Somewhere with naked people. But, y'know. Classy.

Jaq: Hey guys, so I found a werewolf. Almost killed me. That seems to be how I make friends these days. Ended up being that old, grumpy guy from The Last Stop, said he wants to meet and has something he thinks can help. Called it a “bane problem?”

Jaq: I have no clue what that means.

Jaq: But we need somewhere to be. I was thinking … Andy’s?

Jaq: I don’t want to volunteer you, it’s just out of the way, and I’m guessing your countermeasures are probably nastier than a keycard reader.

You put your phone back into your pocket as you sit parked outside Albero di Fica. It’s … not your usual scene. For one, you only recently turned twenty-one, so it’s not like you’ve been to a bunch of strip joints. But Fica especially was noted for being expensive … and dangerous. Not so much for the employees, but rumors abounded that they dabbled in out-and-out prostitution and repeat offenders of their rules would sometimes just quietly leave town, without their things or anyone seeing them do so. Any other night, that might seem scary, but nearly dying to a movie monster has sort of burned out your terror centers for the evening. Right now, dangerous and illicit sounds fun, not to mention like somewhere you can definitely grab a bite quietly.

“Cover’s fifty,” the man at the door says to you, putting a hand out as you approach ahead of the line. Damn, place must be serious. Still.

“I already paid you,” you tell him matter-of-factly as you lock eyes. You can feel your mind reach into his, then, at the speed of thought, twist your approach to passing him the money when he reached out.

“Right … my mistake …” he answers in a daze, stepping aside to let you in.

The strip club is … nicer than you expected. Purple and black silk curtains hang to the side of inset booths, offering a little more privacy, presumably for a price. Some are closed, but there’s no doubt in your mind they’re occupied. The doors leading out of the main room are padded, elegant fabric buttoned down and maroon, excepting the double doors marked “employees only,” at the back, jet black and uninviting. The patrons are more sexually diverse than you expected, far from the only woman present, though it doesn’t seem to be time for the boys to dance. Despite the lithe form of an extremely sexy black-haired woman, clad in complex red lingerie and performing an elegant, talented dance on the main stage, men and women in various states of provocative or lack of dress walk between the tables, some sitting with patrons or performing for them personally. A brunette woman with a tight ponytail steps forward while you soak in the decadent atmosphere, offering her arm for your jacket. It takes an honest-to-God minute to even register her, but eventually get a small, numbered tag to claim it.

Putting it in your pocket seems to boost your confidence by itself. You feel … present. Powerful. This is forbidden territory, somewhere people from your school with futures ahead of them aren’t supposed to go (and, by and large, can’t afford to go). The clients are well-dressed, even the ones eschewing suits or dresses wearing what’s clearly pricy attire for their aesthetic, and the ease with which they address the employees and each other oozes with confidence. While you’re a little embarrassed of your campaign volunteer t-shirt from last semester and your running shoes, the latter proved too valuable to spite for any reason, and as least the skintight jeans you squeezed into look top-shelf. A lot of that’s your ass, but whatever.

“You’re new,” the bartender says without looking at you when you take a seat. He’s a young, handsome man with exceptionally green eyes, but it’s hard to notice his attractive facial features and meticulously-maintained and spiked brown hair behind the intricate tattoo work covering every inch of visible skin. Each is an agonizingly detailed replica of the human skeleton, corresponding to the bones beneath the area it’s been drawn on to. Pent up and looking for release, you find yourself transitioning from the thought ‘well, at least he didn’t have to tattoo his dick,’ to ‘I wonder what his dick looks like,’ without even meaning still. But given his detachment, you doubt he’s on the menu.

“Um, yeah, I go to Workwick. Just turned 21.” Okay, lie, but not by that much. “I’ve just heard good things!”

“No one hears good things about this place. Intriguing things, sure. But not good ones,” he says with a sigh, continuing to make drinks and pass them down the bar. “Don’t get many students, though. Run a bit high for that. Someone treating?”

“Oh, no, here alone.” Maybe you should be scared to admit that, but your predatory instincts don’t really let you feel afraid to say so. “Just feeling things out.”

“Well, word of advice, if you want any attention, I hope you have cash. The dancers don’t take too kindly to being stiffed. Not in that monetary sense, anyway. And that costs extra, too.” It’s surprising how openly he basically just told you the dancers doubled as prostitutes, but from your understanding, Fica opened in the early 70’s and had the same reputation then. It seemed sloppy … but it’s unlikely that’s all there is to it.

