He mutters something under his breath as he stands, probably “asshole” or something equally unimaginative, before slinking back to the bar.
Good. The last thing I need is some random pervert telling me how sexy my stepbrother is.
A waitress approaches, her movements hesitant as she clocks my expression. “Can I get you another?” She gestures to my empty glass.
“Yeah. Whiskey. Neat this time.”
She nods, turning to go.
“Wait.” I don’t know why I stop her. Maybe I need information more than alcohol. “The Golden Prince. How long has he worked here?”
She pauses, something like caution crossing her face. “About a year or so.” She hesitates, then adds, “You a friend of his?”
Friend. The word is so inadequate it’s almost funny.
“Something like that.”
She studies me for a moment, and I see a flash of recognition in her eyes. Not that she knows who I am, but that she understands what I’m not saying.
“He doesn’t do private dances. Just so you know.” She shrugs. “He’s got rules.”
Of course he does. Vincent always had rules, boundaries, little protective measures against a world determined to take pieces of him.
While I’m pondering this, she retreats to get my drink. Iwatch her weave through the tables, wondering what Vincent’s life is like now. Who he talks to. Who knows him.
The blue-haired dancer finishes his set to scattered applause, collecting his discarded clothing and cash before disappearing stage left. The lights shift, the music fades, and the low hum of anticipation spreads through the crowd like an electrical current.
The waitress returns with my drink just as the house lights dim further. She places it in front of me without a word, but her eyes flick to the stage with a knowing look before she walks away.
A voice booms over the sound system: “The Siren is proud to present our main attraction. The dancer you’ve all been waiting for. The one, the only—Golden Prince!”
My heart hammers against my ribs as the stage goes dark. A single gold spotlight clicks on, illuminating empty space. The opening notes of something low and hypnotic pulse through the speakers—not the typical club beat but something darker that slides under the skin like a blade.
And then—Vincent.
He materializes center stage like he’s been there all along, just waiting for us to see him. The intake of breath from the crowd is audible, a hungry sound that makes my stomach turn.
He’s different than he was at the frat house. There, he was part of a group, performing alongside others. Here, he owns the stage. His body is covered in gold—not just glitter this time, but actual gold body paint that catches the light with every movement. He wears only a pair of tight black shorts that ride low on his hips, leaving the long lines of his torso exposed. His hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, the intensity of those amber eyes that seem to glow in the stage lights.
This isn’t the Vincent I knew. This is someone else entirely—someone polished and distant, moving with a controlled precision that speaks of years of practice.
He approaches the pole at the center of the stage, one hand reaching out to grasp it lightly. His body flows around it, not touching it fully yet, just teasing. The crowd leans forward, hungry for what’s coming.
And then Vincent lifts himself, one fluid motion that defies gravity and logic, his body suspended six feet off the ground with only the strength of his arms holding him there. He extends into a perfect horizontal line, parallel to the floor, not a tremble in sight. The silence is deafening—no one breathes, no one moves. We’re all caught in the impossibility of what we’re seeing.
My new drink sits untouched. I couldn’t swallow if I tried.
Vincent begins to move, wrapping his body around the pole in configurations that shouldn’t be possible. Each movement flows into the next, telling a story I can’t quite decipher but feel in my chest all the same. He’s so strong, so controlled. The Vincent I knew was powerful, yes, but this… this is something else.
The music builds, and Vincent descends to the stage floor in a controlled slide that brings him to his knees. He tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, and runs his hands up his torso, through his hair, leaving trails in the gold paint. The crowd erupts, bills flying toward the stage, but Vincent doesn’t acknowledge them. He’s somewhere else, lost in whatever fantasy he’s selling.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” the guy next to me mutters. His eyes are glazed, fixed on Vincent’s body. “I’d pay anything for a private show with him.”
My hand tightens around my glass, knuckles white. I could smash it against this asshole’s face, watch him bleed all over his shirt. The image is so vivid in my mind I can almost taste the copper in the air.
But then Vincent is back on the pole, climbing higher this time, his body a perfect arch as he holds himself suspended with only one hand. His other arm extends outward, reaching for something unseen.
The crowd disappears. The stranger’s commentary fades to nothing. I’m alone in this room with Vincent, watching him transform into something ethereal and untouchable.
