Upstairs in the velvet room, a line of windows span the breadth of the wall, showcasing the entirety of the entrance and dance floor below. But when I enter the lunar room, I realize it has a much smaller view consisting of a triple 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. It doesn’t let in nearly enough ambient light to combat the black walls, meaning Jack had to add underlights that irritate my eye imbed.
Looking through the window, I can’t see nearly as much of the lower dancefloor as I’m used to, but I stand there pretending all the same. From this aerial view, I can imagine that the current heat under my skin is true desire. Desire where the object of it doesn’t make my skin crawl, and where the reason for it isn’t shameful. Maybe one of those groping hands from earlier pulled me deeper onto the dancefloor and worked me up.
If I stand here long enough, I can pretend it’s the atmosphere making my blood pressure lull. Or that the single shot of a sweet Glees mix has made my head fuzzy. Anything is better than knowing the blood loss substitution is giving me hives again. Not literally, of course. My skin is still as flat and unblemished as before. But I feel the itching under my skin like it’s pumping through my veins. I want to rip them out even as I know I can’t.
I pour another quick glass of Glees and shoot it straight.
The lunar room’s windows have a mirror-like coating on the inside, reflecting glimpses of myself. In the mirror, the flushing travels from my cheeks to my chest, brightening my complexion until it matches my uniform. In a black suede bralette and matching tiny skirt, I’m supposed to mimic a crescent moon. I trace the path of the curved white moon from one breast to the matching hip. In the mirror, it’s mesmerizing.
And luckily, the scratches on my stomach are barely noticeable.
Each room has a different uniform rotation to fit its theme, and Lunar’s outfit is as obvious as Velvet's, but with far less material. I was used to tight rompers and sexy pants. Not a skirt short enough to show the entirety of 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. I’m not naked, and change can be good. 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.
The flashing displays down below turn my skin luminous. I know it’s only an illusion. And makeup. The heavily enhanced kind that could make anyone beautiful. Jack, for all his faults, at least splurges on that tech. What I saw in the morning mirror is my truth. This is a vain lie fueled by microscopic reflector crystals.
Putting my back to the window, I go through the bar, scoping out what I’m working with. Someone’s already done me a solid and stocked it with freshly sliced garnishes and refilled some of the spicier mix-ins that Thur love. Calli weeds and thistling bark. Mallow shavings and pepprin. Lemonzet and chilini. 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.
Maybe I can get away with a table dance if I pull it away from the couches? No, Jack would have my ass for scratching these tables. How many if-you-break-it, you-buy-it money talks have I had to listen to now? And plus, there would be nowhere to set the necessities: a Lithe carafe and dropper, drinks with complimentary palate cleansers. And if they order small bites…
Maybe if I lose the boots first…
I rub my cheek, knowing I have no choice but to work around it. It’s either table dancing or punching a Thur out for his hand up my skirt and then taking punishment for it—from them and Jack. 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. It’s better if I can’t see every detail because it’s show time.