Jax Vane stood backstage at Club Velvet, staring at his reflection in the illuminated vanity mirror. He didn't see a man; he saw a weapon.
He adjusted his bowtie—the only piece of clothing he planned to keep on for the next ten minutes.
"Showtime, baby," he whispered, flashing a smile that had cost him five thousand dollars in dental work. It was a smile that said, I am dangerous, I am expensive, and I am exactly what you need.
Outside the curtain, the bass of Ginuwine's Pony began to thump, vibrating the floorboards. The crowd screamed. It was a specific kind of scream: a mix of white wine, desperation, and pre-wedding hysteria.
Jax checked his stats—mentally, of course:
Target: The Senator's Daughter, Sheila.
Mission: Secure the tip meant for her honeymoon fund.
Obstacle: The Maid of Honor, a karen-in-training who was currently guarding the bride's purse like a dragon guarding gold.
"Jax, you're up!" the stage manager hissed.
Jax didn't walk onto the stage; he exploded onto it.
He slid across the polished laminate on his knees, ripping his tear-away dress shirt open in one fluid motion. Buttons scattered like shrapnel. The crowd went feral.
There were twenty women in the VIP section, but Jax's eyes locked onto Sheila. She was wearing a sash that said Bride to Be and a tiara that looked heavy. She looked terrified.
Perfect, Jax thought. She needs a hero. Or a villain. I can be both.
He prowled toward the edge of the stage, his movements predatory. This wasn't just dancing; this was psychological warfare. He knew exactly how to play the room. He ignored the loud ones. He ignored the ones waving dollar bills. He focused entirely on the quiet ones.
He hopped off the stage, landing softly in front of the table. The Maid of Honor tried to intercept him.
"Back off, buddy," she slurred, holding up a hand.
Jax didn't break character. He gently took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and looked deep into her eyes with an expression of pure, manufactured soulfulness.
"You have the hands of an artist," he lied smooth as silk.
The Maid of Honor froze. Her defenses crumbled. "I... I scrapbook."
"I knew it," Jax winked.
Threat neutralized.
He spun away, sliding toward the bride. He grabbed the bottle of baby oil from his holster—his trusty sidearm.
"Sheila," Jax purred, his voice dropping to that perfect baritone range that vibrated in the chest. "Are you ready to say goodbye to freedom?"
"I... I think so?" Sheila squeaked.
"Wrong answer," Jax grinned. He squeezed the oil bottle. A generous stream of slippery, coconut-scented liquid coated his chest and abs. He rubbed it in, making sure the stage lights caught every ripple of muscle.
"Tonight, you aren't a wife. You're a Queen"
He vaulted back onto the stage. It was time for the finisher. The Python.
It was a move Jax had invented himself. It involved a climb to the top of the twenty-foot chrome pole, a rapid inverted spin, and a sudden drop that stopped just inches from the floor. It was dangerous. It was stupid. It was the reason he made six figures.
He gripped the pole. The oil on his skin made him slick, but his grip strength was legendary. He ascended rapidly, ignoring the burn in his forearms.
Ten feet
Fifteen feet
Twenty feet
He was near the ceiling now, looking down at the sea of upturned faces. They were chanting his name.
"Jax! Jax! Jax!"
This is it, he thought. The top of the world. I am a God.
He hooked his legs, released his hands, and let gravity take the wheel.
He began to spin. Faster. Faster. The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and screaming women. He was a blurry tornado of oiled flesh.
But then, tragedy struck.
Jax had been too ambitious. In his pursuit of the perfect glisten, he had over-oiled.
As he prepared for the sudden stop—the moment where he would catch himself with his thighs and hang suspended upside down—physics filed a complaint.
His thighs clamped down on the pole.
The oil said, No.
There was zero friction.
Instead of stopping, Jax accelerated. He shot down the pole like a greased bullet in a frictionless barrel.
"Oh, shi—"
He didn't even have time to finish the curse.
He flew past the braking zone. He flew past the safety mat. His trajectory was slightly off-center due to the centrifugal force.
Jax Vane, the King of the Velvet, launched off the bottom of the pole like a missile.
His head met the corner of the raised VIP stage.
CRACK
It wasn't a majestic sound. It sounded like a melon being dropped in a parking lot.
The music kept thumping. Jump on it, jump on it, jump on it.
Jax tumbled onto the sticky floor, his limbs sprawled in an undignified heap.
For a second, there was silence. Then, the Maid of Honor screamed.
"He's dead! Oh my god, Sheila, you killed the stripper!"
Jax's vision swam. He couldn't feel his legs. Actually, he couldn't feel anything. The strobe lights above him slowed down, pulsing in time with his fading heartbeat.
Seriously? Jax thought, his internal monologue surprisingly calm. This is how I go out? Covered in coconut oil and glitter?
He saw Sheila looming over him, clutching her mouth.
"Is he okay?" she sobbed. "I still have his twenty dollars!"
Keep the twenty, sweetheart, Jax tried to say, but blood filled his mouth.
The world narrowed down to a pinprick of light. The smell of cheap perfume and sweat faded away.
I deserved better than this, was his final thought. I had so much potential. I was going to start a podcast...
Darkness took him. absolute, cold, and endless.
...
...
...
SCREEEEECH
A sound like metal tearing through metal assaulted his ears.
The smell hit him next. Not coconut oil. Not perfume.
Rust. Ozone. Burning trash.
Jax gasped, his lungs filling with thick, acrid air. His eyes snapped open.
He wasn't in the club.
He was looking up at a sky the color of a bruised plum, choked with heavy, gray clouds. A massive, rusty structure—like the skeleton of a dead skyscraper—loomed over him, blocking out the faint, sickly light of two distant moons.
He blinked.
"What the hell?"