For Chrissy, Not the Club

Introduction

This story is one of my darker adult fantasies, written as fiction and meant for mature readers only. It explores desire, secrecy, vulnerability, femininity, power, and the dangerous thrill of being wanted in a private world where normal rules seem to disappear. It is not meant as a statement of what should happen in real life, but as an erotic fantasy about Chrissy, temptation, and the hidden places where forbidden desires live.

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By the time the desert sun reached its highest point, the pool deck shimmered like a mirage.

Palm Springs had a way of making sin look clean. The white stucco walls glowed in the heat. The mountains stood sharp and blue in the distance, watching everything and judging nothing. The palm trees trembled above the private men’s resort like they knew the secrets being whispered beneath them.

Inside the gates, the outside world disappeared.

No families.

No coworkers.

No explanations.

Just men.

Heat.

Skin.

Money.

Desire.

And the kind of secrets rich men paid very well to keep buried.

The Palm Springs Club was not advertised as what it really was. Publicly, it was a private men’s resort, invitation only, quiet luxury, wellness, discretion, desert privacy. Its website showed white walls, blue pools, mountain views, spa robes, cocktails, and smiling men who looked harmless enough to put in a travel magazine.

But everyone who belonged knew the truth.

The club catered to a very specific kind of man.

Men who liked crossdressers.

Men who liked femboys.

Men who liked sissies.

Men who liked gay boys with pretty mouths and soft voices.

Men who liked trans women, feminine men, in-between creatures, delicate things, painted things, nervous things, dangerous things.

Men who wanted femininity, but not the ordinary kind. Not the kind they could take to dinner in Beverly Hills or marry in front of their families. They came for the kind they kept hidden. The kind they searched for late at night. The kind they denied wanting in public and paid extra to be near in private.

That was who worked there.

Crossdressers in tiny uniforms.

Femboys with glossy lips and shaved legs.

Sissies in pastel lingerie and platform sandals.

Gay men with bodies made for pool decks and flirtation.

Trans women who moved through the resort like movie stars, beautiful and untouchable unless they decided otherwise.

And people like me.

Not quite one thing.

Not quite another.

Soft enough to be desired.

Masculine enough to make that desire feel forbidden.

Feminine enough to make powerful men stare.

The club sold fantasy, but it sold something even more valuable than sex.

It sold silence.

No one simply walked through the front gate. Members were screened, sponsored, vetted, and warned. Real names were rarely spoken where guests could hear them. Phones were sealed in discreet black pouches at check-in unless special permission was granted. Cameras were forbidden. Staff signed agreements so thick they felt less like paperwork and more like threats. Credit card charges appeared under some harmless hospitality company no wife, accountant, assistant, campaign manager, church board, or corporate attorney would look at twice.

There were side entrances for important men.

Private villas for men who could not risk being recognized.

Tinted cars that came and went through a service drive.

Security guards who remembered faces but forgot names.

Managers who never asked why a senator, a CEO, a retired athlete, a married pastor, or a famous actor wanted the east villa and a particular staff member sent after dark.

 

The club protected its clients like royalty.

The staff were protected only as long as we remained useful.

That was the arrangement.

No one said it directly during orientation. They used softer words.

Be accommodating.

Read the room.

Keep our premium guests happy.

Private service is where the real money is.

Nobody is forcing you, of course.

That last sentence was always spoken with a smile.

On paper, my job was simple.

Serve drinks.

Hand out towels.

Take lunch orders.

Clear tables.

Smile.

Flirt.

Make the guests feel special.

But everyone knew there was the official job, and then there was the real one.

The club rules were posted near the entrance in neat black lettering.

No touching staff.

No soliciting staff.

No harassment.

No stalking.

No photography without consent.

The men all read them.

Then they all pretended not to understand the game.

And management pretended not to notice.

A hand would linger too long when taking a drink from my tray. A man would ask for extra ice just to watch me bend closer. Folded bills appeared beneath glasses, under napkins, between two fingers waiting for me to take them. Some men were bold enough to tuck money beneath my bra strap or into the side of my panties, always smiling as if the rules had blurred in the heat.

“For Chrissy,” they would whisper. “Not the club.”

I always blushed.

Sometimes because I was embarrassed.

Sometimes because I liked it.

