"You know why?" He didn't wait for answer. "Because for me, there's Mia. And if she found out I was in this club—like, specifically this club where girls strip—she would skin me alive, use my hide as a rug, and dance on it while drinking wine. So my survival instinct is stronger than my horny brain."

"That's healthy."

"And for you—" He pointed at me with whiskey-impaired accuracy. "—you've got Madison. Plus probably twelve other girls based on what little I've seen. You're living in a harem anime. Why would you care about strippers when you've got—" He made vague gestures that were supposed to mean something. "—whatever the fuck you've got going on."

He wasn't wrong. After Catherine Reynolds, after Dominique, after the wellness center women, after Madison, after everyone else—these college girls were pretty, sure. Objectively attractive.

But it felt like admiring a Honda when you owned a Bugatti.

Sure, it's nice, but why would you?

"So here we are," Tommy continued, drunk philosophy flowing freely. "At the place we dreamed about for years. Finally inside. Finally able to see everything we wanted to see. And we don't even care about the main attraction because life got more interesting than our fantasies."

"That's actually kind of deep."

"I know, right?" He looked genuinely pleased with himself. "I should be drunk more often. I'm profound as fuck when I'm drunk."

"You're also loud as fuck."

"Same thing!" He drained what was left in his glass—impressive since he'd already had most of it—and slammed it on the bar with drunk-person confidence. "Reyna! Beautiful goddess of alcohol! More whiskey!"

Reyna appeared like she'd been waiting for the call—probably had, good bartenders tracked their customers—and her smile suggested she found Tommy's drunk enthusiasm entertaining rather than annoying.

"Another round?"

"The finest round!" Tommy declared. "We're celebrating! We're fulfilling childhood dreams! We're—" He seemed to lose his train of thought. "—we're something! Peter, what are we doing?"

"Sitting in a club?"

"Exactly! We're sitting in a club we used to dream about! We made it! Do you understand how significant this is?"

Reyna laughed while pouring more whiskey. "I love drunk philosophy. You boys are adorable."

"We're profound," Tommy corrected.

"That too." She set down his fresh whiskey, then looked at me. "More wine?"

"Sure."

She poured, and this time I noticed her technique—the way she held the bottle, the precise amount, the little flourish at the end. Professional pride in craft, even craft as simple as pouring drinks.

"You two are different from the usual crowd," she said while pouring. "Most guys in here are either trying way too hard or not trying at all. You're just... existing. It's refreshing."

"We're easy to please," I said.

"That's a lie. You pulled up in a Rolls-Royce. You're not easy to please—you're just not impressed by the usual bullshit." She set down my wine. "I respect that."

"How long have you worked here?" Tommy asked, in that drunk way where he was simultaneously trying to be smooth and failing completely.

"Two years. Started right after I graduated from Mercy Medical—nursing degree, actually. Turns out bartending pays better than most nursing jobs and the hours are more flexible." She said it matter-of-factly, no shame, just economic reality. "Plus the tips are insane if you're good at reading people."

"And you're good at reading people," I said.

"Very." She leaned against the bar across from us, taking a moment since other customers were occupied. "For example, you—" She pointed at Tommy. "—are drunk and happy and celebrating something specific but also kind of sad underneath because you're with someone who's not here. Girlfriend probably."

Tommy's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, you're magic."

"I'm observant. You check your phone every three minutes and smile at it even though no new messages came through. That's someone missing someone." She turned to me. "And you—you're interesting. You don't care about impressing anyone. You tip well but not flashy. You notice details most guys miss. And you're absolutely not impressed by any of this—" She gestured at the club. "—which means either you've seen better or you're looking for something specific."

"Maybe both."

"Definitely both." Her smile was knowing. "Also, every girl in this club has looked at you at least five times in five minutes. Several are actively staring right now. And you haven't noticed or don't care. That's either criminal confidence or you're genuinely that secure."

"Can't it be both?"

She laughed again, that genuine sound. "I really do like you, Peter. Try not to cause too much chaos tonight, okay? Places like this, guys like you—" She gestured vaguely at me. "—it usually ends with drama."

"No promises."

"Never are." She pushed off from the bar. "Enjoy your evening, boys. Flag me down if you need anything."

She moved away, and I watched her go—couldn't help it, the view from behind was just as impressive—before turning back to Tommy.

Who was grinning like an idiot. "Dude. She's into you."

"She's good at her job."

"No, no—she's good at her job, but she's also into you. Trust me. I'm drunk, which means I see truth others miss."

"That's not how that works."

"It is exactly how that works!" He took another drink. "Drunk me is wise beyond years. Drunk me understands the fundamental nature of reality."

"Drunk you is going to have a terrible hangover."

"Future Tommy's problem. Present Tommy is enjoying this moment." He spun on his barstool—almost fell, caught himself, managed to look graceful despite drunk physics. "Look at this place, Peter. Really look."

Beyond the main floor, I could see the gaming section more clearly now—pool tables, poker setups, slot machines that were definitely illegal but nobody gave a fuck because the right palms were greased.

The gambling rooms Tommy had mentioned in hushed tones, where money changed hands faster than cards dealt, where fortunes were won and lost on fucking coin flips.

The second floor was visible now too—overlooking the main floor, VIP section with bottle service, private booths where groups celebrated or conducted business that needed discretion. More expensive. More exclusive. More of everything Lincoln Club promised.

"We used to stand outside this place," Tommy said, voice going quiet despite alcohol. "Remember? Freshman year. We'd walk past on purpose just to hear the music bleeding through walls. Just to watch people go inside and wonder what it was like."

"I remember."

"We'd make up stories about what happened inside. Imagined it was like Vegas or Miami or whatever. Like walking through those doors meant you'd made it. That you were somebody instead of nobody."

"And now we're here."

"And now we're here," he repeated, staring at his whiskey like it held secrets. "And it's exactly what we imagined. But also... not?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" He struggled for words, drunk brain working harder than usual. "—it's everything we wanted. But we're different now. I've got Mia. You've got... whatever you've got. We've got money. We've got options. This place was mythical when we were broke. Now it's just... a club."

"Does that make it less meaningful?"

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