Chapter 2: The Club Plan Announcement
The buzz of the machines was a welcome white noise, a constant, productive hum that drowned out the echo of Joseph’s voice in Diamond’s head. It was her third day, and the routine was starting to feel less like navigating a minefield and more like a strange, colorful dance.
She was restocking aftercare pamphlets when Onyx, mid-way through shading a massive raven wing on a client’s back, called over the partition. “So. Collective existential dread check. It’s Thursday. Who’s in for The Basement tomorrow night?”
A collective, affirmative groan went up from the stations. Harvey did a little spin in his chair. “My psyche is a desolate landscape. I require loud music and overpriced, watered-down gin.”
“Marco and I are in,” Aliyah said, not looking up from the delicate line work she was applying to a client’s ankle. “I need to dance out this week’s stupidity.”
Ian’s voice floated from the back office. “I, your wise and ancient elder, will be on my couch with my cat and a documentary about bridge construction. You animals have fun.”
Dia kept her head down, organizing the pamphlets into neater stacks. The Basement. She’d heard them mention it—a club downtown, the kind of place that surely had a line out the door and a bouncer with a face like a brick wall.
“What about you, Baby Receptionist?” Onyx pressed. The client under her needle chuckled.
“Oh, I… I don’t think so,” Dia said softly, feeling all eyes shift to her. “I’m not really a club person.”
“There’s no such thing,” Harvey declared. “You’re either a person who hasn’t found the right club yet, or a person in denial. Which are you?”
“It’s not that. I just…” She fumbled for an excuse that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Curfew? At twenty-one? “I wouldn’t know what to wear.”
It was the wrong thing to say. It was like throwing blood in shark-infested waters.
Onyx’s machine stopped buzzing. A profound, theatrical silence fell over the shop, broken only by the classic rock playing softly from Ian’s office. Onyx stood, peeled off her black gloves with a snap, and pointed a long, silver-ringed finger at Dia.
“You,” she announced, “have just activated my primary directive.”
Adonis, who was sketching at his desk, let out a low, warm laugh. “Lord, have mercy. She’s gone and done it now.”
“What?” Dia asked, a genuine spike of anxiety cutting through her.
“Fashion emergency,” Aliyah clarified, smiling. “Onyx’s kryptonite. And her specialty.”
Onyx was already around the partition, moving with predatory grace. She circled Dia, who stood frozen by the reception desk, feeling like a gazelle in a documentary. Onyx’s kohl-rimmed eyes scanned her from head to toe—the sensible flats, the plain dark jeans, the simple cream-colored sweater.
“This,” Onyx said, not unkindly, but with the gravity of a surgeon diagnosing an illness, “is a cry for help. It’s fine. It’s neutral. It says, ‘My personality is beige and I vote in local elections.’ Which is a lie. I’ve seen you smile at Harvey’s terrible jokes. There’s a spark in there. We’re just going to… fan it into a goddamn wildfire.”
“I don’t have anything… wild,” Dia whispered.
“That’s because you’ve been shopping in the wrong realms, little one.” Onyx stopped in front of her, crossing her arms. “First rule: clothing is armor. You are tiny. The world is big and loud and full of idiots. Your armor should make you feel ten feet tall and capable of beheading those idiots with a glance. What do you feel powerful in?”
Dia thought. The question had never been asked. Clothes were for coverage, for modesty, for not drawing comment. “I… don’t know.”
“Okay. We start with the foundation. You have a killer little shape. Petite, but curves in the right places. We’re going to emphasize, not hide. Do you own a black leather skirt? Even faux?”
Dia shook her head.
“We’ll fix that. A tight black skirt, mid-thigh. With that, you have options. A slashed-neck top. Something sheer with a tight tank underneath. A band tee you’ve hacked to pieces. The goal is a hint of skin, a suggestion, not an invitation. It says ‘I am here and I am not playing’.”
Dia’s mind raced, trying to picture it. The sheer idea of wearing a mid-thigh skirt made her palms sweat. Joseph would have an aneurysm.
Onyx continued, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Shoes. You are five feet tall. This is a gift. You can wear monstrous platforms and still be under everyone’s armpit. Chunky boots. Strappy sandals with a heel that could be considered a defensive weapon. Your legs will look endless. People will need to sit down after seeing you walk in.”
