The SUV pulled up to the curb of a nondescript building that looked like a warehouse from the outside, but the moment the heavy steel doors opened, the world turned into a neon-soaked delirium. The air inside was thick, vibrating with a bassline so deep it felt like it was rearranging Aubrey's heartbeat. It smelled of expensive champagne, vanilla body oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of thousands of dollars in "ones" being thrown into the air.
This was Dreams. In Houston, this wasn't just a strip club; it was a cathedral of excess.
Aubrey walked in behind Wayne, feeling the weight of the room shift toward them. To his left and right, women in gravity-defying heels moved with a fluid, athletic grace on elevated stages, their bodies shimmering under the ultraviolet lights. Above them, a literal rain of cash was falling—a constant, fluttering blizzard of paper that covered the floor like leaves in a Toronto autumn.
Wayne was led to a massive corner booth that looked like it was carved out of black obsidian. Within seconds, a fleet of waitresses arrived carrying bottles of Ace of Spades with sparklers shooting white fire into the dark. Aubrey sat on the edge of the velvet seat, his eyes wide, trying to absorb the scale of it. In Toronto, a "big night" was a bottle of Grey Goose at a small table. Here, the floor was quite literally paved with money.
"Don't just watch it, Aubrey," Wayne shouted over the roar of the music, leaning back as two dancers draped themselves over his shoulders. "You earned a seat at the table. Act like you been here."
But Aubrey couldn't just "act." He was a writer; his mind was busy recording the way the light caught the sweat on a dancer's back, the desperate look in the eyes of the men in the back of the room, and the way the fame seemed to act as a magnet, pulling every soul in the building toward their booth.
As the night wore on, the sensory overload became a blur. Jasmine was somewhere in the crowd, lost to the rhythm, but a new presence soon filled the void. Her name was Mercedes. She wasn't like the other girls who were performing; she walked with a quiet, observant confidence, wearing a silk slip dress that looked like liquid silver. She sat down next to Aubrey, not asking for a drink or a tip, but simply watching him.
"You're the one from the studio," she said, her voice cutting through the noise. "The one they're all whispering about."
"I guess so," Aubrey replied, leaning in close so he could hear her. The proximity was electric. He could see the fine pores of her skin and the way her dark eyes seemed to hold a world of secrets. "Does everyone in this city know everything that happens behind closed doors?"
"In this city, the walls have ears and the girls have memories," she smirked. She ran a hand over the sleeve of his hoodie, her touch lingering. "You don't look like you belong here. You look like you're still trying to figure out if this is a dream or a trap."
She led him away from the main roar of the club, toward a private VIP alcove shielded by a waterfall of gold chains. Inside, the noise was dampened, replaced by a low, sultry groove. The space was tiny, intimate, and smelled of her perfume—something deep and floral, like jasmine blooming at night.
Mercedes didn't waste time. She moved into his space, her body pressing against his with a soft, yielding heat. She began to kiss his neck, her lips slow and deliberate, while her hands found their way under his shirt, her palms flat against his stomach.
"Everyone wants to be 'Drake'," she whispered against his skin, her breath hitching. "But I want to know what Aubrey is thinking when the music stops. I want to see the part of you that you're afraid to put in the lyrics."
The eroticism of the moment was fueled by the secrecy of it. In the main room, he was a rising star; in here, he was just a man being dismantled by a woman who saw right through the bravado. Her touch was a slow burn, a detailed exploration of his skin that made his breath turn shallow. He felt the friction of her silk dress against his jeans, the weight of her as she moved against him, her movements synchronized with the distant, thumping bass.
The Contrast
Just as he was about to lose himself in her, his BlackBerry—the one Kiki used to call—vibrated in his pocket. It felt like a cold shock.
He pulled back, his eyes glazed. He reached for the phone.
1 New Message: Mom (Sandi)
Aubrey, it's late. I saw the news about the flight. I hope you're eating well and staying safe. Don't forget who you are, honey. I'm proud of you. Call me when you can.
He stared at the screen. The light from the phone illuminated his face, casting a harsh glow on the silver dress of the girl in his lap. The contrast was devastating. Behind him was the world of neon, strippers, and the "roster"—a life of indulgence and cold ambition. In his hand was a message from a small apartment in Toronto, from the woman who knew him when he was just a kid with a book of poems.
"What is it?" Mercedes asked, her hand moving to his chin, trying to pull his gaze back to her.
"It's... it's a reminder," Aubrey said, his voice thick.
He stood up, the spell broken but the hunger still there. He realized that this was going to be his life from now on: a constant tug-of-war between the "good kid" from Forest Hill and the "Certified Lover Boy" the world was demanding him to be. He looked at Mercedes—beautiful, fleeting, and already a memory—and then at the blinking light on his phone.
He pulled out his notebook. He didn't write a rap. He added to the list.
Mercedes - Dreams. The one who saw the boy behind the chain.
He walked back out into the "rain" of the club. He found Jas Prince and Wayne.
"I'm ready," Aubrey said, his eyes hard. "Let's finish the tape. I want the world to hear what it feels like to be in this room and miss home at the same time."
Wayne grinned, the gold in his teeth flashing under the strobe lights. "That's the hit, kid. That's the one."