5- Devi

Upstairs in the lunar room, I realize it has a much smaller view than I’m used to, with a mini set of circular windows tucked behind its bar. Depending on the angle, the lights below cast a moon phase over the dark walls. That makes it more private and beautiful even as it’s impractical.

If I stand here long enough, I can pretend it’s the air mix pumping through the vents that making my blood pound. Or that the glees mix made my head fuzzy. Anything is better than the awareness that I’m going to have to sate my desires soon. I feel the itching under my skin like it’s pumping through my veins.

In a black suede bralette and matching tiny skirt, I’m supposed to mimic a crescent moon. Each room has a different uniform rotation to fit its theme, so I’m used to tight rompers and sexy pants, not a skirt short enough to show a pair of tight underwear. It’s not a thong, but with barely enough material to cover half of each cheek, it’s close. It’s just a change of pace, I tell myself. Running my index under the tight straps around my thighs, I try to readjust them so they’re not pinching my skin. The thigh-high boots look like oil as I stretch the material until it’s comfortable.

Someone’s already done me a solid and stocked the bar with freshly sliced garnishes and refilled some of the spicier mix-ins that Thur love. There’s no telling who my clients might be tonight, light or dark, but I mentally prepare for both.

Lightflecks usually prefer talkers to serve them. Nothing they really have to listen to, like anecdotes or banter, but one that knows how to flirt and make them feel ten feet tall. They like to be worshipped. The Darkmires, however, prefer silence: quick, efficient service and minimal clothing. Their desires have nothing to do with ego and everything to do with physical gratification.

Fuck. It finally occurs to me, as I plan for the evening, that in this intimately-sized room, there’s no dancing stage. No way for me to act like window dressing. I can roll with the punches as well as most, but no stage means private dances, which means proximity. Which often means hands where they shouldn’t be.

Groaning, I brace against the bar and give myself a pep talk.

I rub my cheek, knowing I have no choice but to work around it. It’s either table dancing or a Thur hand up my skirt. Taking a quick tour of the room, I familiarize myself with the center and side tables, then rearrange the sofas to my preference, hoping I’ll have enough room to stay off their laps.

There’s nothing worse than falling on your ass during a set or dropping a tray of drinks because of a table leg. I haven’t done it since I was eighteen—the year I moved from barback to room attendant—but it’s not easily forgotten. Two loud knocks from outside the door tell me the clients are headed up, and I slip on the ambient music track, automatically cued to cycle set songs when I need them.

Putting on my game face, I take up residence along the wall behind the door, my pose relaxed but sexy as I blend into the dark. I do this every night. Serve, dance, and disappear into the background. It's a new room, but it's the same game. Setting my eye imbed to a low filter, I allow the shadowy room to settle. I don't have to wait long for the sound of the door handle turning. But just as it begins to open, sending a beam of colored strobe light across the floor, there's a commotion. I don't move because clients are only my problem once they step through the door. Right now, they’re the escort’s problem.

"I’m not taking no for an answer. Find a room for us. You know who I am," a male voice says, slightly whiny, followed by a few snickers and laughs from whoever he’s with. It should be a sin for a voice to sound so musical even while indignant, but Thur tend to sound as good as they look. My posture falls slightly when the door pushes open, turning the room red with light. I hate it when they bring conflict inside; it's a bad sign for my tips.

"I'm sorry, but we're fully booked for tonight." That’s Jack's voice but rawer than it should be, wavering at the ends of the words. What’s wrong with him? Since when does he escort Thur to their rooms? "You can't just enter any suite you like as these are already reserved. The only option remaining is to see if one of the bookings will share their room with you. Lunar is already booked by these males."

"We definitely won't be sharing. You should've booked in advance, " another male voice says from further away. It sounds like he's closer to the stairs. Dread settles in my gut because I don’t want to deal with a self-serving asshole tonight. From further away, I can hear the door to the gilded room slam, followed by the painted room. Their respective answers on whether or not they'll be sharing with this male.

