The club was called Pulse, a warehouse in downtown LA that had been converted into a neon cathedral — LED walls, a Funktion-One sound system, and a DJ booth that was glass-walled and elevated, designed so the crowd could see the DJ at all times. It was the owner’s pride and joy. And I was the DJ he’d hired for the summer.
Sloane was the owner’s fiancée. Twenty-eight. She’d been coming to the club since it opened — “I practically live here,” she’d told me the first night — and she had a habit of visiting the DJ booth during my sets with song requests that felt like code.
Tonight was Saturday. The club was packed. The dance floor was a sea of bodies moving under neon pink and blue lights. And Sloane had climbed the stairs to the booth at 1 AM with a drink in her hand and an expression that said she wasn’t here for the music.
“Your fiancé owns this club,” I whispered, leaning against the DJ mixer in my silver sequin dress — the one I’d worn because it caught the neon light, because it made me look like I belonged in this glass box. Sloane was standing in front of me in a black mesh top and leather pants, her hand on the mixer, her other hand on my waist. “The dance floor can see us through the glass. Three hundred people are watching. The VIP section is directly below us. And your hand is on my waist, not the crossfader. You’re supposed to be requesting a song. Not touching me. Not pressing your hips against mine. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her cheek brushing my jaw, her hand sliding from the mixer to my hip, then to the back of my dress, finding the zipper with a precision that was completely at odds with the chaos outside.
“If he walks up those stairs,” I breathed, my voice barely audible over the bass that was vibrating through the glass, through the floor, through my bones, “he’ll see his fiancée kissing the DJ in the booth he built with his own money. He’ll see your mesh top against my sequin dress and your mouth on my neck and the entire club watching through the glass and he’ll know that the woman he’s going to marry next week is in the DJ booth with the woman he pays to play music. He’ll know that while he’s counting money downstairs, his fiancée is upstairs counting my ribs with her fingers—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand under my chin. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like bass and betrayal and the exact moment when a beat drops and everything changes. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding down my back, inside my dress, finding me wet and ready and completely on display.
The booth door opened.
“Sloane?” The club owner’s voice. Marcus. Forty. Successful. Completely unaware. “You up here? I need to talk about the wedding playlist.”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her fingers still moving inside my dress, her eyes locked on mine in the neon light. Then she reached over and turned up the bass — a low, throbbing frequency that shook the glass and drowned every sound.
“Just getting the playlist, baby!” she called out, her voice perfectly casual, completely at odds with the fingers that were currently making me see stars. “Give us two minutes!”
“Okay! But hurry! The VIPs are asking about bottle service!”
The door closed. Sloane looked at me. The neon turned her face pink, then blue, then pink again.
“Let them watch,” she whispered against my mouth, her thumb circling my clit, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the bass. “Let him watch. Let everyone in this club see exactly who I choose. Because I’m not marrying him. I’m not walking down that aisle. And I’m not leaving this booth until you come with three hundred witnesses.”
She made me come in the DJ booth. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the neon flashing across our skin, the crowd dancing below us completely unaware that the glass box above them contained a woman being destroyed by her future bride. I came with her hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by the bass, my body shaking so hard the mixer rattled.
After, she fixed my dress. Kissed my forehead. Walked out of the booth and down to Marcus.
“Playlist is perfect,” she said. “I found exactly what I want.”
She was right. She didn’t marry him. She called off the wedding three days later. And last month, she bought a club of her own — a smaller one, with a private DJ booth that has curtains instead of glass.
I play there every weekend. And every Saturday at 1 AM, she climbs the stairs, locks the door, and shows me exactly what a private set looks like.
The glass booth is gone. But the neon is still our favorite color. And the bass still matches my heartbeat.
