"What happens when desire becomes a game, attraction becomes a weapon, and the search for pleasure leads you somewhere you never expected to go?
Welcome to a world where appearances deceive, secrets run deep, and the heart is often the last thing people consider."
READ SAMPLES
Explore selected excerpts from ONE NIGHT STAND by: Jay V Jones. These samples highlight identity, faith, family, and survival—then you can choose your preferred edition in the ebook store.
When I entered my walk-in closet, the full-length mirror captured my reflection following me like a twin with better posture. The soft overhead light washed over my caramel skin and caught the shimmer in my designer dress—the one I'd finally settled on after trying on half my wardrobe. The fabric hugged my curves like it had been cut with me in mind, the hem stopping just high enough to show off my thighs without screaming for attention.
I leaned closer to the mirror and applied a pale shade of lavender lipstick, watching my mouth transform from "everyday Tiffany" to "don't-play-with-me Tiffany." A quick press of my lips together, a dab with a tissue, and I was satisfied. I slipped my feet into my six-inch heels, feeling that immediate shift in attitude that only a good pair of shoes could give, then grabbed my clutch and locked the apartment door behind me.
By the time I arrived at The Skyward, Thursday night was stretching its legs. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and a warm wave of sound wrapped around me—low music, overlapping conversations, clinking glasses. The Skyward was perched on the forty-second floor of the Blitz Hotel in downtown Chicago, and I knew it was special. The place dripped with quiet luxury: 19th-century décor, rich mahogany trim, velvet seating, walls dressed in vintage art, intimate lighting, and crystal chandeliers that scattered light like diamonds across the polished floor.
It was the perfect place to start my evening. Once, I'd been shy and innocent—unsure of myself, always shrinking to make room for everyone else. But that girl had disappeared a long time ago. Now, I was the hunter instead of the hunted. And tonight, I was in search of another victim. A certain kind of man—and there were always a few of them in every crowd. All I had to do was flush them out.
The moment I stepped into the room, conversations dipped and eyes shifted. The dress, which lovingly defined my ass and traced every line of my silhouette, did exactly what I bought it to do. A couple of women gave me quick, assessing glances, then looked away. Several men stared outright. One of them didn't waste any time approaching me.
"What's your name, beautiful?" he asked, his fitted shirt clinging for dear life to a bulging stomach that had clearly retired from ab workouts.
"I'm Tiffany. What's yours, fat boy?" I thought. I angled my body to slide past him, but he shifted, blocking my path like a human roadblock.
"Well, Tiffany, I'm Patrick. Will you marry me?" he said, laughing at his own joke. Judging from his glossy eyes and slurred speech, happy hour had started early for him and never ended.
I forced a polite smile, the kind that said bless your heart more than I'm interested. "I'm flattered, but I'm spoken for. Now, if you don't mind." I raised an eyebrow and let the impatience show in my face. He might have been drunk, but he wasn't stupid. To keep from embarrassing himself any further, he stepped aside, hands raised in surrender.
As I approached the bar, the hum of conversation wrapped around me again. Bottles lined the mirrored shelves like a rainbow of expensive sins. A gentleman sitting at the bar suddenly stood up as I neared.
"Would you like my seat?" he asked, already gesturing toward the tall barstool.
"Why, thank you. You're such a gentleman." I brushed past him, close enough to catch his scent—clean, expensive cologne with a hint of spice. He was tall, attractive, gray at the temples, and impeccably dressed in a suit that actually fit. Not quite what I was looking for, but my curiosity nudged me.
"Would you like something to drink?" I asked, leaning in a little, invading his personal space as we switched places in the crowded bar. He smells so good…
"That won't be necessary; I'm running late already," he said, checking his watch. "But thanks anyway."
"You have a good evening, then." Our eyes held for a moment, taking each other's measure. He wasn't hungry for pussy—I could tell. This was a man who went home to someone already waiting for him, or to a life so full he didn't need random distractions. Business was more important to him than an unplanned roll in the hay. Still, he was sexy, so I watched his cute little ass walk away, appreciating the view.