Harvey whistled. “I’m getting a contact high from this makeover montage.”
“Quiet, Finch. I’m sculpting.” Onyx tilted her head. “Makeup. You have these gorgeous, huge eyes. We’re not doing the ‘sweet little kitten’ thing. We’re doing ‘smoky, mysterious forest creature who knows your secrets’. Dark liner, smudged. A shimmer on the lid. A bold lip. Not pink. A deep berry. A wine stain. It’s sophisticated but dangerous.”
“And hair,” Aliyah chimed in, getting into the spirit. “You always have it tied back. Let it out. Or do something with it. A high ponytail with those baby hairs laid. Or a messy bun that looks like you just had phenomenal sex.”
“Aliyah!” Dia squeaked, her face flushing crimson.
Adonis chuckled again, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through the space. He hadn’t looked up from his sketch, but his shoulders were shaking. “Let ‘em work, darlin’. Resistance is futile.”
Onyx nodded in agreement. “Finally, accessories. You don’t have piercings. That’s fine. We use metal elsewhere. Chokers. Silver rings on every finger. Cuffs. Arm candy. The clutter of it, the noise of it when you move, it’s a soundtrack. It announces you.” She finally stopped, placing her hands on Dia’s shoulders. Her touch was cool and firm. “You are not dressing for men. You are not dressing for your stepfather. You are dressing for the version of Diamond that wants to come out and play. The one who graduated with honors and is now standing in a tattoo shop. She’s in there. We’re just giving her a uniform.”
The speech left Dia breathless. It was a manifesto. A radical, terrifying, exhilarating blueprint for a self she barely dared acknowledge. The spark she’d clutched the other night flared, fueled by Onyx’s intense conviction.
“I… I don’t have any of those things,” Dia repeated, but the protest was weaker now, tinged with want.
“We raid my closet,” Aliyah said immediately. “We’re close to the same size. I have a skirt that will fit you like it was painted on.”
“I have the perfect choker,” Harvey offered. “Gothic, but dainty. Very ‘fairy princess gone rogue’.”
Onyx looked at Adonis. “Vance? Any contributions to the cause?”
He finally looked up, his gray eyes meeting Dia’s across the room. The amusement was still there, but underneath it was something hotter, more appreciative. He’d been listening to every word. “I’ll be on door duty,” he said, his drawl slow and deliberate. “Makin’ sure nobody bothers her while she’s testin’ out this new armor.” His gaze held hers, a promise and a challenge. “And I’ll provide the whiskey when she needs liquid courage.”
The plan was solidifying around her, a net of excitement and peer pressure she found she didn’t want to escape.
“So?” Onyx asked, a single, perfect eyebrow arched. “Are you coming to The Basement, Diamond? Yes or no. The fear is normal. The regret for not going is eternal.”
Dia’s heart was a frantic bird in her chest. She saw it all—the logistics of lying to Joseph, the terror of walking into a pulsing, dark room full of strangers, the potential of catching Adonis’s eye across a dance floor while wearing a wine-stained lip and a leather skirt.
She also saw herself coming home to her quiet room, unchanged, listening to the clock tick, wondering what the music had sounded like.
She took a deep, shuddery breath.
“Okay,” she said. The word was small, but it hung in the ink-scented air, solid and real. “Okay, I’ll go.”
The cheer that went up was immediate and raucous. Harvey whooped. Aliyah clapped her hands. Onyx smiled, a true, triumphant smile that transformed her sharp beauty into something radiant.
“Excellent,” Onyx purred, releasing her shoulders. “Tomorrow after close. We convene at my apartment for the transformation. It will be bloody. Bring your courage.”
As the artists returned to their work, the buzz of the machines starting up again, Dia sank into her chair behind the desk. Her hands were trembling. She had just agreed to a mutiny. A stylish, carefully orchestrated mutiny against the life she knew.
She glanced at Adonis. He was watching her again, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. He gave her a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, Attagirl.
The fluttering in her stomach wasn’t just fear now. It was anticipation, sharp and sweet. Tomorrow night, she wouldn’t be Dia from reception. She would be the girl in the armor. And for the first time, she couldn’t wait to meet her.
