Chapter 9: Here She Comes
The afternoon faded fast, and soon the workers, waitresses and dancers were scrambling to get everything ready.
Evening was go-time at Heaven's Feel Brothel—the doors would swing open, and the place would flood with guests ready to dance, drink, and let loose.
The air started buzzing with that electric hum you could feel in your bones. Up on the third floor, they'd decked it out special for Mrs. Elora: dim red lights draped the room in a sultry glow, opera music played soft and slow from hidden speakers, and a sleek black table sat off to the side, loaded with sex toys—vibrators, cuffs, a couple silky blindfolds—all arranged like some fancy display.
The carpet was plush underfoot, and a faint whiff of jasmine lingered, probably from some scented candles they'd lit earlier.
By the time evening hit, the ground floor was a madhouse. The stage was swarmed with people dancing, bodies pressed close, swaying to the booming music—some heavy bass track that rattled the walls.
Over at the bar, dancers worked the poles, their skin glistening under the flashing lights. They danced in barely-there outfits—lacy bras and tiny underwear—but a few peeled those off mid-spin, tossing them into the crowd with smirks. The air smelled like sweat, booze, and perfume.
Drinks flowed wild—girls in fishnets and bunny ears poured shots straight into guys' mouths, laughing as liquor splashed down chins. Some pairs were already sneaking off, disappearing into the private rooms down the hall, hands groping private parts before they even reach the doors.
I was parked near the drink cellar with Jonathan, away from the chaos. The cellar was this little nook by the bar, stacked with bottles and crates, the wood cool against my back. I held a glass of water, swirling it absently, staying sharp for the job.
Jonathan, though, was halfway gone—his Hawaiian shirt hung open, and he clutched a tumbler of whiskey, ice clinking as he waved it around.