That was the part I never admitted out loud.

I knew how to say no.

I had said it before.

But the club had its own way of punishing no.

Fewer shifts.

Worse stations.

No villa requests.

No poolside regulars.

No tips worth counting.

The girls, the boys, the queens, the femboys, the sissies, the trans girls, the crossdressers, and the pretty in-between things like me—we all understood.

We were not officially expected to sexually service clients.

Officially, that would have been illegal.

Officially, that would have been against policy.

Officially, the club was clean.

Unofficially, we were expected to make the richest men in Palm Springs believe that behind the right closed door, with the right envelope, the right drink, the right smile, and the right amount of silence, almost anything was possible.

And Chrissy.

That was the name on my badge.

Not Christopher.

Chrissy.

Every time I looked down and saw it pinned to the thin strap of my pink top, something inside me tightened and softened at the same time. I was forty-seven, still publicly a man, still legally a man, still afraid of what it would mean to step fully into the woman I had imagined in secret for so many years.

But here, behind the walls of that resort, under the white desert sun, I did not have to explain myself.

Here, I could be soft.

I was not beautiful in the easy way some of the others were.

Some of the girls at the club could walk across the pool deck and make every man forget they had ever been anything but female. Some of the femboys were so delicate they looked almost unreal, all smooth skin and narrow waists and pretty mouths. Some of the trans women had curves, confidence, and the kind of practiced glamour that made them seem untouchable.

I was different.

I was forty-seven, and my face still told the truth before my body could hide it. I had a very male face, strong in the jaw and tired around the eyes, with short brown hair that never fell quite as softly as I wanted it to. My eyes were brown, warm but nervous, always giving away more than I meant to reveal. No amount of perfume, lipstick, pink lace, or careful posture could completely erase Christopher.

But Chrissy was there too.

She was in the smoothness of my skin after I had shaved every inch of myself clean. She was in the faint perfume clinging to my neck, my wrists, and the warm places beneath the lace. She was in the way I stood a little differently when men looked at me, the way my voice softened, the way my hands became careful and feminine without my having to think about it.

My body was not perfect, but it had its own strange appeal. I was thin through the arms and legs, narrow in places, almost delicate from some angles. But around my belly button, I had a soft little pudge that the panties did not hide. It rounded me out, made me look less polished, more real, more vulnerable. My breasts were still small, barely there, the early hint of transition rather than the full shape I dreamed of having one day. The bra helped. The lace gave me what my body had not yet given me.

Below the waist, I was carefully tucked beneath the panties, smoothed into the shape I needed to see when I looked down. It was not perfect. Nothing about me was perfect. But the flatness beneath the pink fabric gave me a fragile little illusion, and sometimes an illusion was enough to let Chrissy breathe.

From behind, though, I had more confidence.

My ass was full and round, almost surprisingly plump compared to the rest of me, the kind of softness that made men look twice. The panties framed it shamelessly, riding high enough to show the curve and tight enough to make me feel exposed every time I walked away from a table. My thighs were smooth and shapely too, not muscular exactly, but soft in a way that made the lingerie seem less like a costume and more like a promise.

 

That was what the men at the club noticed.

Not perfection.

Not youth.

Not the fantasy of a flawless woman.

They noticed the contradiction.

The male face and the feminine body.

The nervous smile and the pink lace.

The soft skin and the hidden shame.

The little belly, the small breasts, the smooth tucked front, the round backside, the perfume, the shaved thighs, the name badge that said Chrissy as if saying it made it true.

I was not passable the way some of the others were.

But I was available to be imagined.

And in a place like the Palm Springs Club, that could make a person dangerous.

That afternoon, I noticed him before he noticed me.

Or maybe that was what he wanted me to think.

He sat alone beneath a white umbrella at the far end of the pool, away from the louder men, away from the laughter and splashing and careless flirting. He was older, maybe early sixties, but age had not softened him. It had sharpened him. Silver hair. Dark sunglasses. Linen shirt open at the chest. Expensive watch. A stillness that made him seem more dangerous than the men who tried too hard.

He looked like the kind of man who never raised his voice because people listened anyway.

 

He did not wave me over.

He waited.

That was worse.

That made me feel chosen before he had even said a word.

When I finally reached his table, I balanced the tray against my hip and forced myself to smile.

