Sweat. Rivulets of it snaked between my breasts and down the hollow of my back.
Hot writhing bodies scented the air, as heady and intoxicating as the Ecstasy and Astro Pops circling the dance floor.
Despite how it looked, I wasn’t here to enjoy myself. It was a simple job in a bitter divorce case. Of course no one hired me if everything was going well.
I solved problems.
My job was simple: pass along a message to a client’s cheating husband. Piece of cake. A phone tap had led me to Phoenix, the hottest new club in town. My methods weren’t always within the law, but my clients expected results.
And I always provided them.
I was familiar with the club. It catered to a variety of clientele. Some – like me – enjoyed the energy. The sheer simplicity of shedding the day’s problems and losing themselves in the throbbing beat. Others used the club for more nefarious deeds. Deals were made – drugs, arms, human. Hunters stalked their prey. People disappeared.
Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to worry about being the next victim. I was just as dangerous as anything or anyone here. Maybe more so.
Throwing back another shot of Ciroc, I enjoyed the burn but vowed this was the last of the night. I had to walk a fine line between staying in control, and relaxing enough to keep myself sane.
The control part was important. Vital even. But not just for me, for everyone around me.