Chuckling into the side of Betty’s neck, “I’m taking someone home tonight since Mik is on his way home and no doubt I won’t be allowed out until the wedding.”

“We’re going to talk about that wedding later, but yes, I agree. We’re both taking someone home tonight, so can we please ditch the bitch?”

We follow the path behind the bar until we see an escalator. “Weird.” We step on, catching the live sex show on either side. “Holy fuck… it’s a fucking sex club?” Nothing happens in Chicago without me saying so, so the fact that this club managed to sneak undetected already annoys the shit out of me.

“Okay, this is my vibe!” Betty dances. “We need a drink. Let’s go to the bar here before touring the place.” We get off the escalator and fall deep into the busy dance floor around the bar that’s toward the back of the room this time. There’s a mixture of people. Some suits, some young.

Betty shoves a glass of—I don’t know—into my chest and we continue around, passing private rooms with moaning and the sound of skin slapping together.

“I feel like it’s getting worse. Let’s go up!” Betty points to the sky as our heels tap onto the escalator. We move through level three when we see there’s a level four.

“This annoys me. How did they manage to open this fucking bar without me knowing about it? It would take months, if not years, to plan this kind of thing!” As soon as we hit level four, the music shifts to a smooth beat. I swallow my entire drink and drag Betty into the room. This time the walls are beige white, the leather couches white and scattered booths fill the area. There’s a small group of people dancing in the center of the room and I drag Betty toward them, my mind spinning from the alcohol and intoxicating sound of Lithe. I can worry about who’s running this place later. Right now, I want to get lost. Forget. Everything and everyone.

Betty has refilled our drinks at least five times, and this time Lithe’s “Wish They Seen My Face” plays. I love his music and I allow his familiar sound to entrance me. Going out and not being approached by men isn’t unusual for me. For the most part, people know who I am, and if they don’t, someone they’re with knows who I am. No one approaches me—I go to them.

I open my eyes to a young guy dressed in a pretty button-up and jeans, his drink resting against his bottom lip.

Smirking, I take a step toward him. Yes. You are coming home with me.