“Can I get you something?”

He removed his sunglasses slowly.

His eyes moved over me with quiet possession. Not sloppy. Not desperate. Not like the men who wanted to embarrass me for their own amusement. His gaze was calm, controlled, almost clinical in its thoroughness.

Pink lace.

Bare skin.

Name badge.

Nervous mouth.

Chrissy.

“You’re the one,” he said.

My stomach tightened.

“The one?”

“The one they told me about.”

I tried to laugh.

“That depends what they said.”

His mouth curved.

“They said Chrissy knows how to take care of a man.”

The words slid under my skin.

I should have corrected him.

I should have made some light joke and walked away.

Instead, I stood there, feeling the sun on my shoulders and the lace tight against my body.

“What would you like?” I asked.

“Lunch first.”

First.

The word hung between us.

He ordered sparkling water, grilled fish, and champagne he barely touched. Every time I returned to his table, there was another bill waiting. A fifty beneath the glass. A hundred folded under the plate. Another hundred held between his fingers when I came to clear the table.

“For your attention,” he said.

I reached for it.

He pulled it back just enough to make me pause.

“Not like that.”

My breath caught.

He looked at my bra strap.

“May I?”

The question was polite.

The feeling it gave me was not.

It was dark. Low. Embarrassing. A thrill I did not want to examine too closely.

I nodded.

He slipped the folded bill beneath my strap with slow precision. His fingers brushed my skin for barely a second, but the touch stayed behind like a mark.

“You tremble when you’re looked at,” he said.

I looked away.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

My face warmed.

“You shouldn’t tease the staff.”

“I’m not teasing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes steady on mine.

“Deciding whether you want to be followed or caught.”

The pool noise seemed to thin around us.

I swallowed.

“There are rules.”

“Yes.”

“No touching staff.”

“I asked.”

“No soliciting staff.”

“I haven’t offered to buy you.”

“No harassment.”

“Chrissy,” he said softly, “you can walk away right now.”

That should have made it easier.

It made it harder.

Because the truth was, I did not want to walk away.

I wanted him to keep looking at me like that. I wanted to feel that controlled danger circling me. I wanted to know what would happen if a man like him stopped being polite, but only after I gave him permission to stop.

He placed a black card on the table.

Not a credit card.

A room key.

“Private villa,” he said. “East side.”

I stared at it.

“I’m working.”

“Until seven.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

My pulse quickened.

The dark part of me liked that too.

“I don’t go to guests’ rooms.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I frowned.

He stood then, slowly, buttoning nothing, hiding nothing. He was taller than I expected. Close enough now that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes.

“I don’t want you careless,” he said. “I don’t want you desperate. I don’t want you pretending you slipped and found yourself at my door.”

His voice dropped.

“If you come, Chrissy, I want you to know exactly what you’re choosing.”

My mouth went dry.

“And what would I be choosing?”

He picked up the room key and pressed it into my palm. His hand closed around mine, not forcefully, but firmly enough to make me feel the decision sitting there between our skin.

“Dinner,” he said. “Candlelight. Privacy. And a game.”

“A game?”

“A very adult one.”

I should have handed the key back.

Instead, I let him keep my hand closed around it.

“What kind of game?”

His gaze lowered to my name badge.

“The kind where you stop being Christopher for a while.”

My breath shook.

“And if I don’t like the game?”

“Then you say one word and it ends.”

“One word?”

“Desert.”

I looked up at him.

He was giving me a way out before I had even stepped in.

That made the trap feel sweeter.

“That’s the word?” I asked.

“That’s the word.”

“And if I say it?”

“Everything stops.”

For a moment, neither of us moved.

The pool shimmered behind us. Men laughed. Ice clinked in glasses. Somewhere nearby, someone called my name, but it sounded distant, as if it belonged to another life.

His thumb brushed once across my knuckles.

“Eight o’clock,” he said. “Only if you want to know what Chrissy looks like when she stops pretending she isn’t hungry.”

Then he let go.

The room key remained in my hand.

All afternoon, I felt it.

Not physically. I had hidden it in my locker the moment I could. But I felt it anyway, like it had been tucked beneath my skin.

Eight o’clock.

Desert.

Chrissy.

