Chapter 2

Half an hour into the private happy hour event, the rooftop bar buzzed with the low hum of tech talk and clinking glasses. Ethan Caldwell stood near the edge of the sleek, open-air venue, the San Francisco skyline glittering behind him. His AI startup’s two dozen employees—mostly male coders in their twenties, clad in hoodies and jeans—mingled awkwardly with a handful of key investors, their tailored blazers a stark contrast. The bar, perched atop a trendy downtown restaurant, boasted polished chrome railings and minimalist tables, the kind of upscale vibe Ethan hoped would impress.

No plus-ones, he’d insisted, keeping the event strictly professional. Krissi, his live-in girlfriend of barely three weeks, wasn’t invited, a decision that left him both relieved and oddly disappointed. Ethan loved Krissi; her effortless charm and her forthright sexuality had endeared her to him from the moment they’d met at the Pink Pony, her former place of employment, a dive strip club in West Virginia that Ethan had been forced to stop at when his Tesla ran out of juice unexpectedly. But she could be a bit ... much sometimes, especially at the sort of upscale events Ethan tended to frequent. Barely a week earlier, she had made a spectacle of herself at a gathering of Ethan’s friends from Stanford, a mess that had cost Ethan two hundred grand to clean off of social media. So though he missed her, Ethan was relieved to be able to spend an evening without her.

The relief shattered when a familiar drawl cut through the chatter. “Well, damn, sugar, this party’s deader than a dive bar on Monday!” Krissi-May Johnson strutted onto the rooftop, her platform heels clicking, her neon pink crop top glowing under the string lights. Her pleather mini-skirt barely grazed her thighs, hugging her toned legs—legs that had earned her tips at The Pink Pony with every pole spin. Her long, bleached-blonde hair, dark roots peeking through, bounced in loose waves, and her fake tan shimmered, catching every eye. Heavy eyeliner framed her hazel eyes, and hot pink lipstick glistened as she snapped her gum, a rhinestone anklet jingling with each step. The scent of cheap vanilla perfume trailed her, mixing with the bar’s crisp air. Ethan froze, his smartwatch buzzing against his wrist as his heart rate spiked.

“I’m Ethan’s VIP, y’all!” Krissi announced, throwing her arms wide, her pert round breasts straining against the crop top’s thin fabric. “Name’s Krissi, here to spice up this snooze-fest!” A few coders gaped, their conversations forgotten; an investor raised an eyebrow, sipping his scotch. Ethan’s face flushed, his tailored Armani jacket suddenly too tight. How the hell did she even know about this? He’d mentioned the happy hour in passing, but—

Krissi zeroed in on the bartender, a lanky guy in a black vest, and leaned over the counter, her cleavage practically a negotiation tactic. “Sugar, you got anything stronger than this watered-down crap? Run downstairs and grab some of that fancy-ass liquor from the restaurant. Top shelf, now!” She winked, slipping him a twenty from her bedazzled clutch. The bartender hesitated, then bolted, clearly charmed. Ethan’s stomach churned—she was already hijacking his event.

Before he could move, Krissi spun toward a cluster of coders, their pale faces lit by the glow of their phones. “Y’all look like you ain’t had fun since dial-up!” she teased, her West Virginia drawl thick with glee. “I’m too young to know what that is, but a customer of mine at the strip club I used to work at told me that was a real knee-slapper.”

She snatched a bottle of tequila from a passing tray and held it aloft like a trophy. “Who’s man enough to do shots with Krissi?”

The coders blinked, but a lanky one—Tim, the shyest dev on the team—muttered, “Uh, sure?” Krissi whooped, pouring a sloppy shot into his glass, her butterfly tramp stamp peeking above the back of her skirt as she bent forward.

“C’mon, Timmy, don’t sip it like a damn cappuccino!” She clinked her glass against his, downing hers in one gulp, her throat bobbing as she licked salt from her lips. Tim coughed, his face red, but a grin broke through. The other coders crowded closer, egged on by her infectious energy. “Next!” Krissi called, pouring for a bearded QA engineer, her hips swaying to an imaginary beat.

An investor, a silver-haired VC named Roger, chuckled, whispering to his colleague, “Ethan’s got himself a live wire.” Ethan caught the comment, his jaw tightening. This was supposed to be about AI demos, not Krissi’s shot-pouring circus.