Standing on my toes, I wiggled my five-foot-five-inch frame onto the tall barstool, my dress riding dangerously high as I settled. For a second, I almost flashed my freshly shaved kitty. I wasn't wearing panties—never liked them. Too constricting. Tonight, I wanted to feel the air on my skin.
SAMPLE TWO
Tiffany
A week after celebrating my birthday and graduating from high school, I found myself standing in a long, winding line at Jones Community College for open registration. The hallway smelled like paper, old paint, and too much cologne. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale glow over a sea of nervous faces clutching folders and manila envelopes.
Mama couldn't afford to send me to a university, not with the bills stacked on the kitchen counter and the way she rubbed her temples every time the mail came. Community college was the next best thing, she'd said. You start there, you can still go anywhere. So there I was—file in hand, transcripts ready, trying to act like this had always been my first choice.
The line inched forward. In front of me, a girl argued with her mother about majors. Behind me, a guy scrolled on his phone like he didn't have a care in the world. I sighed and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling my sandals bite into my skin.
"Girl, I know that's not Tiffany," a familiar voice floated over the noise.
I turned and spotted Patricia's big hair bobbing through the crowd like a moving landmark. Her weave was teased sky-high, sprayed into a style that defied both gravity and common sense. JoAnn trailed behind her, long legs and lean frame looking like she'd just jogged there from the track.
"Hey!" I waved them over.
We hugged quickly in the narrow hallway, our folders smacking against each other.
"What are you doing here?" Patricia asked, smacking her gum. "I thought you'd be off at some fancy school, acting all bougie."
"Jones is still a school," I shrugged. "What about you two?"
Patricia rolled her eyes. "Girl, I'm here because my grades were trash. I told them it was my parents' divorce, but you know how that goes." She shrugged, like the whole thing bored her.
The truth was, everybody knew Patricia had skipped school almost every day to chase after some boy who barely remembered her name half the time.
"And JoAnn?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
JoAnn shifted her weight, her ponytail swinging. "Same. I thought being a track star was gonna carry me." She gave a short laugh. "Turns out, a gold medal in the 200-meter dash doesn't substitute for actual grades."
They both graduated, but barely. I'd watched them slide by while coaches and counselors held their hands. Now we were all standing in the same line, on the same floor, waiting for the same future to begin.
We made it through registration—forms, signatures, too many instructions delivered too fast—and afterward, we decided to grab lunch at a burger place across the street. The air inside smelled like grease, ketchup, and teenage dreams. The plastic seats squeaked when we sat down.
"What's been up, Tiffany?" JoAnn asked, unwrapping her chicken sandwich. Grease seeped through the paper, shining on her fingers.
"Just hanging out a little and working," I said, stirring the ice in my drink with a straw. "What about you two?"
"Trying to find a job," JoAnn groaned. "Patricia and I have been looking everywhere. Even this burger joint won't hire us. I shouldn't be eating here, but I love their fries." She popped one into her mouth and closed her eyes like it was a guilty pleasure.
"When we go on interviews, people look at us like we're aliens or something," Patricia added, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Her nails—long, curved, and neon—tapped against the table like little claws.
"Maybe it's because your hair is almost ten feet tall, and your nails are too long to do any kind of clerical work," I said, giving her a pointed look.
"I can work the dance floor," Patricia shot back. She did a few moves in her seat, rolling her shoulders and shimmying before biting into her sandwich. Mayo smeared the corner of her mouth, and she licked it off like she meant to.
"I'm sure you can…" I grinned. "And JoAnn, you know those hoochie-mama pants are too tight to be wearing while looking for work. I bet most of the interviewers were women, right?"
"Yes, they were…" JoAnn frowned, thinking. "How did you know? Except for a couple of older men that wanted to take me out, but they wouldn't hire me."
"There you have it," I said, spreading my hands. "The men want to screw you, and the women can't trust you around their men."
JoAnn paused, a fry halfway to her mouth, replaying her last few interviews in her head. I could see the lightbulb flicker on behind her eyes.
"Back to you, Patricia…" I continued, turning my attention back to the neon nails. "How did you get to be so ghetto with all those fake nails and that hair? The only job you're going to find is on a street corner or a pole somewhere."
Patricia's eyes flew open wide. "I know Ms. Vanilla Thing didn't just call me what I think she did."