The word stayed with me through every drink order and every towel run. It followed me past the laughing men, past the tips slipped into my lingerie, past the mirrors where I kept seeing a version of myself who looked less afraid than I felt.

When my manager passed behind me at the bar, he leaned close enough that only I could hear.

“Villa request?” he asked.

I froze.

“How did you know?”

He smiled without looking at me.

“Men like that don’t come here for grilled fish.”

I said nothing.

“Be smart,” he added. “Be charming. And don’t embarrass the club.”

There it was.

Not an order.

Not exactly.

But close enough.

 

At seven, my shift ended.

At seven-thirty, I stood in the staff bathroom staring at my reflection.

The pink bra.

The matching panties.

The name badge.

The lipstick I had reapplied twice.

I could leave.

I could change into my street clothes, become Christopher again, walk out through the side gate, and pretend nothing had happened. I could tell myself I had been smart. Safe. Sensible.

Instead, I adjusted my bra strap and whispered, “Desert.”

Just to hear myself say it.

Just to remember I still had a choice.

Then I went to the villa.

It was lit by candles when I arrived.

Not sweet candles.

Not romantic candles.

The kind that made shadows move.

The glass doors were open to a private pool, black and gold beneath the night sky. The mountains beyond the walls had vanished into darkness. The air smelled of warm stone, expensive cologne, desert flowers, and something dangerous I could not name.

He was waiting in white linen pants and nothing else.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

“You came,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know.”

That unsettled me.

“How?”

“Because you’re shaking.”

I looked down and realized he was right.

He stepped aside.

“Come in, Chrissy.”

The way he said my name made it feel less like an invitation and more like a command.

I entered anyway.

Dinner was on the table, but neither of us looked at it for long. He poured wine. I took a sip only because my hands needed something to do. He watched me over the rim of his glass, patient and unreadable.

“You understand the rules?” he asked.

“The club rules?”

“No. Mine.”

My throat tightened.

“I think so.”

“Say them.”

The words made heat rise in my face.

I glanced toward the open doors, the private pool, the dark sky beyond.

“I can leave.”

“Yes.”

“If I say desert, everything stops.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t touch me unless I agree.”

His expression softened, but only for a second.

“Correct.”

The room felt smaller.

“And if I agree?”

He set his glass down.

“Then you let me lead.”

My breath caught.

Not force.

Not violence.

Not taking.

Leading.

That was somehow worse. More intimate. More seductive. It reached into a place inside me that wanted to surrender without being harmed, wanted to be commanded without being broken, wanted to be desired so strongly that my hesitation became part of the pleasure.

He came closer, stopping just outside touching distance.

“Do you agree?”

I looked at him.

The powerful older man.

The candlelight.

The open doors.

The name badge on my bra.

I could still leave.

I knew that.

He knew that.

And because I knew it, because he had made sure I knew it, I whispered, “Yes.”

His eyes darkened.

“Then stand still.”

My whole body reacted to the command.

I stood still.

He circled me slowly, not touching at first, only looking. The silence was almost unbearable. I could feel his gaze like fingertips: my shoulders, my back, the curve of the panties, the straps, the places where lace met skin.

“You wear this like you’re asking to be seen,” he said.

I closed my eyes.

“I am.”

“No,” he said, stopping behind me. “You wear it like you’re asking permission to be seen.”

The words struck too deep.

I opened my eyes, but I did not turn around.

His voice came near my ear.

“You don’t need permission tonight.”

A shiver passed through me.

“Tonight,” he continued, “you are not an employee. You are not a man pretending. You are not a secret someone is ashamed of.”

His hand lifted.

He paused.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

His fingers touched the back of my neck, light at first, then firmer. Not rough. Not cruel. Just certain. My head bowed before I thought to resist it.

“There she is,” he murmured.

My breath trembled.

“Who?”

“Chrissy.”

The name nearly undid me.

He turned me gently to face him. His hand moved to my chin, lifting my face until I had to look into his eyes.

“You want darkness,” he said.

I swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. But not the kind that hurts you.”

His thumb brushed my lower lip.

“You want the kind that lets you stop fighting yourself.”

The truth of it left me silent.

He leaned closer, stopping just before his mouth touched mine.

“Tell me to kiss you.”

My voice barely came out.