ONYX GIVES FASHION TIPS.
The final client of the day left with a fresh tattoo and a dazed smile, the bell jangling behind them. Ian flipped the sign to ‘Closed’ with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, you hellions. Clean up and get out. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which leaves you a terrifying amount of room.”
The cleanup was a familiar dance. Dia wiped down the reception desk with citrus-scented cleaner while the artists broke down their stations, the sharp smell of bleach now cutting through the lingering scent of ink and sweat. Adonis carefully wrapped his machines in sterile cloth.
“You still on for tomorrow, shortstack?” Harvey asked, spraying down his chair.
“I think so,” Dia said, the statement feeling both thrilling and like admitting to a crime.
“Think so?” Onyx called from the sink, scrubbing black ink from her hands. “There is no ‘think.’ You are. We meet at my place at eight. Transformation commences at eight-oh-five. We hit the door at ten. Your psyche will be scrubbed clean by bass frequencies.”
Adonis walked past the desk, his jacket slung over his shoulder. “You need a ride anywhere tonight?” His voice was casual, but his eyes held that same focused attention.
“No, thank you. The bus is fine.” She forced a smile, painfully aware of the gulf between this easy offer and the interrogation awaiting her at home.
“Suit yourself, darlin’.” He paused at the door. “See you tomorrow.” Then he was gone into the twilight, the door sighing shut behind him.
The walk to the bus felt longer. The earlier excitement had curdled into a hard, cold knot of dread in her stomach. She practiced sentences in her head, each one sounding more hollow and transparent than the last.
The house smelled of roasted chicken and quiet disappointment. Her mother was at the stove, stirring a pot. Joseph was in his armchair, the blue light of the television flickering across his impassive face.
“You’re late,” he stated, without looking away from the screen.
“Closing took a little longer. Sorry.” She hovered in the doorway to the living room, her bag clutched to her chest like a shield.
He muted the TV. The sudden silence was aggressive. “And?”
“And… tomorrow. There’s a work thing. An outing.” The words tumbled out too fast. “After closing. For team building.”
Joseph swiveled his head. His eyes were flat discs in the dim light. “An outing. What kind of outing?”
“Just dinner. With the staff.” The lie was a small, greasy stone in her mouth.
“Where?”
“I’m not sure yet. Ian, the owner, is organizing it.” She could feel her mother listening from the kitchen, the gentle stir of the spoon now silent.
“All of them? The men?” His voice was dangerously calm.
“Yes. But Aliyah—she’s one of the artists—she’s going to give me a ride home afterwards. So you don’t have to worry.” She offered this last part like a peace treaty, the specific, female name a carefully placed token.
Joseph studied her. The clock in the hall ticked. Once. Twice. “A female colleague,” he repeated, testing the words.
“Yes. She has a boyfriend, Marco. He works there too. They’re together.” She was piling on details, hoping the weight of them would sound like truth.
He stared for what felt like minutes, his gaze dissecting her posture, the slight tremble in her hands. “Be home by eleven,” he said finally, turning back to the muted news broadcast. “Not a minute after. And you will text your mother when you leave this… dinner. You will text again when this woman picks you up. You are to be in this house, in this living room, to give a full account by eleven-fifteen. Is that clear?”
The relief was so acute it felt like nausea. He’d accepted it. The female co-worker had been the key. “Yes. Very clear. Thank you.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Marie said softly from the doorway, her eyes flickering with something unreadable—worry, or perhaps a faint, buried spark of solidarity.
The meal passed in the usual stifling quiet. Joseph held court on municipal politics, a monologue requiring only nods. Dia chased peas around her plate, her mind already miles away, in Onyx’s apartment, surrounded by clothes that felt like armor.
Later, in the sanctuary of her room, she texted Aliyah. Is it okay if I tell my stepdad you’re giving me a ride home tomorrow? He just needs a name.
The reply was almost instant. Girl, of course! Tell him I’m a nun in my spare time if it helps. See you at Onyx’s. Get ready for glory.
Dia put her phone down. She opened her closet and stared at the rows of beige, gray, and black. The uniform of invisibility. Tomorrow night, she would step out of it. She imagined Joseph’s rules—the texts, the curfew, the debrief—as frail nets trying to hold back a tide.