"Well, you dress like one," I said calmly, taking a sip of my soda.
"I ought to tear into that prissy little ass of yours for talking to me like that," JoAnn said, pointing a fry at me like it was a weapon.
"I second that," Patricia chimed in, raising her hand like we were still in homeroom.
"What makes you two think this prissy little ass can't fight?" I raised my eyebrow. "Look, all I'm trying to say is we're out of high school now. It's time to grow up."
They didn't like the way I called them out—both of them sat back, lips twisted, eyes narrowed—but they didn't clap back either. Instead, they got quiet for a moment, chewing and thinking.
"When did your ass get to be so damn smart?" Patricia finally asked, squinting at me.
"Yeah, enough of your grown-up-ass talk," JoAnn added. "What are you doing Saturday? This guy I know is having a party. Patricia and I are going. You wanna come with us?"
I tore off a piece of my burger bun and rolled it between my fingers. "I don't like hanging out with boys my age. They're too much trouble."
"A boy can't do nothing for me either," JoAnn said, flipping her hair. "These are men. They're all professionals in their twenties with good jobs and nice cars."
When she said that, Jonathan popped into my mind—his smooth voice, his tailored suits, the way his car seats felt under my legs.
"Let me think about it," I said carefully. "I'll let you know something by Friday."
We finished our food, talking about classes, clothes, and gossip from our old high school, then went our separate ways. Outside, the summer air pressed against my skin like a warm hand.
Days went by, and still no calls from Jonathan.
At first, I told myself he was busy. Important men had important things to do, right? Meetings. Deadlines. Big clients. But every time I glanced at my phone and saw nothing from him, a little knot formed in my stomach and pulled tighter.
One evening, while getting ready for bed, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair was wrapped, my face bare. No lipstick, no earrings, just me. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, trying not to stare too long at my own eyes, afraid I'd see the disappointment there.
I slipped into a soft cotton nightgown and crawled under the covers. The ceiling fan spun slowly above me, moving the air just enough to keep the room from feeling stuffy. The glow from the streetlamp outside spilled a thin line of light across my floor, like a crack in the darkness.
I picked up my phone one last time. No messages. No missed calls.
With a sigh, I set it on the nightstand and turned off the lamp. The room sank into shadow, and I lay there staring into the dark, listening to the faint sounds of the neighborhood—the distant bark of a dog, a car rolling by, someone laughing two houses down.
Eventually, my thoughts, like my body, grew heavy. I began to drift, and Jonathan's face rose up in my mind, as clear as if he were standing right beside my bed.
SAMPLE THREE
“Turn it up, JoAnn! That’s my jam!” Patricia yelled, leaning forward between the seats like she was about to climb into the front.
The three of us were speeding north on Lake Shore Drive, the city glittering beside us like someone had cracked open a jewelry box and spilled it across the skyline. JoAnn was behind the wheel of her new boyfriend’s ride—a plush, all-white Lincoln MKX with custom chrome rims that caught the sunlight and threw it back like camera flashes. The air conditioner blasted cold air strong enough to fight off the summer heat beating down outside.
Inside the SUV, the atmosphere was the exact opposite of cool. Music thumped through the speakers, making the seats vibrate. Patricia was in the back seat dancing in place, shoulders rolling, earrings swinging, and gum popping every few seconds like punctuation marks. JoAnn was drumming her long acrylics against the steering wheel, eyes half on the road, half on her reflection in the rearview mirror. And me? I sat in the front seat with my window cracked, letting the breeze whip through my hair while I tried to keep us from getting arrested.
JoAnn had no problem borrowing men’s cars. All she had to do was bat her long eyelashes, tilt her head slightly, and let those full lips curve into a smirk. Men—especially the thug type—melted like butter on a skillet. Her light-brown skin glowed even brighter in the sun, and the way her hips swayed when she walked? Please. She didn’t borrow cars. Men handed them over like offerings at an altar.
We were vibing to the music, windows vibrating, when a sudden horn blasted from our left.
JoAnn jerked her head toward the sound. Two young men in a convertible Mercedes cruised alongside us, music blasting just as loud as ours. The passenger leaned all the way over the door, waving his hand like he was directing traffic.
