Chapter 3: Neon Baptism
The door to the VIP lounge hit Sophie’s shoulder with a soft thud, swallowed instantly by the bass that vibrated up through the cheap stilettos and into her bones. The air here was different – thicker, sweeter, laced with expensive cologne and something cloying she couldn’t name. Low, velvet-upholstered booths curved around the room, islands of shadow in the shifting, multi-colored strobe. Men in sharp suits lounged like predators, their faces half-lit by the glow of glasses and cigarettes. Laughter, low and knowing, rumbled beneath the music’s throb. Sophie clutched the bevelled edge of the heavy tray Lola had shoved into her hands like a shield. Its cold weight was the only real thing.
"Circulate," Lola had hissed, her red hair catching the lights like flame as she pushed Sophie forward. "Champagne flutes on the tray. Empty glasses off. Smile. Don’t stop moving." Her green eyes, sharp as broken glass in the gloom, scanned the room. "And whatever they say, whatever they do… smile wider. It’s just noise."
Sophie tried. God, she tried. She forced her lips into a tremulous curve, the sticky pink gloss Lola had applied feeling like tar. She took a shaky step. The heels were instruments of torture, pitching her forward. She caught herself, heart hammering against the tight satin constriction of the bunny top. Move. Smile. Circulate.
A hand shot out from a shadowed booth, snapping fingers inches from her hip. "Hey, Bunny! Over here!" A man with a thick neck and eyes that roved over her like she was a dessert menu. His companions chuckled, low and wet. Sophie froze, then remembered Lola’s command. She wobbled towards them, the tray held like a sacrificial offering.
"Gentlemen," she murmured, the word thick and unfamiliar on her tongue. "Can I… offer refills?"
"Offer?" The thick-necked man leaned back, spreading his arms along the booth's backrest. His gaze didn't leave her chest, squeezed and presented by the corset top. "Depends what you're offerin', sweetheart." More chuckles. Sophie felt heat flood her face, burning beneath the thick layer of foundation. She kept the smile plastered on.
"Champagne, sir?" Her voice was barely audible over the pulsing beat.
"Sir?" One of his friends, younger, with slicked-back hair, snorted. "Listen to that. Fresh meat." He reached out, not for a glass, but tapped the tray near her clutching fingers. "What’s your name, Bunny?"
"S-Sophie," she stammered.
"Sophie," the thick-necked man repeated, drawing the name out like it was dirty. He finally looked at the tray. "Yeah. Fill 'em up, Sophie." He gestured lazily at the empty flutes scattered on their table.
Hands trembling, Sophie set the heavy tray precariously on the edge of the low table. She bent, the action sending a fresh wave of panic as the already plunging neckline gaped further. She focused fiercely on the bottles chilling in a silver bucket next to their booth, her fingers fumbling with the wire cage on the first bottle. The cork popped with a muffled thud, making her jump. She poured, concentrating on not spilling, the golden liquid fizzing high into the first glass. As she leaned to place it in front of the thick-necked man, his hand, large and meaty, landed heavily on her thigh, just below the hem of the tiny satin shorts.
She jolted upright, champagne sloshing over her hand. "Sir!"
"Oopsie!" The younger one grinned, not looking sorry at all. His friend just kept his hand there, the heat of it searing through the thin satin, his thumb rubbing a slow circle. Sophie froze, trapped between the table, the tray, and his grip. The smile died on her lips. Panic clawed up her throat.
"Hey, careful there," the thick-necked man rumbled, his eyes still fixed on her face, daring her to react. "You spilled, sweetheart."
Before she could jerk away, before she could even gasp, the younger man acted. He snatched up the newly poured flute, not drinking, but deliberately tilting it sideways. A cold, shocking cascade of champagne poured directly down the exposed swell of Sophie’s left breast, soaking the black satin and the white lace trim beneath, running in icy rivulets down her stomach. It plastered the fabric to her skin, cold and shocking against the heat of her panic and the man's hand still clamped on her thigh.
Sophie cried out, a small, choked sound instantly swallowed by the music. She instinctively tried to cover herself, dropping the champagne bottle she was holding. It landed with a heavy thud on the carpet, miraculously not breaking, rolling away. Laughter erupted from the booth, loud and cruel. "Cleanup on aisle five!" the younger one crowed.
Tears stung Sophie's eyes, blurring the leering faces. Humiliation burned hotter than any touch. She wanted to run, to disappear, to scrub her skin raw. But the hand on her thigh tightened, preventing her retreat. "Easy there, Sophie," the thick-necked man chuckled, his thumb still moving. "Accidents happen." He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, pulled out a folded bill, and tucked it not into her garter belt, but directly into the damp cleft of her cleavage, his knuckles brushing deliberately against her chilled skin. "For your trouble."
Sophie stood frozen, trembling violently, champagne dripping from her, the crumpled bill a grotesque, wet intrusion against her skin. The sticky pink gloss felt like it was cracking.
"Move along, Bunny," the man said dismissively, finally removing his hand from her thigh and reaching for his own drink. "You're blocking the view."
Blindly, Sophie grabbed for her tray, nearly knocking over the remaining glasses. She stumbled back, away from the booth, the laughter following her like a physical blow. She pressed herself against a velvet-draped pillar, trying to catch her breath, the cold wetness spreading, the dollar bill clinging damply. The music pounded, the lights pulsed, the scents choked her. She scanned the room desperately for Lola.
She spotted her near the entrance, leaning against the bar, watching. Not detached amusement, Sophie realized with a fresh wave of nausea. Sharp, calculating observation. Lola met her gaze across the crowded room. Her expression didn't change. She didn’t come over. She just watched Sophie tremble, watched the champagne stain bloom dark on the black satin, watched the dollar bill peeking obscenely from her cleavage. Then, slowly, deliberately, Lola raised her own champagne flute in a tiny, sardonic salute. Her lips curved, a smile that held no warmth, only a cold, hard lesson. This, the smile said. This is the currency.
Sophie looked down at the crumpled, damp bill pressed against her skin. It felt heavier than the tray, heavier than the bottle she’d dropped. It felt like the first down payment on a debt she hadn't understood she was taking on. The noise of the club seemed to recede, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in her ears. She pushed off the pillar, the stilettos digging into the carpet. She wouldn't run. Not yet. She forced the trembling in her jaw to stop. She pulled the wet dollar bill free, sticky now, and shoved it deep into the pocket of her ridiculous shorts. She picked up the fallen champagne bottle, its chill a shock against her palm. She didn't look back at the laughing men. She looked straight ahead, towards the next shadowed booth, the next cluster of hungry eyes. She wiped her other hand, sticky with spilled champagne, down her already soaked shorts.
She took a step. Then another. The smile was back on her face. Wider. Emptier. A mask painted over raw terror and dawning, chilling comprehension. The tray wobbled only slightly this time as she approached the next island of shadows. "Gentlemen," she called out, her voice higher, brighter than before, cutting through the bass. "Can I offer you a refill?"