She was already slipping through. Lying in the dark, she didn’t picture the club. She pictured the in-between moment. The walk from Onyx’s door to Adonis’s waiting car, the chill of the night air on her newly bared legs, the heavy certainty of his gaze taking in the transformation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, hopeful drum counting down the hours.
The hammering in her chest didn’t stop the next day; it simply found a new rhythm beneath the shop’s familiar buzz, a syncopated beat of waiting. Every glance from Adonis, usually a quiet spark, now felt like a pilot light being checked. She caught him watching her more than once, his gray eyes thoughtful, as if he was already seeing the transformation.
Onyx texted the address with a single skull emoji. At 7:58 p.m., Dia stood outside a converted brick warehouse, her everyday clothes feeling like a costume she was about to shed.
Aliyah answered the door, grinning. “Get in here, project runway.”
The apartment was a beautiful chaos—dark velvet drapes, shelves of curiosities, and clothing draped over every surface like a stylish crime scene. Music pulsed, something electronic and atmospheric. Onyx emerged from a back room holding a garment bag aloft like a priestess with a relic. “The armor arrives.”
An hour later, Dia stared at the stranger in Onyx’s full-length mirror. The black faux-leather skirt was indeed painted on, hugging her hips and ending in a daring flare just above her knees. The top was a deep burgundy mesh, long-sleeved, with a high-necked black tank beneath it that left a sliver of her stomach exposed. Harvey’s gothic choker sat snug around her throat, a silver ankh resting in the hollow.
Chunky platform boots added three inches she felt in her calves and her posture. Onyx had smudged her eyes into smoky pools and painted her lips a crushed-berry shade. Her hair was down, a cloud of curls around her shoulders.
“Well?” Aliyah asked, standing beside her.
Dia couldn’t speak. The person in the mirror was powerful, unknown. She looked like she belonged in the posters on Onyx’s walls. She took a step, and the boots made a solid, confident sound on the hardwood. “I don’t look like me.”
“You look like the more of you,” Onyx corrected, clasping a series of thin silver bangles around Dia’s wrist. They clinked together with every movement. “The ‘more’ that’s been waiting. Now, remember: the clothes do the talking first. You just have to stand there and let them.”
A knock at the door. Marco’s voice called through. “Rides are here, ladies! The night is young and already judging us!”
Harvey and Marco waited in the hallway, wolf-whistling in unison. “Whoa, who died and made you the alt-fashion queen?” Harvey crowed.
“Hush,” Onyx said, shoving him toward the stairs.
Adonis and his car were at the curb—a sleek, dark sedan that smelled faintly of clean leather and his cologne, something woody and sharp. He leaned against the driver’s door, scrolling on his phone. He looked up.
His expression shifted, a slow dissolution of casual composure. His gaze traveled from her boots up, a deliberate, tactile journey that left a phantom heat on her skin. It stalled at the sliver of her stomach, at her wine-dark lips, before finally meeting her eyes. The gray in his seemed darker, intensity pooling in them.
He didn’t whistle or offer a platitude. He just looked, utterly captured. A slow smile finally broke through. “Diamond,” he said, her name a weighted thing in his mouth. “You’re gonna cause a traffic accident.”
She felt a flush creep up her neck, grateful for the dim streetlight. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled, pushing off the car to open the passenger door for her. “It’s a prophecy.”
The Basement thrummed from a block away, a subsonic pulse in the pavement. The line snaked around the corner, a tapestry of fishnet and leather and shimmer. Adonis and Marco bypassed it completely, exchanging a nod with the mountainous bouncer, who unclipped the velvet rope.
“Perks of being regulars,” Marco shouted over the growing noise as they descended a steep, dark staircase. The music swallowed them whole—a consuming, percussive wave that vibrated in Dia’s teeth.
Inside was a swirling vortex of light and shadow. Strobe lights cut through a haze of artificial fog, illuminating fragments of dancing bodies, laughing faces, glittering glass. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the tang of spilled alcohol.
Adonis touched the small of Dia’s back, a brief, guiding press through the press of bodies. He led them to a raised, semi-circular booth in a slightly quieter corner, draped in plush, dark velvet. Marco slid in first, followed by Aliyah.
