After the worst week of my life I walked into a strip club alone, and one dancer decided to make it the best night instead.
How it works: read, then choose what you do. Only the right choices earn the happy ending.
I’m Owen, I’m thirty-four, and on Monday I lost my job. On Wednesday my girlfriend of three years moved out and took the good kettle. By Friday night I had a final payslip, an empty flat and absolutely nothing left to lose.
So I put on my one decent shirt and walked into the Velvet Room.
I’d driven past it a hundred times. Neon lips over the door, a bouncer the size of a wardrobe, purple light leaking out every time someone went in. I’d never once gone in. Tonight I paid the twenty-quid cover, ordered a whisky I couldn’t afford and sat at the edge of the stage like a man waiting for a verdict.
The music was slow and heavy. The room smelled of perfume and dry ice. A dancer was on the pole, upside down, thighs locked, and I forgot my own name for about a minute.
Then two of them came over at once.
The first was a redhead in black lace, pale and freckled, with a wicked little smile. “I’m Scarlett,” she said, sliding onto the stool beside me. “You look like you’ve had a week.”
The second was taller, dark-haired, in a white sequinned two-piece that barely existed. She leaned on my other shoulder. “I’m Jade. Ignore her. She says that to everyone.”
Both of them were looking at me. Both of them were gorgeous. And I had exactly one decent night’s worth of money in my wallet.