Days passed...
I slide onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar, letting the throb of synth bass and neon lights wash over me. The Chrome Daisy is half-empty this early in the night, just the regulars and die-hards sipping their neon cocktails under the holo-flowers drifting along the ceiling.
My feet already ache in my thigh-high boots, and I haven't even done my first set yet. I sigh and rub a spot on my ankle, watching the reflection of my tired eyes in the mirrored shelf of liquor bottles. Another night, another credit chip short – the same old cyberpunk Cinderella story, minus the fairy godmother.
Mace notices me and pours a drink without asking – a weak whiskey on the rocks, just the way I need it on a slow start. He's polishing a glass with one cybernetic hand, the mechanical fingers whirring softly. With a curt nod, he slides the drink over. I raise it in a mock toast before taking a sip; it burns just enough to remind me I'm still alive.
"Thanks, Mace," I mutter over the rim, trying to force a smirk. The liquor settles warm in my stomach, a small comfort against the chill of anxiety I carry into every shift.
Mace leans in a little, lowering his gravelly voice. "That gold-tie man been bothering you, kid?" he asks, eyes flicking toward a shadowy booth in the corner.
I follow his gaze discreetly. Sure enough, there he is Mr. Gold Tie, the same slick stranger from last week, lounging like he owns the place. His suit is crisp, charcoal with a subtle pinstripe, and the metallic gold tie glints in the club's low light.
He's nursing a drink and watching the dancers on stage with a predatory kind of calm. Just seeing him makes my shoulders knot up. I play it off with a shrug. "I can handle guys like him," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Part of the job, right?"
Mace isn't convinced. He sets down the polished glass and gives me a stern once-over. "Men like that… I've seen 'em before," he says quietly. His cyber-hand taps the bar in a slow rhythm. "Big promises, big money. They look at girls in places like this and see something to use. If he steps out of line, you let me or Big R know." Big R – short for Big Roman – is the bouncer built like an armored truck at the door. The thought of Roman tossing Gold Tie out on his ass makes the corner of my mouth twitch in a half-smile.
"I will," I lie. We both know I probably won't. In this line of work, you learn to smile and tolerate a lot. Complaints are for girls with safer options. I take another sip instead and savor the burn. "He tippped well, at least," I add bitterly. "Guys like that always do… at first."
Mace grunts, unconvinced. "Just be careful, Lyra. That's all." He moves off down the bar to tend another customer, leaving me with the rest of my whiskey and the pulsing drone of the club.
I sit there a moment longer, rolling my stiff neck and trying to shake off the conversation. Of course Gold Tie is bothering me. The way he had slipped a card into my garter last week with a wink, whispering about "Stairways to Heaven" and "opportunities a girl like you shouldn't pass up" – it's been eating at me. I haven't told anyone about that card, not even Mace. It's hidden in a crack under my mattress at home, like a secret too hot to hold.
Stairways to Heaven... Whatever the hell it really is, the name sounds almost comically dreamy for this town. And if it's so great, why does it send a creep in a gold tie to stalk dancers at grimy clubs? I snort and shake my head. Probably some high-end escort agency or a scam. Men like that don't give anything for free.