"Just providing tactical analysis, Master. Also, she's wearing perfume that costs approximately sixty dollars per ounce—not cheap, but not extravagant. Interesting choice for someone working in an environment this loud. She wants to be remembered."

The bartender reached our section of the bar, and up close the effect was even stronger. She had these eyes—dark brown, almost black, with that specific intensity that came from being looked at constantly and learning to look back.

Her makeup was professionally done but not excessive—highlighting natural features rather than creating new ones. Small silver hoop in her nose, another in her eyebrow.

Tattoo on her left shoulder that disappeared under the sports bra—couldn't tell what it was, but the positioning was deliberate. Made you want to see more.

"What can I get you?" Her voice matched everything else—smooth, professional, with underlying warmth that made you feel like she was genuinely interested in your answer rather than just doing her job.

And she was looking at me. Not Tommy—me. Her body language oriented my direction, her attention focused like a spotlight, that professional bartender technique of making customers feel like they were the only person in the room.

Except with her, it felt less like technique and more like genuine interest.

Tommy opened his mouth to order, but she was already focused on me, waiting for my answer with expression that mixed professional courtesy with something more curious.

"Top shelf whiskey, neat," Tommy said, louder than necessary, trying to get her attention back.

She nodded without looking away from me. "And for you?"

"Wine. Red. Whatever's decent."

Her eyebrow rose slightly—not mocking, more intrigued. "You pull up in a Rolls-Royce and order 'whatever's decent' wine? That's either extremely confident or you genuinely don't care."

"Both, probably."

She smiled—genuine this time, not the professional one—and something in her expression shifted. Like I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking. "I like that. Honest. Most guys in here would order some expensive bottle they can't pronounce to impress me."

"Would it work?"

"No. But it's cute watching them try." She pulled a bottle from the shelf behind her—moved with that efficient bartender grace, reaching high enough that her shirt rode up showing more toned stomach—and poured Tommy's whiskey with practiced precision.

Then she grabbed a wine bottle, checked the label, seemed satisfied, and poured mine.

Set both glasses in front of us with that particular flourish bartenders do when they want to show they're good at their job.

"Forty-seven for both." She was looking at me again, and I realized she'd given me the expensive wine without asking. Testing to see if I'd notice, if I'd care, if I was actually rich or just looked it.

I pulled out my wallet—the thin leather one that looked almost plain until you noticed it was Hermès and cost eight hundred dollars—and handed her a hundred-dollar bill without looking at it.

"Keep it."

Her eyes went wider—genuine surprise this time. Fifty-three-dollar tip on forty-seven-dollar tab wasn't normal. "You sure?"

"Consider it investment in good service."

"Oh, you'll definitely get good service." The way she said it carried weight, implication, promise. She leaned forward slightly—not obvious, just enough that the sports bra top did interesting things—and lowered her voice. "I'm Reyna, by the way. And you're either a very rich kid or a very convincing fake."

"Peter. And I'm definitely rich. The 'kid' part is debatable."

She laughed—actually laughed, head tilted back, genuine sound that somehow cut through club noise. "I like you, Peter. Don't do anything stupid tonight, okay? This place can get messy when money and alcohol mix."

"No promises."

"Didn't think so." She held eye contact for another beat—deliberate, charged—then moved away to help other customers, but not before glancing back once with expression that said I'll be watching you.

"Dude." Tommy grabbed my arm, drunk-person grip strength, pulling me back to reality. "Did you just tip fifty dollars and flirt with the hottest bartender in here?"

"Maybe?"

"That's my boy!" He raised his glass high enough to nearly spill whiskey. "To being rich! To being here! To finally making it to the fucking promised land!"

I clinked my glass against his before he broke something. "To dreams we thought were impossible."

"And to the friend who made them come true." Tommy's expression went serious for a second—that drunk honesty that cuts through bullshit. "Seriously, man. Thank you. For remembering. For actually showing up. For not being too cool for this now that you're... whatever you are now."

My chest tightened. "We made a promise. Of course I'd show up."

"Yeah, but promises don't always matter when circumstances change." He took a long drink of whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn. "You could've forgotten. You could've decided this place was beneath you. You could've moved on to bigger things and left broke-kid dreams behind."

"Tommy—"

"But you didn't." He set down his glass with slightly too much force. "You're still my best friend. Still the same Peter who swore we'd do this. Money didn't change that. That's what matters."

Fuck. I wasn't ready for emotional honesty. "You're drunk."

"Drunk and profound, thank you very much." He grinned, moment of seriousness passing. "Now let's enjoy this. Let's sit here and drink expensive alcohol we can actually afford and admire this place we used to worship from outside and pretend we're cool enough to belong here."

"Tommy, we literally do belong here. We paid to get in."

"Money gets you through doors. Doesn't mean you belong in the room." He gestured expansively at the club. "Look at this place. Really look at it."

I did.

To our right, the stripper stage occupied prime real estate—twenty feet across, wrapped in more LED strips, three chrome poles spaced evenly across, currently occupied by two college girls who moved like they'd been trained by professionals.

And holy shit, the rumors hadn't been exaggerated even slightly.

These weren't amateur hour performers grinding awkwardly to music they didn't understand. These were women who understood choreography, who knew exactly how their bodies affected male brains, who could make removing clothing look like performance art.

One was Asian—petite, maybe five-two, with flexibility that suggested gymnastics or dance background.

The other was Black—taller, curves that defied physics, moving with confidence that said she knew exactly how valuable her time was.

Pre-med students paying tuition. Business majors building savings. Psych majors understanding they had a commodity and monetizing it efficiently.

Both were gorgeous. Both moved hypnotically. Both had every guy in the club except us completely transfixed like they were witnessing religious revelation.

And neither Tommy nor I gave a single fuck.

That realization hit sharp and strange. The thing we'd wanted to see most—the legendary college girls stripping to pay tuition, the forbidden fruit we'd fantasized about—was happening twenty feet away, and we couldn't care less.

"Master," ARIA whispered, "I'm detecting concerning behavioral patterns. You and Tommy are the only males in this establishment not staring at partially naked women. This is either commendable growth or you've both been replaced by aliens. I'm running diagnostics."

I nearly choked on my wine.

"You good?" Tommy looked concerned in that drunk-person way where concern manifested as intense staring.

"Yeah, just—strong wine."

"Bullshit. But okay." He leaned back against the bar, surveying the club with satisfaction that bordered on religious. "You know what's weird? We're not watching the strippers."

"I noticed."

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