countdown.

Behind her, Dre shouted. Chased.

Like a particle of light, she moved through the kaleidoscope of movement. Turned, checking that she is well lost. There he was, standing, left behind. Searching for her in the throbbing club scene.

He never saw Kevin until the punch landed.

Fist to cheekbone. Crack.

Dre hit the ground like a felled tree.

Kevin was screaming. His perfect Clein face now swollen and bruised. Nose twisted to a side from Dre's counter punch.

Looks like Kevin didn't enjoy the video.

"Give me a drink," she yelled to the bartender, trying to outspeak the music. "Something sparkly, to wash bad taste in my mouth."

The next one was also Rihanna. Get It Over with.

Oh yes.

"It's on Kevin's tab. Kevin" she yelled, already moving away.

I'm wonderin', wonderin' why you keep thunderin'

Security rushed. The crowd parted like a wound. Kevin was trying to shake two bouncers at once. Dre's shape prone and motionless, splayed on a floor like a murdered octopus.

She didn't need to stay for the fallout. The chaos bloomed in her wake like perfume. She knew where to move next.

Rooftop. Skyline like shattered glass. Air like razors. New York stretched open beneath her--obscene and glittering.

The space above the club was half-lit, scattered with dying cigarette butts and confetti scraps. The usual suspects--couples kissing, groping, fucking--had all been chased inside by the cold. Skye remained alone, a silhouette in stilettos, drink trembling in hand, corset sucking breath from her ribs.

She moved toward the balustrade, hips swaying like she was still performing for ghosts. Below, the city throbbed--taxis glowing like fireflies, sirens layering like harmonies, billboards twitching in static rhythms.

She raised her glass toward no one and whispered, "To me."

And for one brief, electric moment--it felt like a victory.

Then it collapsed.

The silence beneath the wind swallowed her. The cold pierced through her latex like spite. She felt it then--not the power, not the thrill--but the absence. The yawning shape of what wasn't there.

She was completely, devastatingly alone.

A memory struck. A flash:

Marcus.

Another balcony. She was in a tartan skirt and neon top, drunk on his gaze. She'd danced for him under the moonlight like she was born of it. He watched her with reverence, like something ancient and holy, and then--he held her. Not like a man holds a girl, but like he was anchoring her to the earth.

Her breath hitched.

Another memory.

Childhood. The swing set that never stopped creaking. Her mother's voice, sharp with disappointment. The sting of a hand on her cheek. The chill of a stranger's fingers creeping where they shouldn't.

More silence. The kind that screams.

And then--

Marcus again.

The shower. Her body limp, and him lifting her as if she were made of silk and feathers. The way he bathed her, wrapped her in a towel like a broken relic. The way he dressed her in his cedar-scented shirt, laying her down in his king-sized bed like she mattered. Like she was worth care.

The tears burned. Her throat tightened. Her ribs ached inside the corset.

She dug into her clutch, fingers cold and unsteady, pushing past resin-stuck wrappers and glittered receipts. Found her phone.

Typed:

I miss you. I miss me. I miss something.

Hit send.

The screen hovered, uncertain.

Delivered.

She exhaled and set the glass on the ledge.

Below, New York pulsed with strangers who didn't know her name. Above, only wind. Beside her--no one.

She slipped the straps from her shoulders. Her corset unlaced with stiff fingers. She stepped out of her skirt. Her heels clicked like punctuation. Like the end of something.

She climbed the balustrade, naked, shaking.

The cold hit like judgment. Her hair lashed behind her, a flag of surrender.

She screamed.

Not words. Just a sound--a guttural, primal note ripped from the hollow of her ribs. The kind of scream that never had a language. The kind that started in childhood and never ended. The wind swallowed it.

She opened her mouth, unhinged her jaw and let it slide in, taking the big, black, thick night down her throat. Then she vomited it out, screamed her soul out, breaking New York's skyline in half.

Let them fucking notice. Point out her ugly fucking naked shape. Call security. Get bouncers floor her, restrain her, drag her down to the street, to the police, to gutter, to their fucking level....

No one came.

A buzz.

Phone.

She slid down the railing, crumpling into herself, skin dried into parchment. Fumbled the phone from the ground.

Marcus:

Typing...

Three dots.

She didn't breathe. Didn't blink.

Waited.

Marcus:

Typing...

Those three dots hung like a lifeline. Like salvation in ellipses. And Skye, barefoot, blue-lipped, shaking. naked beneath the city sky -- hanging by the next word.

To be continued...