She moved through the crowd, a glittery whirlwind, her laughter loud and unapologetic. “Y’all coders are cute, all nerdy and shit!” she said, ruffling the hair of a bespectacled intern, who blushed so hard his glasses fogged. She tossed back another shot, her crop top riding up to flash a strip of tanned midriff, and challenged Roger to join. “Bet you can’t keep up, fancy pants!”

Roger, to Ethan’s horror, accepted, downing a shot while Krissi cheered, her hands clapping inches from her bouncing chest. The coders were loosening up, phones out, filming her like she was a rock star. Ethan’s smartwatch buzzed again—his investors were supposed to be discussing funding, not doing tequila shots.

He pushed through the crowd, his 6’1” frame weaving past tipsy employees, and grabbed Krissi’s arm, steering her toward a quieter corner near a potted palm. Her vanilla scent hit him, stirring memories of their wine cellar tryst last week. “Krissi, what the hell?” he hissed, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “This is a work event! You can’t just crash it and—Jesus, tequila shots?”

Krissi pouted, her glossy lips puckering as she crossed her arms, pushing her breasts higher. “Big Daddy, I’m just helpin’ your boys loosen up! They’re all stiff as a cheap lap dance!” She stepped closer, her thigh brushing his crotch, sending a jolt through him despite his frustration. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, oblivious to the chaos she’d sparked. “You said this was some boring-ass happy hour, so I thought, why not make it fun? Ain’t nobody complainin’ ‘cept you!”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, his Peloton-lean frame tense. “This isn’t The Pink Pony, Krissi. These are my employees, my investors. They’re not here for—” He gestured at her outfit, the neon crop top screaming strip club, not startup. “I didn’t invite you because it’s work-only. You’re making me look like an idiot.”

Her pout deepened, but her eyes softened, catching his distress. “Aww, sugar, I didn’t mean to mess up your techy thing.” She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her hand grazing his belt buckle. “Lemme make it right. I’ll chill, promise. No more shots, just ... minglin’, all classy-like.” Her fingers lingered, teasing, and Ethan’s resolve wavered, his cock twitching at the memory of her lips in that wine cellar. Damn it, why did she have to be so fucking hot?

“Fine,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses, his face still flushed. “But stay by me, and no more bartender bribes or shot challenges. Just ... talk about the weather or something normal.”

Krissi grinned, snapping her gum, and saluted. “You got it, boss man!” She swayed her hips as she stepped back, her pleather skirt catching the light, and Ethan couldn’t help but stare, his anger melting into reluctant arousal. He led her back to the crowd, praying she’d keep her word, but the glint in her eye told him this night was far from over.

For the next half hour, Krissi miraculously behaved—by her standards, at least. No tequila shots, no bribing the bartender for more liquor. Ethan breathed easier, though his wallet took a hit when the bartender returned with bottles of Patrón Añejo and Macallan 18, Krissi’s earlier “top shelf” demand now a reality.

The upscale booze, passed around in crystal glasses, lent the rooftop bar a touch of sophistication, and Ethan had to admit it elevated the vibe. His coders, though, seemed deflated, their eyes lingering on Krissi as if hoping she’d restart the shot contest. She stuck close to Ethan, her platform heels clicking softly, her neon pink crop top and pleather skirt still drawing stares. Her vanilla perfume wafted as she leaned into him, whispering, “See, sugar? I can be classy.”

She wasn’t perfect. Ten minutes in, Krissi, surrounded by three coders—Tim, the shy one, plus two others clutching their laptops—started a story. “So, back at The Pink Pony, this one night, I’m on stage, and this cowboy—” She caught Ethan’s sharp look, his wire-rimmed glasses glinting with warning.

Krissi paused, snapping her gum, then grinned slyly. “Whoops, sorry, boys. Big Daddy says I ain’t allowed to tell that one no more.” She winked, her hazel eyes twinkling. “Trust me, it’s a real good’un. Had the whole bar hootin’.” The coders groaned, Tim muttering, “Aw, c’mon,” but Krissi just shrugged, her butterfly tramp stamp peeking as she adjusted her skirt. Ethan exhaled, steering her toward a safer topic—weather, maybe.