“Kiss me.”

He did.

Slowly.

Deeply.

With a restraint that felt more dangerous than hunger. He kissed me like he had all the time in the world, like he knew I would melt faster if he did not rush. His hands stayed careful, but the control in them made me feel weak. He guided. Paused. Waited. Took only what I gave, then made me want to give more.

Every part of me felt awake.

The lace that had felt playful by the pool now felt intimate and exposed. The room seemed to breathe around us. Candlelight moved over his shoulders, over my skin, over the space between who I was and who I wanted to be.

He drew back slightly.

“Say your name.”

“Chrissy.”

“Again.”

“Chrissy.”

“Again.”

This time, my voice broke.

“Chrissy.”

His hand settled at my waist.

“That’s who I wanted.”

I closed my eyes.

Not Christopher.

Not a joke.

Not a secret mistake.

Chrissy.

The night unfolded in slow, dark layers.

There were commands, but no cruelty.

There was surrender, but no force.

There was danger, but only the kind we had invited into the room and named before it could become real.

At least, that was what I believed.

He did not rush me.

That was what made him so dangerous.

A rough man would have been easier to resist. A drunk man, a clumsy man, a man who grabbed too quickly or spoke too crudely—I knew how to step away from men like that. I knew how to laugh them off, how to point to the rules, how to become staff again.

But he was patient.

He circled me in candlelight like he was studying something rare.

His eyes moved over the pink lace, the thin straps, the small name badge pinned crookedly against my bra. I felt almost naked beneath his attention, though he had not undressed me at all. Somehow, that made it worse. The bra and panties had been daring at the pool. Here, in the privacy of his villa, they felt like a confession.

“You’re not taking these off,” he said.

I looked up at him.

“What?”

“The bra. The panties.” His voice was low, calm, final. “They stay on.”

A strange little shiver went through me.

I had expected the opposite. I had expected him to want more skin, more access, more proof that the fantasy had become real. Instead, he wanted the lace. The performance. The softness. The very things that made me feel most exposed.

“Why?” I whispered.

His hand lifted to my shoulder, then stopped.

“May I?”

I nodded.

Only then did his fingers touch the strap.

“Because this is how I wanted you,” he said. “Not hidden. Not stripped down into something ordinary. Like this.”

 

His fingers traced the strap lightly, then moved away before I could decide whether I wanted more or feared more.

He kissed me then, slowly, giving me time to pull away.

I didn’t.

His mouth was warm, controlled, almost cruel in its restraint. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and knew how much more powerful it was to wait. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth, his lips locked around mine. His hands moved only after mine did. When I leaned closer, he let his palm settle against my waist. When I trembled, he paused. When I whispered that I was all right, he continued.

He never removed the bra.

He never removed the panties.

Instead, he made them part of the spell.

His hands moved over the lace, never hurried, never careless. He touched me as if the fabric itself mattered, as if the thin barrier between his hands and my body was not an obstacle but the point. He let the tension build there, in what was allowed and what was forbidden, in the heat of his palms and the restraint of his fingers.

I had thought I wanted to be taken apart.

Instead, he kept me together.

Dressed.

Contained.

Chrissy.

He kissed my neck, my shoulder, the place where the strap rested against my skin. His mouth found every place that made me breathe harder without ever crossing the line he had set. The more he refused to undress me, the more exposed I felt. The more he denied himself, the more controlled he seemed.

And the more I wanted to please him.

I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted his man meat to plow and poke me, I wanted his DNA inside me. I love the feeling of being possessed, being owned, being conquered it gives. And I knew men liked giving me that feeling too.

When my hands moved toward my panties to pull them down, he caught my wrist.

Not harshly.

Firmly.

“No,” he said.

I froze.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

My face burned.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” His thumb moved once across my wrist. “But there will be no intercourse. No penetration. Not tonight.”

I stared at him, confused and embarrassed by how disappointed I felt.

“Why?”

He did not answer.

Not really.

His eyes moved over my face, then down to the name badge on my bra.

“Because I said so.”

The words should have angered me.

Instead, they sent a dark thrill through me.

He released my wrist, then lifted my hand and kissed the inside of it.

“You may touch me,” he said. “Only with your hand. Only if you want to.”

My pulse quickened.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t.”

