Chapter 3: The Disco Trap
The disco was a tomb of forgotten glamour, buried in a basement on the wrong side of the commercial district. Rohan parked the Enfield beside a dumpster, the bike’s rumble dying into the hum of a faulty neon sign that buzzed like a trapped insect. The sign read ‘ST LL GHT’, the missing letters a testament to neglect.
“Celebration venue?” Ananya asked, her voice still unsteady from the ride. The memory of his hand, the vibration, was a live wire under her skin.
“First premium order delivered. That’s a milestone. Dad never got this far.” He said it casually, but the words landed. He was measuring himself against his father, and finding the old man lacking.He offered his arm. “Come on. The clientele is… understanding.”
She took it, her fingers light on his leather sleeve. The stairs down were narrow, lit by a single red bulb. The bass hit them first, a physical wave of sound that vibrated in her teeth. Then the smell: stale beer, industrial cleaner, and beneath it, the sweet, cloying scent of cheap perfume and sweat.
The main room was a cavern of fractured light. A giant, cracked mirror ball spun lazily, scattering shards of silver over a handful of couples swaying in the shadows. The strobes flickered, freezing moments: a man’s hand on a woman’s hip, a thrown-back head in laughter, the empty glasses on sticky tables. The music was a synth-pop monstrosity, a pulsing, electronic heartbeat that left no room for thought.
Rohan guided her to a curved vinyl booth in a dark corner. The seat was cold and slightly tacky. He slid in beside her, not opposite. Their thighs touched.
A waiter materialized. Rohan ordered two whiskeys, neat, without consulting her.
“I don’t drink,” Ananya said, the protest automatic, hollow.
“You do tonight.” His smile was all teeth in a flash of strobe. “Business expense. Team building.”
The drinks arrived in thick, dirty glasses. He clinked his against hers. “To Sharma’s Secrets. And to its surprisingly hands-on management.”
She sipped. The liquid was fire, tracing a burning path down her throat, settling in her stomach like a coal. It was awful.It was transformative. A second sip felt smoother, a warmth radiating outward, muting the sharp edge of her panic.
He watched her. The strobes painted his face in rapid succession: sharp jaw, dark eyes, smirking mouth, then shadow. “You’re still holding onto the bike,” he observed. “Your shoulders are up by your ears. Unclench, Ananya.”
“It’s loud.”
“That’s the point. No one can hear you think.”
He was right. The noise was a wall. Behind it, the silent scream of her own thoughts—Sanjay’s rasping breath, the feel of lace, the burn of his thumb on her thigh—was mercifully drowned. The whiskey helped. It blurred the hard lines of the world.
The song changed. The synth melted into a familiar, haunting melody, a 90s love song she used to hum while making dinner, now rebuilt with a throbbing, undeniable bassline. It was a violation of a memory. It was irresistible.
“Dance with me,” Rohan said. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t—”
He was already standing, pulling her up by her hand. Her protest was a formality, lost before it left her lips. He led her to a less crowded spot on the floor, near a pillar where the light barely reached.
He didn’t adopt a traditional pose. He simply pulled her close, one hand settling on her waist, the other finding her hand, lifting it. The space between them ceased to exist. Her body, trained for decades to modestly contain itself, was now flush against the lean, hard lines of his. The bass was inside her chest, a second, pounding heartbeat.
“Move,” he whispered into her hair.She was rigid. A statue of a woman.
His hand on her waist slipped lower, to the base of her spine, and pressed. A slight, insistent pressure. Her hips yielded, tilting forward, coming into contact with him. The shock of the feel—the firm, undeniable ridge of his arousal against her lower belly—stole her breath.
She gasped. The sound was swallowed by the music.
His lips were at her ear now, his voice a rough vibration under the synth. “See? You can feel the market research. Very… responsive.”
Shame flooded her, hot and immediate. She tried to pull back, but his arm was an iron band around her. Her own hand, held in his, had curled into a tight fist. She forced it open, laid her palm flat against his chest. To push him away. But she didn’t push. She felt the thunderous beat of his heart through his shirt.
The song built to a crescendo. His hand moved again, from the small of her back, lower, cupping the curve of her bottom through her salwar. He pulled her even tighter, grinding her against him in a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that matched the music’s drop.
A sound tore from her, a ragged moan that was pain and release. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his shoulder. Her body, betraying her utterly, moved back. An answering rhythm. Hesitant, then less so. The friction was exquisite agony. The public darkness of the place, the anonymity of the noise, the whiskey’s fire in her veins—it all conspired against her morality. This was a transaction of sensation, nothing more. A test of a product. Her body was the product.
His mouth found the sensitive skin just below her ear. Not a kiss. The heat of his breath, the scrape of his stubble. “The client loved the black babydoll,” he murmured. “Said it made her feel powerful. How did it make you feel?”
She couldn’t answer. Her hips kept moving, a small, desperate orbit against his. The coil of tension that had been winding since the garage, since the mirror, was tightening to a breaking point. Every nerve ending was alight. The world narrowed to the points of contact: his hand possessive on her backside, his hard length against her, the drumbeat in her blood.
The song ended with a final, electronic sigh. The dancers around them drifted apart. The spell shattered.
Ananya stumbled back, putting a foot of cold, terrible space between them. She was panting. Her lips were parched. She could feel the dampness between her legs, a shocking, physical confession.
He looked down at her, his own breathing slightly elevated. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of intense, focused satisfaction. He had his data. The results were conclusive.
The next song started, something fast and forgettable.
“We should go,” she whispered, her voice raw.
“We should,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving her face. “The sample bag is getting lonely.”
He took her hand again. His grip was firm, proprietary. She didn’t pull away. She let him lead her through the strobe-lit gloom, past the swaying couples, up the stairs into the weak light of the alley. The cool night air was a slap. It did nothing to douse the heat he had lit inside her.
He handed her the helmet. This time, her hands didn’t shake as she put it on. She mounted the bike behind him, and without hesitation, her arms wound around his waist, holding on tight. She pressed her face into his back.
As the engine roared to life, he turned his head slightly. His voice, filtered through helmets and the growl of the bike, was clear.
“Next time,” he said, “we test the leather.”