post-show meetings : a regular custom for VIP, the high rollers, the ones who tip the girls in wads of cash. it’s always better than throwing it away at the tables    —    but vegas only exists to siphon the money and souls out of these suits. as trixie peeks behind a curtain, she lets a short sneer pull at her mouth    —    dark red lips pulled back at her cigarette, a millisecond of obvious disdain. the girls are already on the floor, sliding into champagne booths for private dances. but trixie has her eyes set on one guest    —    

“table 12.”    ace is over her shoulder, nodding. no one expects trouble, this is a pretty easy job. and, frankly, one of the cleanest jobs she’s had in a while. no blood on velvet, nothing to dispose of, they just need to talk for a while. trixie can talk.   “i’ll be at the entrance just in case.”  that voice, gruff, sharp, straight to the point. neither of them need confirmation. both know. he steps in first, parting the curtain for the woman of the hour    —     she’s emerging in a tailor suit, her hair in hollywood waves, with that signature don’t fuck with me look on her face. 

it’s all about control    —    the sway of the hips, how taut her shoulders pull back, even how she waves. the room cheers, raises glasses, she’s putting her hands on shoulders and thanking guests, she’s chatting with the bartender, she’s shmoozing. until she’s sliding into the chair across for alice. she’s got a bottle of champagne in her hands    —    “on the house, sugar.”   trixie pops the bottle, pours a glass and slides it across.     “so,”     she’s leaning back in her own seat, pouring a glass herself. one leg is crosses over the other, kicking gently, casually.    “i heard you got upgraded. lucky you. how are you enjoying it up here, so far?”