“I know he’s not trying to get me to pull over,” JoAnn scoffed, lifting her chin like royalty. “He must not know who I am.”
“He’d better ask somebody!” Patricia hollered from the back, her braids bouncing.
“Speed up, girl… ignore them,” I said, tightening my seatbelt. Nothing good ever happened when JoAnn looked at a man and said “Who he thinks he talking to?”
“But wait… they’re fine!” Patricia squealed, scooting to the window and waving dramatically like she was auditioning for a music video.
“I told you to ignore them,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
“Don’t worry, the windows are tinted anyway,” JoAnn laughed. “Now don’t you feel stupid?”
Patricia rolled the window down just long enough to flash them a big bright grin, then rolled it back up.
“Not anymore,” she said, proud as ever.
The guys stayed on our trail for a while, weaving through lanes to keep up, but heavy Saturday traffic eventually swallowed them whole.
As the city blurred past, I stole a glance at Patricia. I had to admit—she looked good today. My little talk about growing up must’ve stuck, because she’d ditched the towering, sky-high weave and was rocking her real hair—straightened, with honey-blonde highlights that shimmered in the sun.
“Your hair looks so nice,” I told her, twisting around in my seat. “And what pretty eyes! Where did you find that color?”
Patricia smirked, trying to act modest. “Just a little something I stumbled upon.”
“Stumbled upon my ass!” JoAnn yelled over the music. “It took four malls and two drugstores to find it!”
“It was five malls!” Patricia snapped.
“It was four—because I was the one doing the damn driving!”
“Whatever!”
Patricia also shortened her nails to a reasonable length—still flashy, but not claws. She wore a green paisley skirt with a slit that showed off her toned legs and the tiny belly ring she’d been dying to display.
JoAnn, on the other hand, swapped her usual skin-tight pants for a long jersey dress that clung in all the right places—loose enough to look classy, tight enough to remind people she wasn’t to be played with. She paired it with a sleek feathered haircut, a silver choker, and matching earrings.
As for me? I came with my own style—light-brown eyes, sandy-brown shoulder-length hair blown out and soft. In high school, they called me Little Miss Rich Girl, not because I was rich, but because I carried myself like someone who knew her worth. Today I wore a tight-fitting bodysuit under a sheer blouse tied at the waist. Simple, but sharp.
We didn’t realize the Mercedes guys had caught up again until the screech of sudden brakes made the SUV lurch slightly.
The car stopped right beside us.
Patricia’s fingers flew to the window button, but this time JoAnn had the safety lock on.
“Girl, unlock this window! I want him. He is sooo cute,” Patricia pleaded.
“I told you to stop yelling out my car at men!” JoAnn said. “Every guy you see, you think is cute!”
“I can’t help it if I’ve got good taste.”
“No taste,” I chimed in.
“I know Miss Vanilla Thing didn’t say that—with her little virgin ass,” Patricia shot back. “Somebody gonna pop that cherry one day.”
“And Miss Rabbit,” I said calmly, “you give it up so fast it’s a wonder you haven’t turned into a platinum card yet.”
Patricia’s jaw dropped. “No she didn’t—oh, she did not just call me that!”
We bickered the whole ride, but it was our version of love.
When we finally reached the party, cars were parked everywhere. The neighborhood looked like someone opened a club on a residential block. People flooded the sidewalks, music leaked from every window, and the air smelled like barbecue, weed, and cheap cologne.
“Wow, this guy must be popular,” Patricia said. “What a turnout.”
We parked nearly a block away and checked ourselves in the visor mirrors one last time.
The moment we stepped out, unwanted attention hollered across the street.
“Hey baby!” some short, unattractive guy yelled.
Patricia flashed the sweetest smile and waved—wide open invitation. He immediately started crossing the street.
“Don’t bother, I got a man,” Patricia said suddenly, shutting him down so hard his friends laughed out loud.
He swallowed his pride and walked off, and I high-fived her.
Inside the house, the bar was our first stop.
“White wine, please,” I said, leaning on the polished counter.
“Little virgin wine,” JoAnn snickered. “Crown Royal on the rocks. Double.”
“Ciroc apple for me, in a big cup,” Patricia added, tapping the biggest cup on the table. “Yes. That one.”