“I AM running a bit low …” Not a part you’d thought out. You scan the crowd. You’d feel sort of bad dominating a dancer into not needing payment. If you had sex with them for money and did that especially, considering that’s at-best toeing some ethical lines towards ****, if not prancing clear over them. Doing it to the clients seemed more likely, but you didn’t really like the idea of just stealing from them. Fica missing out fifty bucks from your cover charge was one thing, taking it out of someone else’s pocket for no reason was another.

“No fucking touching, asshole!” you hear someone deep-voiced yell from the far end of the room. A tall, African American man wearing an immaculate suit holds a man easily a head or two shorter than him by the arm, guiding him towards the door. The guy getting manhandled has a suit that was probably quite nice before he clearly got drunk, and the dancer retreating into the black employee doors bare-chested while a torn bra laid on the floor near the man’s former seat was enough to understand why he was getting the boot. “You want to cool off. And if you don’t deal with me, you’ll have to deal with Ms. Dunsirn. That sound fun to you?”

“Get your filthy hands offa’ me!” the man screams back. You’re a little surprised how easily he shakes the bouncer’s grip, especially considering his mammoth size. He makes the door guard look like a toddler. He takes a swing at him, but misses, his muddled faculties not doing his coordination any favors. An idea springing to mind, you hop up and walk towards them (quite the opposite of what most patrons are doing). “I could fucking buy you, you goddamn ape!” Okay, yikes, that’s not something you can say to a black person. “Swear by my right hand, tomorrow night, I’m getting back here, and I’ll tear your-”

“Sir?” You speak softly, intentionally using a seductive tone to make sure he’s more curious than liable to swing (though you brace for it all the same). As you touch his shoulder, he spins, ready to lash out, but smirks instead when he sees you. It doesn’t last long before his face is blank. “You realized you’re too drunk and decided to head home without a fuss,” you whisper to him, quietly enough that only he can hear you. “On second consideration, what this nice man said about the proprietor sounded sort of unpleasant, you’re not too drunk to know that. Show me what you brought here to tip with?” He reaches inside his coat and flashes a silver money clip. Either he just put a hundred on the outside to look fancy or he’s as well-off as he is a jerkoff. “Please be a dear and give me that.” After he obliges, you whisper to him one last time. “And in your **** state, you tipped incredibly generously. You regret it, sure, but there’s nothing to be done. You were drunk, can you even blame anyone? Certainly not you. Oh well. You have more. Now go home, sleep this off, and things will seem better when you wake up.”

“Thanks,” the suited man says, standing beside you. “He’s an asshole, but he’s kind of important. He give you his cash?” You nod, a little worried he’ll confiscate it. “Nice. Hey, keep it, spend some tonight. I’ma put in a good word for you with the crew …”

“Jaquelin. But everyone just calls me Jaq.”

“Nicholas, but everyone calls me Nick,” he responds, extending a hand to you. His grip is incredibly strong, nearly as much as yours, but you still smile and shake. He doesn’t try to alpha you or anything with it, parting pleasantly before you turn back to the club as it resumes its normal activities.

“Who’s Ms. Dunsirn?” you ask the bartender when you return to your seat. He grins, looking up at you this time.

“No one sees her. But she’s in charge. Someone pulls some shit like that, she has a talk with them. Best case, they clean up their act. Worst case … well, it’s a big city. Can’t keep track of everyone.” That’s vague enough, but his delivery helps you believe that it’s not a joke. “Probably helped that guy out more than he knows. Might when he sobers up, though. Dancer says ‘stop,’ you stop. And your palms and fingers stay clear unless you find somewhere private. Vice usually steers clear, but why provoke them?”

“That tracks,” you answer, considering ordering something before remembering you can’t really drink anything here. Well. Not anything the bar’s going to mix up for you. “What’s privacy run these days? I want my first time here to be memorable.”

“Well … you’re going to get that,” he starts to answer your question, before grinning and changing direction. He nods to the stage as the lights dim, signaling it’s time for a floor show. Steady, throbbing beats start to flow, and you’re surprised to feeling the slightest beat from your heart. Yeah, you can seem alive with little apparent effort, but the increase of your pulse is brand-fucking-new to your undead body. A fine mist coats the floor of the stage as violet lights flare, arc, and center, the curtain at the back opening.