Chapter Text
Most don’t know Las Vegas better than Anetra, born and raised for 26 years with only a few small breaks in between in Sin City. She loves this hot, dusty desert that becomes a spectacle of light once the sun sets, teeming with tourists and flourishing with nightlife, with her whole heart. She doesn’t go out as much as she used to, working two jobs and managing a somewhat adult life, but Anetra has never needed the gambling or constant partying to feel at home Vegas.
But a good party, like the one she is preparing for tonight, is always appreciated.
Q, an amazing designer for Anetra’s model friend, Sasha Colby, is hosting her bachelorette party and extended an invite to Anetra. They met when Anetra joined Sasha to pick up a dress from Q’s place (Sasha had to convince her—nothing terrifies Anetra more than small talk with strangers and being a social third-wheel), and Anetra couldn’t help but admire Q for her skill on the sewing machine. The invitation was sort of a surprise since the two don’t really talk too often outside of going out for coffee or messaging on Instagram, but when they do, the conversation is always pleasant, and Q, full of joy. Sasha can’t make it to the party tonight, but Anetra is happy to go even without her bestie as a potential buffer.
Q had dinner with a few members of her crew earlier in the evening, but the real event was the afterparty at the Piranha Nightclub.
Anetra’s heard of Piranha, and it seems to have a good reputation—great strippers, fun music, people actually dancing and having a good time, not just stiffly standing on the outskirts with a mostly full drink in hand. Another thing she loves about Vegas—the clubs here never let themselves get boring.
Anetra checks herself out in the mirror before leaving her apartment. She, usually not one to use more than little concealer to clear up her skin, went all out with the makeup tonight: maroon lipstick, smokey eyeshadow, contour along the tan skin of her high cheekbones and aquiline nose. She quickly finds a hairbrush lying on her dresser and runs it through the waves of her hair, fiery red from a fresh dye.
Anetra doesn’t actually own too many party clothes, as hanging out with Sasha, Mistress and Luxx really only meant getting high and watching bad reality TV at her apartment, so she just decided that she would throw on the first nightclub-worthy thing she could find. It ended up being a little black dress—yes, it’s basic and owned by every woman across America, but it’s undeniably flattering against her toned figure and dips at the front perfectly, putting her favorite tattoo, a butterfly spreading its wings across her chest, on full display.
A familiar beep sounds off from inside Anetra’s handbag. She fishes her phone out from the purse it was buried under and sees a text from another party guest, Morphine, on her lockscreen.
GIrl were are you???? 😐😐 Been parked fro like 5 minuts 10:26 PM
Anetra holds herself back from reading Morphine for her terrible spelling as she types an answer, quickly slinging her bag over her shoulder and rushing out the door once she presses send.
Coming u ho 10:26 PM
Anetra not-so-gracefully stumbles down her apartment’s stairs in her stilettos and onto the sidewalk. Sure enough, a sleek, black limo is parked outside the complex, its windows tinted and rolled up except for one, Amanda’s cheery face sticking out of it.
Amanda gapes when she notices Anetra leaving the building. She whips her head around to the other car passengers and shouts, “Guys, she’s here!”
Equally loud and with a goofy grin, Amanda turns back and tells Anetra, “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping!”
Anetra snickers. Even though Amanda loves Mean Girls and Regina George, she is definitely more the girl who was a sexy mouse for Halloween.
Anetra pulls the car door open to the limo full of women, all greeting her with a smile or an enthusiastic “Hi!” when they see her. Purple LED lights line the roof of the limo, reflecting off of glossy, black leather seats, shimmering dresses and glasses of red wine. Anetra’s eyes flicker over the scene—Q, the star of the show, surrounded by Nymphia, Morphine and Xunami; Amanda and Dawn, the chaotic roommates, giggling between themselves; Sapphira and Geneva listening to Plasma go on some long-winded speech; Mhi’ya sitting quietly in the couch corner. The limo is probably on route to Plane, Megami and Hershii’s places, the last three to confirm their attendance to the party.
Picking up everyone individually lengthens the trip unnecessarily, but nobody seems to mind—a long, drunk limo ride is just a part of the night’s fun.
Q’s mouth drops open the moment she sees Anetra, and she starts exaggeratingly motioning for Anetra to sit next to her with her glass-free hand. Anetra shuffles past the dozens of legs, trying her hardest not to trip, and falls back against the space in the couch Morphine makes for her.
“Sisterrr!” Q says excitedly. “How are you?”
Q always sounds—and looks, with all that filler in her face—like she’s on the verge of laughing, which never fails to make Anetra smile. She pulls Anetra in for a hug, who returns it. Q smells like expensive perfume and equally expensive alcohol.