Drinks in hand, we stepped into the backyard. The party was lit. Music thumped through giant speakers. People danced, laughed, smoked, flirted. Someone grilled on a deck. Someone else took pictures like they were hosting their own photo shoot.
Patricia vanished within seconds.
Turns out, she found Mr. Mercedes himself leaning against his car, looking proud and shiny.
JoAnn spotted her man Tony and his boys posted up with a group of thirsty-looking girls and dragged me over like she was ready to fight.
“What’s up, Tony?” she snapped.
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, hello to you too. Me and my boys just kicking it with some friends.”
“Some of your friends look thirsty,” JoAnn said, glaring at the girls. “Maybe they need a drink? The bar’s right over there.”
Her comment made every girl stiffen. One kissed Tony’s cheek before storming off, her friends close behind.
SAMPLE FOUR
Mama always made sure I was in church on Sunday morning. Even if she didn’t go herself, she’d still be at my bedroom door by eight a.m., knocking with that soft-but-serious tap.
“Get up, Tiffany. You’re not gonna lay around this house all day.”
It was even harder after a night of drinking. My head would still be buzzing, eyes heavy, mouth dry, but there was no such thing as “too tired for the Lord” in Mama’s house. So I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a simple dress, and made my way to church half-awake.
The sanctuary was warm and familiar—stained-glass windows, polished pews, the scent of old hymnals and floral perfume. The choir clapped and swayed. Mothers fanned themselves with paper fans advertising funeral homes. Somewhere in the back, a baby cried on and off. I sat in the same spot we always did, near the middle aisle, pretending to hang onto every word.
Truth was, I was counting minutes.
I don’t remember exactly what the preacher said that morning. Something about temptation, choices, and the Lord making a way out. I wrote down a few notes in the margin of my program, just in case Mama asked later, underlining a verse here and there so it would look good.
When the benediction finally came, I exhaled like someone had just unlocked a door.
Back home, I kicked off my shoes the moment I cleared the threshold and made a beeline for the couch. Sunday was my day—my one day to stretch out, breathe, and lose myself in other people’s mess instead of my own. I turned on the TV and flipped through channels until I found one of those long, drawn-out love stories. The kind where people spent whole seasons chasing the same person, crying in the rain, making terrible decisions for “true love.”
They seemed so real—or maybe I just wanted them to be.
I curled into the corner of the couch, pulling a light throw over my legs. While the characters on screen whispered confessions and stole kisses, my mind drifted where it had been going all week. Jonathan.
I couldn’t shake the image of him from the party—the way he’d looked in those linen pants, that easy smile, the relaxed way he moved. Even though I was the one who told him not to call me, a part of me had still hoped he’d walk over and say hello. Just something.
Instead, he’d smiled… and turned back to the girl on his arm.
The sun slowly shifted across the living room floor as the afternoon slid into evening. By the time the credits rolled, my eyes felt heavy, but my body felt restless. I turned off the TV and sat in silence for a moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a lawn mower somewhere down the block.
It was getting late, so I went to my room to lay out my clothes for Monday. My room had changed a lot over the last year. Once, it had been all bright colors and stuffed animals—a little girl’s world. But Mama had helped me transform it into something more grown. Soft, neutral tones. A full-length mirror. New comforter. No more cartoon characters on the walls.
In a way, my room and I had grown up together.
I stood in front of my dresser, staring at my reflection. The overhead light cast a warm glow over my skin. Slowly, I pulled my nightgown over my head and let it fall to the floor. The air felt cool against my bare skin.
With both index fingers, I traced lines along my body—across my stomach, over my hips—touching areas I’d never really taken time to study before. The dream from the other night came rushing back, thick and vivid. My cheeks warmed as I remembered every sensation, every imagined touch.
I closed my eyes and tried to slip back into it. To feel again what had happened only in my mind. My breathing grew slower, deeper. The quiet of the room wrapped around me like a blanket—
—and then my cell phone rang.
The sound jolted me. I snatched a T-shirt from the bed and pulled it down over my head before grabbing my phone from the nightstand.
When I checked the caller ID, my heart stalled for a beat.
Jonathan.
