Naya adjusted her short black dress, the fabric hugging her curves in all the right places, fighting the nerves as she stepped out of the Uber. The neon glow of Club Lure buzzed above, promising chaos, excitement, maybe even a little redemption. Her knees wobbled—less from the heels, more from what the night might bring.
Jenny, all long legs and confident swagger in a fitted leather jacket and a mini skirt that barely grazed the top of her thigh, tossed her braids with a grin. "We don't walk in like we're scared," she said, her voice playful but firm. "We own this night. You promised."
Naya stayed silent. She was a little scared because clubs weren't really her thing but Jenny wasn't having it tonight. This was a fresh start, a new city, a new job, and a head full of confusion after her boyfriend left saying he couldn't do long distance.
An hour ago, Jenny had knocked on her door with a glittery clutch and a grin that could only spell trouble. "You didn't move here to cry over weak men," she said. "Put on something sinful. We're going out and I'm bringing the shots."
It wasn't just about getting over Leon. It was about proving she still existed outside of the heartbreak. That she could still wear a dress like this and feel like more than someone's leftover.
Here they were now.
Inside, the club pulsed—heat, bass, bodies in motion. Lights flared and sliced through smoke like strobe lightning.
The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and something bitter. Heat clung to her skin like a second dress, and every bass drop vibrated in her bones.
Jenny grinned, grabbed her hand, and dragged her toward the bar. "One drink. One dance. Then you can cry over your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya said with sigh, giving in. "But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave and you."
Jenny burst out laughing. "Please. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
The first tequila shot stung, the burn familiar. The second numbed. By the third, her limbs were looser, and the ache in her chest less sharp. She started to think—maybe tonight didn't have to hurt.
Her laughter came easier and unguarded.The music throbbed beneath her skin now, all bass and heat and beat. Bodies moved around her in syncopated chaos, but for the first time in a long time, she wasn't shrinking from it.
She leaned against the bar, letting the edge press into her lower back, her fingers trailing the rim of her glass. The sting of lime still on her lips, salt clinging to the corners of her mouth. Jenny was somewhere nearby—flirting, dancing, thriving.
Naya closed her eyes for just a second. Let the moment hold her.
She didn't expect to feel anything tonight.
Then her gaze caught on a man leaning against a column near the velvet ropes of VIP—tall, broad shoulders, dressed in all black like sin dressed for war. Tattoos licked out from under his sleeves, and a slow, knowing smirk played on full lips—dark, dangerous, and unapologetically male.
Beside him stood another—leaner but no less lethal. He wore a denim jacket over a fitted tee, diamond stud catching the strobe like a wink. His eyes scanned the room with lazy arrogance, but his grin was pure provocation—cocky, wicked, the kind of smile that came with bad decisions and good sex.
Naya's breath hitched. Her thumb moved before her brain caught up. Snap. The shutter clicked, too loud in her ears, and the moment felt frozen in time.
It was enough.
The second man, the one with the earring and denim jacket, turned sharply. His eyes immediately found hers through the crowd. Locked. Held.
For a moment, it felt like time slowed, the space between them stretching, thick with something she couldn't quite name. Then, he nudged the man beside him.
The one she'd just photographed.
He looked up, following his friend's gaze. His eyes found hers. And then, a slow smile curled on his lips.
It wasn't polite. Not surprised. Just… amused.
Predator amused.
They murmured between themselves, the words too low for her to catch, but the intensity of their gaze never wavered. One of them laughed softly, the sound almost like a warning.
Naya's heart raced. She wasn't sure whether to bolt or stay.
The one with tattoos and intent in his step—he was coming straight for her now.
Naya hid the phone quickly, her fingers trembling. "Jenny," she whispered, "we need to go."
Jenny blinked. "What? We just got—"
But it was too late.
They were moving. Cutting through the crowd like it parted for them. The taller one, tattoos and danger, had his eyes fixed on her like he'd already decided.
"Hey," said the friend with the dimple and easy grin. "You two look bored. Want company?"
Jenny blinked, then smiled back. "Depends on what kind of company."
Before Naya could protest, the man she'd photographed stepped closer, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate steps.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice was smooth, low—velvet laced with gravel, a dangerous caress in the dim club light.
Naya's breath caught. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stiffened, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes. She forced herself to meet his gaze even though every nerve screamed to flee.
"I… didn't mean to—" Her voice faltered, caught between fear and fascination.
He raised a brow, amusement flickering just beneath the surface, like he already knew exactly how she felt and was deliberately pushing her buttons anyway.
His voice dropped, sharp and cold beneath that smooth exterior.
"You took my picture." It wasn't a question. It was a claim, a challenge.
Her mouth went dry, words stuck somewhere between her racing heart and the pounding bass.
"I… I can delete it," she whispered, voice barely steady.
He stepped closer, too close, his presence a magnetic force that made the air thick and dangerous. He stopped her with a tilt of his head, dark eyes locking onto hers.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His gaze slid down her body like a slow burn, appraising, hungry, unapologetic, before snapping back up.
"I want to know why you took it."
She inhaled sharply.
And something inside her, something tired of playing safe, whispered: Answer him. She let the tequila talk.
"I guess I needed proof," she said.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
He studied her. As if her words
surprised him. As if he hadn't expected honesty.
He leaned in, just a fraction. Close enough that his cologne—spice, smoke, something expensive—wrapped around her like a promise. "Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."