Page 4 of Scattered Glitter

I push the memory down, locking it away as I refocus on the suit beneath me. The guy is too entranced to notice my hesitation, his gaze fixed on the slow roll of my hips.

He paid good money for this lap dance and is obviously enjoying himself.

Good thing Glitter never falters. She can’t. Not when everything depends on keeping her untouchable, magnetic. But the ache in my chest doesn’t vanish as easily as the memory. It lingers, a dull throb beneath the surface, daring me to break.

So, I concentrate on the Rolex, my focus narrowing as the weight of the memory shifts into something sharper.

Watches are the easiest to take. And they’re my favorite.

There’s something so intimate about them, something that speaks to a man’s wealth, his taste, his ego. A good watch is an extension of the man, and when I take it, it’s as if I’m stealing a little piece of him too. I’ve got a collection—dozens of them, tucked away in a velvet-lined box back at my place. Some girls collect shoes, bags, jewelry…

I collect time.

It’s a reminder that I’m still in control.

And tonight, I need that control more than ever.

The itch in my fingers is impossible to ignore, the craving for the rush building with every beat of the music. The Rolex is perfect. Not just because it’s an easy mark but because it’s whathewould’ve done. Ace, with his teasing smirk and quick fingers. The one who taught me how to take without being caught all those years ago. Maybe that’s why I do it—to feel close to him, even now, even when I know I shouldn’t.

I’m almost completely naked, save for the thin G-string and pasties that barely conceal anything. My skin glistens under the lights, every curve dusted with glitter I carefully painted on, turning me into a shimmering, untouchable fantasy.

The guy’s eyes are glued to my chest as I shift on his lap, his body tense with anticipation. He doesn’t even flinch when my fingers brush his wrist, the touch so light, so casual, that it might as well be part of the dance.

Pickpocketing is an art. How could a stripper in nothing but a G-string hide anything? The magic of misdirection and sleight of hand lets me slip a watch from his wrist without him even realizing it’s gone.

It’s a personal challenge to see how far I can push it before anyone catches on.

They never do.

His hands hover near my waist, not daring to touch. They know the rules—look, don’t touch. I smirk to myself, feeling the subtle weight of the Rolex as I slip it from his wrist and let it disappear into the palm of my hand. One flick of my fingers, and it’s gone, sliding down into the cushion next to us, where I’ll retrieve it later when the dance is over and the guy is gone.

Ace’s voice echoes in my mind.

Timing is everything, Trouble.

Not only in the dance but in the steal. The slightest hesitation, the faintest tremor in my fingers, and the whole thing could fall apart. I’m too good for that, though, with years of practice, learning how to read a room and move with precision. I’m in charge of every moment, every beat, and he’s none the wiser.

I could take his wallet, too, if I wanted, but that’s not the game tonight.

As the song winds down, I shift one last time, sliding off his lap with the grace of a cat, intentionally letting my palm feather over the bulge in his pants. His face is flushed as he fumbles for his wallet to tip me.

I already tipped myself, thank you very much.

He slides a few bills into my G-string, his grin lazy, his gaze a little glazed over. I don’t even have to look to know they’re hundreds. Men like him always tip big, as if throwing money at me makes them feel like they’ve won something.

He walks out of the private room, adjusting his suit jacket, oblivious that his wrist is bare. I watch him disappear, the pulse of the club swallowing him whole before the curtains close behind him, leaving me alone in here. Only then do I reach down, my fingers slipping between the cushions of the velvet couch, retrieving the Rolex. It’s still warm from his skin when I slide it up my arm, my body prickling with the thrill of the steal.

It’s the art of illusion—the push and pull of control.

This is my game, one I’ve perfected since I stepped into this city. Vegas—the city where dreams come to die, where souls get lost in the neon lights and endless nights whether they want to or not.

And God, do I want to get lost.

I step out, the velvet curtain swaying behind me as I move into the club’s pulsing heart. Carl, one of the bouncers,waits outside, his massive frame leaning casually against the wall. His eyes flicker to me, a silent acknowledgment as he straightens up to escort me to the back. His eyes land on the Rolex, but he doesn’t comment.

Carl walks in front of me, making sure no drunk patron touches me. I’m grateful for his unspoken protection, though I hardly ever need it.

The air out here feels heavier, thicker with the smell of sweat, perfume, and the lingering heat of bodies pressed too close together. The music is relentless—the bassline thrums beneath my feet, reverberating through the floor and my platform heels as the lights swirl around the place.

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