I stared at his name on the screen, debating. Let it go to voicemail? Pick up like nothing had happened? I hesitated until the final ring, then answered.
“Hello?” My voice was softer than I meant it to be.
“Hello, Tiffany, it’s me,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
A thousand responses flashed through my head, but the one that came out was sharp. “You were doing a good job of it the other night.”
He chuckled softly. “I was only pretending. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. I wanted to come over… but I didn’t want to make things worse.”
Silence stretched between us. I could almost hear his breathing, feel his presence through the line.
“I want to see you,” he said finally. “Can we have dinner soon?”
“I don’t know…” I replied, chewing on my bottom lip. “Call me later.”
Before he could say anything else, I hung up.
I didn’t want him to think, not for one second, that he was getting to me. But he was. On one hand, I felt like he’d violated my trust. On the other, he’d awakened something inside me that I couldn’t quite shove back into its box. I still didn’t know how to feel about what had almost happened between us.
He called back. Once. Twice. Several times over the next couple of days. Each time, my resistance wore down just a little more until finally, I said yes.
Dinner.
When he pulled up in front of my house, I was already halfway down the stairs.
“Mama, I’m leaving now!” I called out, pausing at the front door.
“Okay, baby, have a great time,” she replied from the kitchen, her voice warm but tired.
I opened the door just as Jonathan was walking up the steps. The porch light caught the angles of his face, the shine of his watch, the clean lines of his suit.
“Don’t you look beautiful,” he said, letting his gaze sweep slowly over me.
“Why, thank you,” I replied, trying to sound casual even though my heart was beating fast.
“So, I don’t get a chance to meet your mother?” he asked with a smile.
“You’ll meet her soon enough,” I said, sidestepping the question. “I’m starving.”
I walked past him down the steps, giving him no choice but to follow.
SAMPLE FIVE
It was opening night at the China Club, the newest and hottest spot just north of the city. The whole block looked like a movie set. The valet line stretched down the street, a long ribbon of headlights and chrome. Sleek exotic cars—Lamborghinis, Bentleys, Jaguars—idled under the streetlights, their polished bodies gleaming like wet ink. Engines purred and revved as men in designer clothes stepped out, straightening cuffs and adjusting watches, while women in heels and glittering dresses adjusted straps and smoothed skirts.
The crowd outside buzzed with excitement and anticipation. Laughter popped through the night air. Perfume, cologne, and cigarette smoke mixed into one thick scent that clung to everything.
Just past the velvet ropes, the club swallowed me whole.
Inside, the walls pulsed with vibrant black-light graffiti—dragons, lotus flowers, abstract lines—all glowing in electric colors that made the whole place feel like a living painting. The expansive dance floor stretched out in front of me, alive with people and light. Laser beams sliced through the smoky air while the DJ—perched high on a platform—blended house and hip-hop beats like a magician. The bass was so deep it vibrated through my ribs.
A friend’s VIP passes had gotten me past the line and straight into the elevated section overlooking the main floor. I strutted through the crowd, feeling the heat of stares on my skin. My tight-fitting skirt hugged every curve of my hips and thighs, and my sleeveless French blouse—crisp with a high collar—showed off my latest tattoo. The band of flowers wrapped from my shoulder down my arm like a wild vine bursting with life, each petal outlined in delicate detail. Under the black lights, the ink almost seemed to move.
The VIP section was packed with the city’s young professionals and wannabe VIPs—all dressed to impress. Men in tailored shirts, expensive sneakers, and curated jewelry lounged on leather couches with champagne flutes. Women sat cross-legged in designer dresses, their legs crossed just so, checking their phones and scanning the crowd.
I scanned too, searching for JoAnn and Patricia. We’d planned to meet, but they’d been arguing with their men earlier, and with them, that could mean anything—from getting dressed together to blocking each other’s numbers. For all I knew, they were at home sulking—or on somebody’s lap already.
I checked my phone. No messages.
The music pulled at me, tugging like invisible fingers.
I couldn’t just sit there and wait. I was itching to dance.
I set my purse down, kept my drink in hand, and slipped out of the VIP area. The closer I got to the dance floor, the louder everything became. The bass thumped through my chest, my feet, my spine. Bodies moved as one big, writhing organism—hands in the air, hips rolling, shoulders bouncing. Colored lights flashed over us in waves of red, blue, and green.
