Owen

Owen Smith once dreamed of that kind of love his parents had—fairy tale style with those cheesy bouquets and runaways.

He was loaded, put together, had decent manners, and learned from his mum how to treat a woman right—however, cupid just keeps missing his aims.

Four relationships. None stayed.

The last one gave him the most headache and heart break. Ash—His ex-sweetheart who worked downstairs, whom he almost proposed to the day after, had the nerve to cheat on him at his fucking apartment with mister-no-good Tom who's infamous as a womanizing son of a bitch.

But untying the knot was harder than he thought. Ash went to his office the day after, causing a drama enough to stir the whole building, throwing accusations of domestic abuse and justifying her pitiful self as she put to guilt him into getting back together.

As much as he wanted to, shooing Ash off would create an only bigger standard. Despite Matteo and Josh's advice composed of shipping her off or filing a restraint order, Owen insisted that they let her be—a big regret. She comes knocking at his office at different intervals.

Now here he was, sitting idly at a bar stool mopping in his own self pity. The bass thrummed through Owen's chest as he nursed his fourth beer, the bartender eyeing him from the corner of his eye. He never visioned himself in an open space strip club at midnight — cacophonies of laughter, clinking glasses, and couples disappearing into the night, chasing the kind of passion he once thought he had with his exes.

He slouched deep into the smooth leather of a lounge chair, the low throb of neon lights casting everything in shades of purple and red that made his head dizzy. It reeked of stale perfume, sweat, and the kind of hope that only arrived after midnight— that kind of desperate energy that comes from people trying to forget their problems for a few hours.

Then lights went out. Conversations paused.

Then, a soft hum of anticipation filled the space.

Spotlights flickered to life, five thin beams cutting through the haze of smoke and sweat, all aimed at the stage.

A cheer rose from the crowd — men, mostly, though a few women joined in with the same hollow excitement. Five girls strutted onto the stage, each moving to their own rhythm, hips rolling, hair catching the light just so. It was a practiced show, one Owen had seen a dozen times in different versions. Different faces, same fantasy.

He barely glanced up at first. Just another performance, more distractions for men trying to forget birthdays, breakups, bills.

Owen didn’t need a reminder of what he’d lost — he was already swimming in it.

But then his eyes focused on the center stage.

Maybe it was the subtle, controlled pace of her hips, a sway of the laces as her pearled necklace silently waved with every move. The way she was pacing through the stage and shook the world as she bent her arms, the white feathers tailored on her shawl glistened—or maybe it was his eyes that were at fault. He was disgusted, yes. But there was that strange charm that had him lurch closer, left his pile of empty wine glass to scooch pass the other patrons to get a closer view upstage.

Controlled. Simple, not too shy, not too bold. Sounded ironic but he couldn't even form thoughts with his incoherent brain. All he saw was her, that smile, and the way she briefly made eye contact with him, gave a wink, before turning.

She reminded him of someone. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe that was the whole point.

The music faded into a low note as the last notes of the performance died out. A drunkard whistled, hoping to gather some attention from the runaway girls.

The five dancers marched offstage through a narrow opening at the back draped with dark velvet.

She vanished behind the curtains, like another mist in his life.

He wasn’t sure what had come over him. Maybe it was the way she didn’t care about being watched. Maybe it was the belief that such talent shouldn't be wasted on a place like this in the first place.

Or maybe he was just drunk enough to try and feel something again.

The house lights dimmed to a soft red as the maestro, a lean man in a suit too tight for his frame and a voice too smooth, stepped onto the stage, holding a gold-plated mic.

“Alright, gentlemen,” he purred. “You know the drill. If you liked what you saw and you’ve got the cash to back it up, it’s your lucky night. Tonight’s girls are now available for yours truly. One night. Starting bids begin at two-fifty. Don’t be shy, fellas!”

Chairs scraped back.

Wallets shot up, filling his view sight.

Owen didn’t hesitate.

His fingers moved before his mind could catch up, fished into the inside pocket of his jacket. He slid his leather wallet free, thumbing through the bills until he pulled out five crisp hundreds. He raised the stack fully, catching the maestro’s eye.

“Five hundred,” Owen said a bit too loudly. The other customers looked at him rudely and some spat incoherent curses.

The maestro's eyes lit up as he fixed his posture. “We’ve got a generous one tonight, folks. Five hundred on the table for a private. Any competition?”

A few murmurs rose from other tables, but no one matched it.

"Sold,” the maestro declared with a wink. “Who's lucky gal for the whole night?"

Owen sat back down, the buzz in his chest now a mix of nerves and something unfamiliar — not quite excitement, but not regret either. "The one in the center, red feathers."

---

Twenty minutes later, Owen found himself in a small, dimly lit room that smelled of vanilla candles and leather. He could barely turn his eyes to the door, let alone open his eyes.

His huge frame looked even more awkward folded into the edge of the duvet, long legs sprawled at odd angles.

Then, a creaking sound cut through the silence. He saw them from his peripheral as the dancer slipped through the crack and eyed him up and down.

The vanilla candles couldn't mask the underlying scent of stale cigarettes and whatever industrial cleaner they used on the leather furniture.

"Christ," he muttered under his breath, finally looking up as she entered. "Damn, you look pretty up close." He gave a smile that's either an all-knowing look that says he definitely knows what the hell he is on, charming devilish one that says that he bedded lots of people, or just a straight up call for help.

"Fair warning though. I'm recently single, recently humiliated, and apparently recently the kind of guy who throws money at problems he can't solve. So, yeah. That's what you're working with here." He cleared his throat, straightening his posture as he slung his leg over the other, making himself comfy on the tough fabrics of the bed he was shoved earlier on.

"So... Do you guys serve dinner here?"