"Come on, Fiers, don't take a piss. Lightflecks stick together," the original voice says softly, pleading as much as a Thur would allow themselves. Sounds like this male hoped just to barge his way in through reputation alone.

Sounds like every Unsettled Thur I’ve ever met.

"Fine, fuck, you’re lucky your mother is on the council, Styl," the other huffs irritably. Then, "If I'm sharing with him, though, we're not all going to fit in the lunar room, Jack. We'll take Velvet instead."

"N-no there's already—" Jack's pulse is in his throat. I can hear it in the wobble. But I don't get a chance to catch his reply as the door snicks closed once more. It's soundproofed here, so that's all I get. Room selection is a big deal here. If that group poached velvet, then whoever has to take lunar will be pissed. Pissed clients equal no tips, maybe even aggression.

Groaning, I run my hands over my arms to soothe away the goosebumps. Is it too late to bail? My night is so beyond fucked. Suddenly, an itchy flush spreads over my neck. I brace a clammy hand against the wall, trying to steady my legs.

I'm just about to slink over to a couch and catch my breath when the handle pushes open again, snapping me back into position near the wall. Their energy seeps into the room before they take a single step, telling me these clients aren’t like the rest. Through the crack between the hinges and the wood, I can see Jack’s face is tense and sweaty.

"Terribly sorry for the mix-up, b-but this room will do nicely, Mister—?” I’ve never heard Jack sound so rattled.

“His name is not your concern.” The voice is hard to distinguish, almost synthetic. I’ve never heard a Thur with a voice modification. Everything they prefer that isn’t decorative is augmentative—things to make them stronger, faster, and more durable.

“O-of course, sir, Devi, one of our most seasoned servers, is already inside. She’ll attend to any of your needs. A-and this room is completely private, as requested, sirs. Also, a-allow me the honor of covering the cost of your evening in light of this terrible mistake. Anything you gentlemales want, Devi will acquire.”

I hate when Jack lies. His nose distorts the sound of his voice, though judging from how little anyone remarks on it, I don't think many people notice. He's lied twice in that short answer. There was no mix-up, someone stole this male's room. Point blank. And none of these rooms are private, all streaming down to security, where Jack keeps an eye on things.

He pushes the door wider, letting a new flood of neon blue light into the room. I watch it flicker through more colors, trying to tamp down my annoyance. He was going to give these males to Aisline specifically. Why? At first, I was sure it came down to money. Or that she literally sucked Jack into making the switch happen. But now, as Jack sings false praises, I can’t help thinking that it was to keep me away from these males specifically.

That’s never happened before, at least not to my knowledge.

The brightness may temporarily blind me because I turned my eye imbed down, but I still notice when Jack doesn't take a step in. It’s a sign of respect that he normally disregards. Thur usually have so many modifications to heighten their senses they don’t like too many people in their space. Those who can only afford to roam the main stage just have to suck it up or take one of the complimentary nose blockers. But VIP rooms have only one booking per night and are deep cleaned with a neutralizer afterward. That’s just one of the reasons why they’re premium.

"You're lying," a cold voice says, raising the hair on my arms. "Though the room doesn't matter to me as long as it's private. Cameras off, Jack Starlet, or I'll lose my patience." That is not the voice of any Unsettled I’ve ever heard. It's not cocky enough, and it resonates low. That polished knife-edge of a voice is deeply out of place here.

Settled. The word sinks like a weight in my gut. No wonder Jack is so flustered. These are the real powerhouses, the ones that get shit done and ghost through society unseen. I hold my breath through Jack's tense reply and the feel of heavy auras entering the room.

“Of course, cameras will be completely off,” Jack assures the male with an edge that’s likely meant for me. An unsaid warning that I need to be on my best behavior and keep my mouth shut. I still can't see, light distorting my view of the parties involved.

"See that they are," the cold voice says again through the sound of the door pushing closed.