I squeezed into a pocket of open space and let my body fall into rhythm. My hips swayed, my shoulders rolled, and soon the music washed away everything else. No exes, no regrets, no classes, no bills. Just the beat and the way my body answered it. For a few moments, I forgot about being watched and just was.
Then a voice slipped in behind me, low and smooth, cutting through the music like a warm knife.
“What a wonderful tattoo.”
I turned my head and looked over my shoulder. A man stood there, maybe early thirties, with sharp features and confident eyes. His shirt was crisp, his slacks tailored, his whole look clean and deliberate. No oversized chains, no sagging jeans. More corporate than corner.
“The artwork is impressive,” he continued, his gaze tracing the curve of ink on my shoulder, but never dropping lower than he should. “By the way, I’m Jason.”
He looked like my type—handsome and polished, like he spent more time in conference rooms than on corners. I smiled.
“Thank you. I’m Tiffany.” I tilted my head slightly. “Do you have any tattoos?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Since it’s permanent, I haven’t picked a design.” His smile was easy, practiced but not fake. “Would you like to dance?”
I nodded, and we wove through the shifting bodies to the center of the dance floor.
The DJ cranked the volume up another notch, dropping a bass-heavy track that made everything around us vibrate. The music was so loud that Jason’s words died the moment they left his mouth.
“I can’t hear you!” I shouted, cupping my hand around my ear.
He laughed and shook his head. I pointed to the floor—let’s just dance—and he got the message.
Jason was a skilled dancer, moving with fluid confidence. No wild, show-off moves—just controlled, smooth, and on beat. He knew how to lead without pushing. I liked that. I let the music carry me, my body moving with the beat, letting myself get lost in the rhythm. Jason faded into the background like an accessory to the song. In those moments, it wasn’t about him. It was about me—my body, my mood, my release.
Suddenly, a familiar voice sliced through the music.
“Tiffany!”
I turned and spotted Kelli, waving at me from a few feet away. Her hips were glued to the front of a man I’d never seen before. She was all over him, hands wrapped around his neck, her movements slow and deliberate—but her eyes were sharp, always watching him, always watching the room.
He was definitely her type—a baller. Thick platinum chains layered on his chest, a diamond-studded watch flashing every time he moved his arm, clothes that screamed money whether it was old or new.
Kelli gave me a quick wink before turning back to him, grinding in ways that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. She was there for the money—but she protected her investment like a guard dog.
The tempo shifted to a slower groove, and the heat from dancing made my skin slick. Jason and I drifted off the dance floor and back toward the bar to cool down.
“Can you take this drink and bring me another?” I asked the bartender, sliding my half-empty glass back to him. I’d been listening to too many stories about girls getting drugged at clubs, waking up in places they didn’t remember being. That was not going to be me.
The bartender nodded, grabbed my glass, and set it aside. Then he disappeared behind the counter.
Jason leaned in slightly, his voice barely competing with the music. “You were mesmerizing out there,” he said.
I smiled, dabbing sweat from my forehead and chest with a cocktail napkin. Compliments from a man who could actually dress and string sentences together never hurt.
The bartender returned, setting a fresh drink in front of me. “Here you go, beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Jason reached for his wallet. “Let me pay for that,” he offered.
Before he could get his card out, someone else spoke from my other side.
“It’s already paid for,” a smooth voice said.
I turned to see a tall, athletic blond standing next to me. Broad shoulders, strong jawline, confident posture. He had that polished look—like he played professional something, or at least wanted people to think he did.
He gave me a quick wink.
Jason blinked, thrown off balance. For a second, he didn’t know whether to insist, walk away, or start a competition. The moment stretched awkwardly.
Just then, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, Tiffany!” Kelli’s voice chirped beside me. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Let me introduce you to Robert and his friend Tracy.”
Robert stepped forward first. Up close, he was all presence—broad chest, solid build, expensive cologne. His handshake was firm, his gaze steady and intense.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said.
Tracy took my hand next, holding it a beat longer than necessary. “Pleasure’s mine,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. His confidence rolled off him like cologne, thick and noticeable.