The Lincoln Club loomed ahead like some glitchy TikTok filter come to life—way sicker than Tommy and I ever hyped it up during our broke-ass daydreams in the back of algebra.

Three floors of old warehouse turned nightlife cathedral, bricks painted that flat blackout matte, with only the giant LED sign screaming LINCOLN CLUB in electric cobalt and violet pulses that made the whole street feel like we'd portaled into a different zip code.

The bass smacked me from halfway down the block. Not just noise; actual pressure waves rolling through the Phantom's soundproofing, through the buttery leather, straight into my ribcage until my heartbeat was like, "yo, sync up or get left."

That thump-thump-thump that hijacks your spine before your brain even clocks what's happening.

The line snaked around the corner—two hundred kids deep, all pressed against the velvet ropes like they were waiting for the pearly gates of cool.

Mercy Med freshmen in crop tops and fake confidence. Local try-hards rocking Shein versions of Balenciaga. Couple sketchy thirty-somethings who definitely lied about their age on the guest list.

And right up front, bouncing like he'd mainlined Red Bull and tequila shots, was Tommy Chen—my ride-or-die since middle school—checking his phone every three seconds like it owed him money.

I eased the Phantom up to the valet podium—zero chill, full send, because when you roll a half-mil car, stealth mode isn't in the settings. The second those scissor doors lifted, the line went dead.

Not quiet-quiet—bass still leaking through the walls like a second heartbeat—but that hush where every convo gets yeeted mid-sentence because something way more interesting just pulled up.

I caught my reflection in the rearview right before I stepped out: Peter Carter, certified teenage anomaly. Face that makes girls forget their own names, jawline sharp enough to slice through small talk, eyes that see straight through Instagram filters and fake laughs.

Deep breath. Leather, new money, and whatever cologne costs more than rent. Then I swung the door.

LA night heat slapped me like a wet towel. The ripple hit the crowd instantly—phones up, jaws down, brains buffering.

Guys stared at the car first. Always do. Four hundred grand of British flex with a nineteen-year-old or something climbing out? Their mental math explodes: crypto? daddy's Amex? SoundCloud rapper who actually popped off? They'll be Googling me by morning.

Girls stared at me.

Different energy. Primal. Eyes went cartoon-wide, lips parted, breaths hitched. Saw one chick tug her skirt hem down then immediately hike it back up. Another flipped her hair so hard she almost gave herself whiplash. Magnetism, zero effort.

Up front, some Mercy Med girl in a tied-up hoodie—probably future surgeon, definitely present thirst trap—whispered loud enough for the whole block: "Holy hell. Marry me and I'll never study again."

Her friend just squeaked. Legit squeaked.

Tommy spotted me and started flailing both arms like he was landing a 737. "PETER! BRO! GET OVER HERE!"

I crossed the sidewalk and the Red Sea parted without me saying a word. That's the cheat code money and cheekbones unlock—people just move.

Tommy grabbed my shoulders, sloshing whatever was in his cup. "Perfect timing, king. I was just schooling my new best friend—" he jerked a thumb at the bouncer built like a Dodge Ram—"on how we're basically VIP royalty."

He had a fat stack of hundreds pinched between his fingers like he mugged an ATM. Drunk Tommy negotiates like a Kardashian.

"Tommy, chill—"

"Nah, watch the master." He peeled off five crisp Benjamins—five hundred bucks like it's arcade tokens—and slid them into the bouncer's paw with the sleight of hand of a Vegas hustler. "For the inconvenience, big man. And for pretending you never saw how young we look."

Bouncer glanced at the cash, glanced at the Phantom glowing under the LEDs like a flexing peacock, then at me—like he was deciding if we were worth the paperwork.

Decision made. Rope dropped.

"Welcome to Lincoln Club, gentlemen."

Just like that. No ID. No pat-down. No "come back when you're twenty-one."

Money talks, bullshit walks, and tonight we were fluent.

Usually something like that would cause havoc—people who'd been waiting for hours watching two kids skip the entire line because of cash, because of privilege, because the universe wasn't fair. I braced for protests, complaints, someone yelling about the injustice of wealth creating different rules.