“Home sweet home,” Adonis said, his mouth close to Dia’s ear so she could hear. His breath was warm. He gestured for her to enter the booth before him, boxing her in protectively between himself and the wall. Onyx and Harvey slid in opposite.
A waitress appeared instantly, and Adonis ordered a round of shots and two bottles of sparkling water without consulting anyone. “Hydration is key,” he explained, his knee accidentally brushing Dia’s under the small table. He didn’t move it away.
The tequila arrived. Salt, lime, the collective grimace and slam of glasses. The burn was shocking, a line of fire that instantly melted the last of Dia’s nerves into a warm, buzzing liquid courage.
“Okay, social lubricant administered,” Harvey announced, thumping the table. “We need a group activity. Something that fosters trauma bonding.”
“Never Have I Ever,” Onyx said, her eyes glinting in the colored lights. “But we’re adults. We spice it up.”
“Spice how?” Marco asked, pulling Aliyah closer.
“If your ‘never’ is a lie, you take two shots. Not one. Two.” Onyx leaned forward. “And the questions can’t be vanilla. We’re in a club. Act accordingly.”
Adonis laughed, a low rumble. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m an artist. I work in extremes. Dia starts.”
All eyes turned to her. The warmth in her chest tightened. She clutched her water glass, the bangles jangling. She thought of Joseph, of her pristine transcript, of her blank, beige life. She had so many ‘nevers’.
“Never have I ever… gotten a tattoo,” she said, the safest thing she could think of.
A collective groan. Everyone but her raised a finger. Onyx raised two, smirking. “I have many. Your point is weak, child. Drink some water and think of a better one.”
The game circled. Harvey: “Never have I ever hooked up with someone in a bathroom.” Onyx and Marco raised fingers. Adonis did not.
Aliyah: “Never have I ever stolen something worth more than a hundred dollars.” A pause. Adonis slowly raised his finger, his expression unreadable. “It was a guitar,” was all he said, taking a sip of water.
The questions escalated, the tequila draining.
Marco: “Never have I ever had a threesome.” Onyx raised her finger with a regal tilt of her chin. Harvey raised his, grinning.
“Never have I ever sent a… revealing picture,” Onyx said, her gaze sharp on Dia.
Dia felt Adonis’s still presence beside her. She kept her finger down. Aliyah, Harvey, and Marco raised theirs. Adonis did not. His leg was still pressed against hers, a solid line of heat.
“Never have I ever,” Adonis said, his drawl cutting through the music, “kissed someone I worked with.” His tone was light, but his eyes swept the table, landing nowhere and everywhere.
A beat of silence. Then, Harvey, Aliyah, and Marco all raised fingers, laughing about past shop dramas. Onyx raised hers, a slow, deliberate movement. “Port City, 2019,” she said, as if filing a report.
Dia’s hand remained in her lap. Her heart was a frantic bird again. Adonis’s knee pressed more firmly.
“My turn,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. The tequila and the lights and his proximity were a chemical mix in her veins. She looked right at him. “Never have I ever… wanted to kiss someone I work with right now.”
The table erupted. Harvey whooped, slapping the velvet seat. “Oh, she’s playing for keeps!”
It was a nuclear option. A direct, brutal challenge wrapped in the game’s silly format. Everyone at the table had to consider their partner, their situation. Slowly, with varying degrees of amusement and drama, everyone at the table raised a finger. Marco kissed Aliyah’s cheek. Harvey raised his glass to Onyx, who rolled her eyes but smiled.
Adonis didn’t look at anyone else. He held Dia’s gaze in the pulsating dark, his expression unguarded and fiercely hot. He slowly, so slowly, raised his index finger.
He had never hooked up in a bathroom. He had never sent a revealing picture. But he was admitting this. Now.
The charged silence between them stretched, a live wire humming in the space of a shared breath.
“Looks like we all need to drink,” Onyx declared, her voice slicing the tension with a surgeon’s precision. She flagged the waitress for another round, the moment breaking into a cacophony of laughter and shouted commentary.
But under the table, unseen, Adonis’s hand found hers. His fingers, calloused and warm, laced through her own, giving them a single, firm, undeniable squeeze before letting go.