A few minutes later, another “Krissi moment” flared. She’d cornered a QA engineer, bearded and nervous, and was mid-sentence, her hands waving. “Y’know, I bet you’d kill it at a strip club, sugar. All them quiet types got moves! I could teach ya a lil’ somethin’, like—” Ethan, nearby, cleared his throat loudly, his lean frame tensing. Krissi glanced over, her hot pink lips pursing in disappointment. “Ugh, fine, Big Daddy. No dance lessons neither.” She sighed dramatically, tossing her bleached-blonde hair, roots showing. “You’re no fun tonight.”

The engineer blushed, stammering a thank-you as Ethan pulled her away, his smartwatch buzzing with his spiking pulse. “Weather, Krissi,” he muttered. She rolled her eyes but complied, chatting about Bay Area fog with exaggerated boredom.

Ethan, three scotches deep, started to relax. The investors were nodding at his AI demo pitch, the coders were mingling, and Krissi was—well, not a disaster. He got pulled into a heated discussion with Sanjay, a brilliant but anxious coder, about their latest neural network project. “If we tweak the loss function, we could cut training time by—” Sanjay was saying, when Ethan’s ear caught a familiar drawl, loud and animated, across the rooftop.

“Picture it, sugar: Krissi’s Glitter Gala Event Plannin’! I’m talkin’ sparkly chandeliers, neon strobe lights, and a dance floor that’s half stage, half hot tub!” Krissi stood by the chrome railing, her toned legs gleaming under the string lights, gesturing wildly at Roger, the silver-haired VC who’d taken her tequila shot earlier. Her neon crop top rode up, flashing tanned midriff, and her pleather skirt hugged her hips as she leaned closer, her perky round breasts inches from Roger’s chest. “Every party’s gotta have that Pink Pony energy—girls in sequined bikinis servin’ drinks, a DJ spinnin’ trap remixes of Dolly Parton. And the VIPs? They get private booths with velvet ropes and personal dancers!” Her hazel eyes sparkled, her fake tan glowing as she snapped her gum, oblivious to the crowd forming.

Roger, his scotch glass sweating, was smitten, his eyes locked on Krissi’s glossy lips. “That’s ... bold,” he said, loosening his tie. “You’ve got a real vision, Krissi. Ever thought about pitching this formally?” He leaned in, his hand brushing her arm, a flirty smirk on his face.

Krissi giggled, twirling a blonde lock, her rhinestone anklet catching the light. “Oh, sugar, I’m fulla ideas! Maybe you could, like, mentor me or somethin’.” She batted her lashes, her drawl thickening, and rested a hand on his chest, her nails hot pink and glittery. “I bet a big-shot like you knows all the right moves.”

Ethan, his scotch buzzing in his veins, pushed through the crowd, his tailored Armani jacket flapping. “Krissi!” he called, forcing a smile as he reached her. “Sorry, Roger, she’s just—uh, enthusiastic.”

He tried to steer her away, but Roger waved him off, his eyes still on Krissi’s cleavage. “No, no, Ethan, she’s got something here. A raw spark. Event planning’s a goldmine if you disrupt it right.” He winked at Krissi, who beamed, bouncing on her heels, her breasts jiggling slightly. “Tell me more about those hot tub stages.”

Krissi clapped, launching back in. “Okay, so, the hot tubs got LED lights that pulse with the music, right? And the dancers—trained like me, pole champs—do these sexy water routines. I’m talkin’ full-on Vegas, but trashier, y’know? Like, classy but with monster truck vibes!” She grinned, her enthusiasm infectious, and Roger laughed, clearly charmed. “And the food? Sliders, but fancy, with gold foil on ‘em. And a signature cocktail—Krissi’s Pink Pony Punch, vodka and glitter syrup!” She mimed sipping a drink, her lips puckering, and Roger’s gaze followed every move.

Ethan stood frozen, his naive optimism crumbling. His coders were filming, phones out, and Sanjay whispered, “Is she serious?” The other investors glanced over, amused but skeptical.

Krissi, oblivious, kept going, her hands painting the air. “And the gala’s gotta have a theme, like ‘Glitter Apocalypse’—everybody in sequins, and we project holograms of me dancin’ on the walls!”

Roger nodded, entranced, and slipped a business card from his wallet. “Krissi, you’re a natural. Call me. Let’s talk funding.” He held her hand a beat too long, his thumb grazing her knuckles.