Nothing.

The line stayed quiet. Some people looked annoyed—I could see it in body language, crossed arms and tight mouths—but nobody said shit.

We walked through those doors—the ones we'd dreamed about for years, the ones we'd sworn we'd enter someday—and Lincoln Club opened up like stepping into another world.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The sensory overload hit immediately—all at once, overwhelming, deliberately engineered to assault every sense simultaneously until your brain gave up trying to process and just felt.

The bass hit different inside. Not just heard but felt, vibrations traveling through the floor—polished concrete that looked almost liquid under LED lights—up through my legs, settling into my chest cavity where my heart had to adjust its rhythm or go insane. That thump-thump-thump-thump became your heartbeat, became your breathing, became the only rhythm that mattered.

The heat was immediate—three thousand square feet of bodies moving, dancing, grinding, sweating. The club's AC fought a losing battle against that many humans generating warmth and desperation and pheromones. The air felt thick, humid, alive with possibility and bad decisions.

The scent hit like a memory you didn't ask for—liquor and sweat and perfume in chaotic harmony, smoke curling through it all like sin made tangible. Weed, cigarettes, and that unmistakable undertone of money burning itself alive.

Light poured and fractured across every surface—blue, violet, red—painting motion into myth. The ceiling vanished into shadow, and the air pulsed under blacklight, making every white shirt ghostly, every smile a neon confession.

The main floor pulsed—a three-thousand-square-foot confession booth where rhythm forgave everything. No one danced well, but everyone danced like they owned the night. Lincoln Club wasn't about grace; it was about being seen surrendering to it.

To the left, the bar gleamed—a black-granite altar to vice stacked floor to ceiling with liquid regret. The bartenders moved like dancers in a ritual they'd perfected—fast, fluid, flawless.

And then I saw her.

The bartender on the far right, the one who'd just finished making some complicated cocktail that probably cost thirty dollars and tasted like regret—she turned to deliver the drink to a waiting customer, and my brain stuttered.

She was... fuck.

Mid-twenties, probably. Old enough to have that confidence that came from knowing exactly how her body affected men, young enough that everything still defied gravity in ways that seemed physically impossible.

Mixed ethnicity—looked maybe Pacific Islander mixed with white, giving her that exotic combination that made categorization pointless and attraction inevitable.

Her body—Jesus Christ, her body—her clothes didn't leave much to imagination: black sports bra-style top that showed toned stomach and emphasized breasts that were definitely real (moved naturally when she moved, caught light in ways implants never did), high-waisted black shorts that might as well have been painted on, showing off an ass that looked like it came from serious gym time and blessed genetics combined.

Long legs—she was probably five-eight without the heels, five-ten with them—toned in that athletic way that came from actual training rather than just looking good.

But it was how she moved that really caught attention. Confident. Efficient. Every motion deliberate and practiced, understanding that in a club like this, bartenders weren't just serving drinks—they were part of the show, part of the atmosphere, part of what made guys spend stupid money hoping to catch attention.

She set down the cocktail, took payment, turned toward the register—and that's when she saw me.

Her double-take was almost comical. She glanced my direction casually, probably doing that automatic bartender scan for new customers, then snapped back like someone had yanked her attention physically.

Her eyes went wide—just for a second—before professional mask slid back into place.

But I'd seen it. That moment of genuine surprise before training kicked in.

She moved toward us with deliberate casualness, weaving between other bartenders with practiced ease, and I watched her approach with growing appreciation. She walked with one hand trailing along the bar, maintaining balance in those heels, drawing attention without trying.

"Master, the bartender's heart rate just increased to 96 BPM and she's demonstrating classic signs of attraction—pupil dilation, increased blinking frequency, unconscious grooming behavior. She touched her hair three times in eight seconds. Also, her route toward you wasn't the most efficient—she's extending the approach to create anticipation. Professional seduction tactics deployed by someone who knows exactly what she's doing."

"ARIA, I swear to god—"

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