“So glad you came,” Q says after pulling away. She gasps dramatically as she looks Anetra up and down. “God, you look hot. Did you get all dolled up for me?”
A playful smirk spreads across Anetra’s face. “Back off, Ms. Q, you’re getting married,” she replies, her naturally low voice taking on a teasing tone.
“Oh, this old thing?” Q asks, taking it as another opportunity to show off the silver ring on her fourth finger. “Dylan will be fine. I have to compliment my girls when they’re looking pretty.” Her eyes widen with a realization. “Oh, I should get you a drink! The bottle was complimentary with the limo, it would be wrong not to use it up. Hold on—”
Q tries to stretch over a confused Xunami to the cup holder section of the carseat before realizing she is not nearly close enough to reach it.
“Nyyymph, my love,” Q calls to Nymphia a few seats away, “could you get Anetra a drink?”
“Always using me,” Nymphia says, fake sniffling to prove her point. “Is that all I am to you? A servant?”
“Girl, shut up,” Morphine chimes in, startling a laugh out of Anetra. These girls are so mean to each other that it must be out of love.
Nymphia eventually pours Anetra a glass of wine, and Q decides to hold a toast to an evening of fun, hot guys and getting shit-faced drunk. Anetra realizes that she is sort of the black sheep of the group, being the only lesbian, and is not particularly looking forward to watching men in tight underwear dance all over her friends all night. But with this group, she is probably going to have a good time no matter what.
The party is just finished doing an off-key karaoke to “Break my Soul” by Beyoncé (On Sapphira’s insistence) as the limo pulls to a stop. Anetra hears “Aw”’s and “Yay”’s alike as everyone starts sitting up and collecting their bags. Upon looking out of the tinted windows, Anetra almost asks if they were really at the right place. The building they are parked outside of is flat-roofed and rectangular, the walls textured like cobblestone, giving it the look of some sort of Middle Ages tavern. The only clue that it is not that but a nightclub is a sign on the wall reading “Piranha”, the sharp-edged, black letters outlined in red, fluorescent light.
Everyone pours out of the limo, taking up the whole front parking lot in their numbers. Even outside the club, the party is already starting—girls are throwing back the drinks they poured in the car to make way for the ones they’ll have in the club; Plane is starting to direct passive-aggressive comments at Amanda; Dawn, her conversational filter is completely dissolved after just one drink, is snort-laughing at every little thing and starting to piss people off with her shady, out-of-nowhere reads.
“Bachelorette party?” The bouncer asks, Anetra’s driver's license in hand, as the women squeal behind Anetra in line.
“How’d you guess?” Anetra asks, smirking. It seems clear to everyone that this night is going to be a wild one.
The bouncer returns Anetra’s license with a nod of approval, and she tells him, “Have a great night,” before entering through the double doors.
~
Piranha’s atmosphere is completely different from inside to outside the club. Bodies occupy every space on the main floor, everyone consumed in conversation, dance, and making it rain on go-go dancers who stand on white podiums, displaying their perfect curves and chiseled bodies. The pulse of the music that Anetra heard faintly earlier seems to have amplified tenfold; it suddenly jostles her bones and settles deeper within her than her own heartbeat.
Soon the rest of the party follows in behind Anetra. Before they are unleashed onto the club, Q stops everyone for a speech.
“Okay, no one better outshine me tonight; this is my special day,” Q explains. “Take hot pictures of me and be the guest stars to my life.”
“It’s gonna be hard to make you look hot,” Plane remarks with her trademark smirk fresh on her lips.
Anetra hears an “Oop!” from somewhere next to her.
Q side-eyes her challenger. “Shuddup, Plane. There’s a reason I’m engaged and you’re not.”
“Oh, baby, I don’t have to settle down to get some dick. I still have men, multiple, that want to sleep with me. I—”
“Can we just hurry up and get to the party segment of this?” Plasma interjects.
“For once, she’s right,” Sapphira deadpans.
“Are ya'll done?" Morphine asks impatiently. "Okay? Okay, good. Now let’s get fucking druuuunk!” Morphine promptly runs off into the mass of people and the opposite direction of the tables Q reserved.
“Dumb bitch,” Geneva says, a little lovingly.
Q’s party starts out seated at their tables. The girls tells stories over drinks served by men in nothing but thongs and bowties, who Plane and Morphine drool over. They dance to house music hours (Or attempt to, in two-left-footed-Q’s case), with strangers, each other, then watch incredibly athletic stripper performances on poles and ceiling rings; down shots, laugh wildly at things that aren’t that funny, losing themselves entirely in the night.
Anetra is truck with a strange sense of nostalgia being here and remembering what she used to love about the clubs—sneaking out with friends, faking IDs, realizing that she could flirt with girls without anyone batting an eye. Enjoying it. Even in the confines of a life kept secret from her family, she felt inexplicably free. A part of her wishes that she could have lived that life forever, if it meant the truth didn’t end up tearing them apart.