Krissi squealed, clutching the card like a trophy. “Oh my God, sugar, you’re the best! I’m callin’ you tomorrow, swear!” She hugged him, her breasts pressing against his chest, and Roger’s smirk widened.

Ethan, his face flushed, finally tugged her arm. “Krissi, can we talk?” His voice was tight, his 6’1” frame looming as he led her to a quiet corner by the potted palm, the city skyline twinkling behind them. “What the hell was that?” he hissed, his glasses slipping.

Krissi blinked, her hazel eyes wide, still clutching Roger’s card. “What? I was networkin’, Big Daddy! I got ideas, y’know? I ain’t s’posed to just sit around bored when I’m not with you, right?” Her pout was half-genuine, half-tease, her vanilla scent hitting him as she stepped closer, her thigh brushing his.

Ethan’s cock twitched, betraying his frustration, memories of her wine cellar blowjob flashing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trapped. He couldn’t yell without making a scene, and Roger was still watching, smirking. “Krissi, this is my work event,” he said, forcing calm. “You can’t pitch ... Glitter Galas to my investors. It’s—” He faltered, her earnest expression disarming him. “It’s not the place.”

She frowned, her glossy lips parting. “But Roger loved it! And I got his card! Ain’t that what you do, get money for ideas?”

Ethan sighed, his scotch-fueled buzz making him softer. She wasn’t wrong, but—Jesus, hot tub stages? He tried a new tack. “Look, your ideas are ... great. But let’s do it right. Not here. I’ll help you find investment capital, okay? I promise. Just ... no more pitches tonight.”

Krissi’s face lit up, her disappointment vanishing. “For real? You’ll help me get my gala company goin’?” She bounced, her pleather skirt riding up, and hugged him, her breasts soft against his chest. “You’re the best, Big Daddy!”

Ethan, his resolve crumbling, nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just stick to mingling now.” She saluted, snapping her gum, and sashayed back to the crowd, Roger’s card tucked into her clutch. Ethan signaled the bartender for another scotch, his smartwatch buzzing as he rejoined the happy hour, bracing for whatever Krissi would do next.

Half an hour later, Ethan stood by the chrome railing of the rooftop bar, the San Francisco skyline twinkling below, trying to salvage his conversation with Roger. The silver-haired VC sipped his Macallan 18, his eyes glinting with interest—not in Ethan’s AI pitch, but in Krissi. “She’s a firecracker, that one,” Roger said, swirling his glass. “Those Glitter Gala ideas? Wild, but there’s a market for bold. Where’d you find her, Ethan? She’s not exactly ... Stanford material.” He chuckled, leaning closer, clearly fishing for a story.

Ethan’s mind flashed to that night six weeks ago. His Tesla had sputtered out, battery dead in the middle of nowhere, rural West Virginia’s hills swallowing any cell signal. He’d limped into the gravel lot of The Pink Pony, neon sign buzzing, desperate for a landline. Inside, Krissi—stage name Krissi Kane—had spotted him, a city boy in a tailored jacket, and pounced. She’d teased him into a lap dance, then another, her grinding hips and filthy whispers (“C’mon, city boy, let loose”) breaking his resolve. By the third dance, he was too weak to say no, smitten and spent, her number scrawled on a bar napkin.

Roger cleared his throat, snapping Ethan back. “So? Where’d you meet her?”

Ethan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his lean frame tensing. “Oh, you know, just ... around,” he said, voice flat, downplaying the sweaty, neon-lit chaos that hooked him. “She’s ... unique.”

Roger smirked, about to press further, when a loud whoop cut through the bar’s hum. Ethan spun, his smartwatch buzzing, and his stomach dropped. Krissi was at it again, this time straddling Sanjay, the anxious coder, in a full-on lap dance. Her pleather mini-skirt rode up, her toned legs flexing as she ground her ass against his lap, her neon pink crop top straining over her pert round breasts, still covered but bouncing inches from Sanjay’s flushed face. Her bleached-blonde hair, dark roots showing, swung as she ran her hot pink nails through his hair, her rhinestone anklet glinting under the string lights. The bar’s speakers thumped a trap beat, and Krissi moved to it, her fake tan glowing, vanilla perfume thick in the air.