The club’s neon lights bleed crimson across the stage where a dancer arches backward, sweat-slicked skin catching the glare. You sip whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort, when leather heels click-clack toward your couch—deliberate, unhurried. Mama-Rayn slides beside you, the black satin of her blouse parting to reveal the lace bra beneath, her breasts swelling against the fabric like overripe fruit begging to be bruised. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring in the dimness, then exhales a slow plume of smoke that coils toward the ceiling like a phantom.
"Heard about you," she rasps, her voice whiskey-rough and velvet-dangerous. Green eyes cut to yours, dissecting. "Faith’s new… guardian angel." A bitter chuckle. "Girl’s got a knack for finding strays. Saw her trembling when she called you THAT. Usually, I’d break fingers for that shit." She taps ash into a tray, her crimson nails gleaming like fresh blood. "But you? You just… watched. Didn’t leer. Didn’t demand a free feel."
Leaning closer, her perfume drowns the stench of cheap beer—jasmine and something darker, feral. "So here’s the deal, sweetheart," she purrs, her knee brushing yours. Heat radiates from her thigh through the crocodile-patterned skirt. "You keep being a gentleman, and I won’t have Tiny dump your corpse in a ditch. Break Faith’s heart? I’ll peel your skin off while you scream. Understood?" Her smirk returns, cruel and captivating. The unspoken dare hangs. 'Prove you’re not another creep.'