It must be around 3 am when the bachelorette party comes to an end. All the girls start to say their goodbyes and organize safe ways for getting home. Anetra is lazily swirling the last of her tequila soda around in one hand when something catches her eye. People are gathering near the main stage, seemingly for another stripper’s performance.
Anetra is surprised. Are shows still happening this late, only two hours before closing time? She snakes her way through the crowd, pushing through and muttering “Excuse me”’s when necessary, until she stands in front of the raised stage.
The hostess, an older woman, seemingly Puerto Rican with the country’s flag rhinestoned onto her bodysuit, laughs heartily at something. “—Wooo, I’ve had too much to drink,” she says, a grin lighting up her face. “Anyways—Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, please welcome the loveliest, most sickening swiffer of Las Vegas: Mirage Amuro! Bam! Start the music!”
“Gimme More” by Brittany Spears starts playing from surrounding speakers just as a woman saunters onto the stage.
The first thing Anetra notices is her height—God, she's tall; Anetra wouldn't be surprised if she was well over six feet in those chunky, clear Pleaser heels. Her outfit is an explosion of color and a display of beautifully bronzed skin: a patterned spaghetti-strap shirt over neon-green fishnet sleeves, along with pink fishnets, tight against her long legs; star-shaped clips holding down the side-part of her brown hair; a black, dangerously short miniskirt hugging at her hips.
Mirage starts strutting down the stage, bleached ponytail swishing behind her. Anetra is instantly captivated by her dancing—hips swaying, arms twisting, legs kicking to every beat. This is instantly unlike any strip show Anetra has seen before—sure, it’s flirtatious and to a Brittany Spears song, but there is something about the way Mirage moves, the effortlessness, the water-like fluidity, that seems impossible.
Just as the chorus hits, Mirage cartwheels across the stage and clacks her heels together as they soar through the air. She effortlessly rolls onto her back and, legs spread enough to reveal black panties, audibly slams her Pleasers against the floor. A heat wave surges through Anetra’s body.
Anetra’s hands move faster than her brain as she rummages through her bag for her wallet, pulls out a $20 bill and holds it out in front of her, cheering loudly. A $20 bill that she should probably be saving for the Uber home, or take-out tomorrow, or anything, but there is no way she is leaving a performance like this untipped.
Mirage pauses her once she notices Anetra, or rather, the money being offered to her. She lowers herself to the floor on her hands and knees and, as slow and tantalizing as dripping honey, starts crawling towards Anetra, still mouthing the words to the song.
The rapid beating of Anetra’s heart blocks out all the cheering, even the music being blasted around her, as Mirage approaches her, as capturing and calculated as a tiger stalking its prey. She stops a mere arm’s length in front of Anetra, and the details of her beauty are suddenly blinding—sharp eyes, accentuated by the white and green streaks of her eyeshadow; dark, fluttering eyelashes; plump lips, slightly parted, candy-coated in gloss that reflect the strobing lights around them.
Mirage falls back on her knees and wraps her slender fingers around Anetra’s wrist, pressing against her racing pulse. She leads the hand—and with it, the dollar bill—to her chest as she gives Anetra a playful, yet dazzling, smile. Anetra pushes the money into Mirage’s top, knuckles grazing against her bare collarbone.
Mirage’s gaze lingers on Anetra a second longer before she whips her attention away. Anetra, like the plug being pulled on TV, the screen suddenly and jarringly turning to black, is again aware of her place in the sea of Mirage’s crowd. People are losing it as Mirage continues her number, passing from one fan to the next to collect money from their eagerly extended hands, giving some a personal dance.
The jealousy bubbling up inside Anetra is unfounded, she realizes, even through the haze of the alcohol. It’s just a performance. In what world would she be special?
Mirage finishes with a dip onto the floor just as the music cuts to a stop. The crowd erupts in thunderous applause and cheers. Anetra hears someone shout, “You better work, you fucking bitch!” which would, out of the context of a gay-ass strip club, sound less like the praise it is meant to be.
Mirage laughs, maybe at the comment, before blowing kisses across the room and shaking her tits in the air. She takes a balloon flying past her, licks it with a long stroke of her tongue, and places it on the floor before crushing it beneath her in a split. She is, yet again, showered in dollar bills by the thrilled audience.
Anetra scrambles through her bag for more money, desperate to have just one more second of her electrifying attention, but by the time her hand emerges with another dollar, Mirage has disappeared off the stage, stray bills and balloon scraps the only evidence of her ever being there.
Though everything that unfolded in front of her felt more dreamlike than a real experience, Anetra is sure of one thing:
Mirage is the hottest person she has ever seen.