Again, the choice.

Always the choice.

That was how he kept me close.

I looked at him in the candlelight: the silver hair, the bare chest, the controlled hunger in his face. He had spent the whole night making me feel seen, feminine, desired, and now he was asking for something that felt intimate in a different way. Less romantic. More secret. More adult. More dangerous because of how limited it was.

I nodded.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He guided me closer.

Not down.

Not roughly.

Just closer.

The room seemed to narrow around us. The candles. The dark pool outside. The warm desert air moving through the open doors. My pink lace against his bare skin. His breath changing as my hand touched him. The quiet sound he made when I began to please him. I stroked his penis, squeezed it, and played with it like it was a toy. It was soft yet growing big and hard in my hand. He moaned as I jacked him off, "Oh Chrissy....ohhhh..."

I watched his face because I wanted to know if I mattered.

I did.

For the first time that night, his control slipped slightly. Not enough to frighten me. Just enough to make me feel powerful. And then his cock exploded, blowing quirts of semen all over my lap and belly. "Oh Chrissy!" he yelled in ecstasy as he came, as he climaxed. Meanwhile my panties became wet and sticky too.

I was still in my bra and panties.

Still Chrissy.

Still untouched in the ways he had forbidden.

But he was the one breathing harder now.

He was the one watching me like I had become the center of the room.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

The word almost broke me.

Not because it was new.

Men at the club called me pretty when they wanted something. Sexy when they were drunk. Hot when they were trying to be crude.

But beautiful was different.

Beautiful made me feel like the lace was not a costume.

Beautiful made me feel like the trembling was not weakness.

Beautiful made me feel, for one dangerous second, like Chrissy was not something I put on.

She was something he had found.

I reached down and picked up some of his sperm with a finger and started putting it to my mouth when he stopped me. "What?" I was in shock. "Did I do something wrong? Most men want their cum in my mouth or pussy."

"I can't share any bodily fluids with you," he answered. "At least, not tonight."

"Why?"

He reached for his glass.

“That is a story for another time.”

The answer unsettled me.

I tried to smile.

“That sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

“Should I be worried?”

He looked at me over the rim of his glass.

“Not tonight.”

I wanted that to comfort me.

It didn’t.

Still, when he handed me another glass of wine, I took it. The night had softened me. The kisses, the restraint, the praise, the strange intimacy of being kept in my lingerie instead of stripped bare—it had all made me trust him more than I should have.

 

“One sip,” he said. “For Chrissy.”

The glass was cool in my hand.

The wine tasted sweeter than before.

Too sweet.

I lowered it and frowned.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the room shifted.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just a slight bend in the world, as if the floor had tilted beneath my feet. I blinked and tried to focus on the candles, but the flames stretched into long gold threads. The private pool outside became a black mirror. His face blurred, sharpened, then blurred again.

“Chrissy?” he asked.

His voice sounded far away.

I reached for the back of a chair.

“I don’t feel right.”

He stepped closer.

His concern was perfect.

Too perfect.

A cold thread of fear moved through the warmth in my body.

“What did you give me?” I whispered.

He did not answer.

That silence was enough.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

“No,” I said.

Or tried to.

My voice sounded thin. Wrong. Like it belonged to someone across the room.

“Desert,” I said.

He watched me.

I forced the word out again, louder this time, terrified by how weak I sounded.

“Desert.”

The room kept spinning.

He reached for me.

I tried to step back, but my knees failed. The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered somewhere below me, the sound arriving late and muffled.

His arms caught me before I hit the floor.

At any other moment, I might have mistaken it for tenderness.

Now it felt like a cage.

“No,” I tried to say.

But my mouth would not obey.

The candles blurred.

The pool disappeared.

The mountains were gone.

The last thing I saw was my name badge, crooked against the pink strap of my bra.

Chrissy.

The name that had made me feel real.

The name that had made me feel chosen.

The name glowing in the dark as everything else vanished.

Then the villa went silent.

And I fell into the black.

 

Epilogue

And that was where Chrissy’s night ended.

Or maybe where it truly began.

The villa went silent. The candles burned low. The desert kept its secrets.

But behind the locked doors of the Palm Springs Club, nothing ever stayed buried forever.

Will there be a Part 2?

Do you want to know what happens next?