An hour later, we're at the club.
Finn’s hand grips mine as we squeeze past red velvet curtains and into a room soaked in neon and sin.
The music is so loud, I feel it in my ribs. Bass thrumming like a second heartbeat.
“Here,” Finn says, tugging me to a booth near the edge of the stage.
We drop onto a red couch, and I glance up just in time to watch a woman flip upside down on a pole, ass in the air, hair skimming the stage. She twirls like gravity doesn’t exist, her boobs free and proud and bouncing to the rhythm.
“Oh my god,” I blurt. “The strippers are naked.”
Finn turns to me, smirking. “You expected them to be clothed? Where’s the fun in that?”
I stare.
Everywhere I look, it’s a carnival of debauchery. Lingerie and skin. Glitter and curves. Bodies grinding on laps, men tippin
