The Midnight Claim

The check engine light flickered on two blocks from the club—a singular, amber eye mocking her in the dashboard darkness.

Blair gripped the steering wheel, exhaling a breath she felt she’d been holding all day. The car was running fine, no smoke, no shudder, but the light was an omen. Just one more crack in the foundation. She parked in the rear lot of Club 205, killed the engine, and patted the dashboard.

"Please," she whispered. "Just hold it together until payday."

She grabbed her roller case and composed her face. Shoulders back, chin up. The armor went on before the makeup did. Club 205 wasn't high-end, but the Friday night shift was a battlefield, and Blair had fought hard to secure her territory.

Inside, the dressing room was a haze of hairspray and cheap perfume. Blair nodded to the friends she had made—the ones who understood that this was a pit stop, not a destination—and ignored the ones who treated the main stage like Broadway.

She stripped down, sliding into her first outfit. She closed her eyes, summoning the persona. Fun. Flirty. Untouchable. It was a performance, and she was the lead actress.

Blair was tall, with a body honed by years of athletics—strong thighs, toned shoulders. In a sea of petite, pixie-like dancers who moved like water, Blair moved like earth. Solid. Present. Some nights she felt cumbersome next to them, but then she’d catch a man’s eyes following the curve of her hip, and she remembered: some men wanted something they could hold onto.

When the DJ called her name, she ascended the main stage.

She grabbed the pole, testing its grip, and scanned the rail. She was fishing. You had to hook them with a look, reel them in with a smile, and gut them for their wallets before the song ended.

Tonight, the pickings were slim. A drunk couple, a few regulars, and a lone man sitting in the shadows to her right.

She worked the couple first, playing the role, dodging wandering hands with practiced ease. Then, she turned her attention to the lone man.

He was different. He wasn't hunched over a beer or leering at her chest. He was leaning back, watching her face. He was shorter than the men she usually went for, but he took up space with a quiet, undeniable confidence.

Blair slid down the pole, landing softly in front of him. She crawled along the rail, arching her back, bringing her face inches from his.

"How’s your night going?" she purred—the standard script.

He didn't blink. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and startlingly sober. "It got a lot better about five minutes ago."

Blair paused. It was a line, sure, but he delivered it with a sincerity that cut through the bass thumping in the room.

"That’s the right answer," she teased, offering a genuine smile.

"I’m Robert," he said. His voice was a low rumble, audible even over the music. "And if I’m staring, I apologize. You’re... mesmerizing."

"Mesmerizing?" Blair laughed softly. "That’s a big word for this place."

"I’m a writer," he said, a playful glint in his eye. "I know all the best words. Lithe. Kinetic. Arresting."

"Lithe?" She raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight, showcasing the long line of her leg. "I’m too tall to be lithe."

"You’re exactly the right height," he countered, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back to her eyes. "You make me want to write."

The song ended too soon. Blair felt a strange tug in her chest—a magnetic pull she hadn't felt in years. She collected her tips, his fingers brushing her palm as he handed her a twenty. The contact sent a jolt of static electricity straight up her arm.

"Come find me?" she whispered, breaking her own rule about chasing customers.

"Try and stop me," he promised.

An hour later, he was sitting in the VIP booth. The curtain was drawn, isolating them from the noise of the club. The air between them was thick, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the transaction and everything to do with the chemistry sizzling in the small space.

Blair straddled his lap, her movements slow, deliberate. She wasn't dancing for the money anymore. She was dancing for him.

"How much time do we have?" he asked, his hands resting respectfully, yet possessively, on her hips.

"Enough," she breathed, leaning down to graze her lips against the pulse point of his neck. She felt him shiver. It was intoxicating, knowing she had this effect on him.

"I have four books published," he murmured as she moved against him, trying to distract himself from the overwhelming sensation of her. "I can give you my card. You can look me up. So you know I'm not just... some guy."

Blair pulled back, looking into his eyes. He was blushing. It was adorable. "I know you're not just some guy, Robert."

She took the card he offered, tucking it into her boot. "In case I need a good book?"

"In case you need anything," he said. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a serious intensity. "My cell is on the back."

When the bouncer cleared the room at closing, Blair walked to her car, the engine light forgotten in the afterglow of a good night. But three miles down the road, reality came crashing back.

The car shuddered, coughed violently, and died. The dashboard went dark. The power steering locked up.

Blair wrestled the car to the shoulder of a deserted industrial stretch. It was 2:30 AM. The streetlights were sparse, and the warehouses lining the road were dark, skeletal shapes against the night sky.

"No, no, no," she hissed, turning the key. Nothing.

She grabbed her phone. Dead silence on the other end of her best friend’s line. Her second call went to voicemail. Panic began to prick at her skin, cold and sharp.

A black truck rolled past, slowing down as it neared her car. She saw heads turn. It drove a hundred yards, hit the brakes, and began to reverse.

Blair’s heart hammered against her ribs. She fumbled in her purse, her fingers brushing against the sharp edge of the business card. In case you need anything.

She dialed the number.

"Robert?" Her voice shook.

"Blair?" He answered instantly, his voice thick with sleep, then instantly alert. "What’s wrong?"

"My car died. I’m on Powell, near the old railyard. There’s a truck... they’re coming back."

"Lock the doors," Robert commanded. The softness was gone from his voice; it was steel now. "I’m five minutes away. Stay on the line."

The black truck idled beside her. Four men spilled out. They weren't smiling.

One yanked on her door handle. Locked. He slapped the glass with a heavy palm. "Open up, sweetheart. You need a ride?"

"Go away!" Blair screamed, shrinking back against the passenger seat.

They laughed. A fist hammered against the driver's side window. The glass vibrated. Blair squeezed her eyes shut, the phone clutched to her ear like a lifeline.

Then, light flooded the interior of her car.

A white truck screeched to a halt across the lanes, blocking the road, headlights blinding the men surrounding her.

The door flew open. Robert stepped out.

He didn't look like a writer now. He looked dangerous. He walked toward the group of men with a terrifying calmness. The men turned, aggressive, shouting challenges.

Robert didn't shout. He simply raised his hand. The glint of metal in the headlights was unmistakable. A gun. Held steady, practiced.

"Step away from the car," Robert said. He didn't yell. He didn't have to.

The men froze. The leader looked at the gun, then at Robert’s face, and decided it wasn't worth it. They scrambled back into their truck, tires squealing as they peeled away into the darkness.

Robert holstered the weapon at the small of his back and approached her window. His expression softened instantly when he saw her face.

Blair unlocked the door and practically fell into him. He caught her, his arms wrapping around her tight, grounding her. He felt solid. Safe.

"I’ve got you," he murmured into her hair. "You’re okay."

Later, after a failed attempt to jump-start her car, she was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. The heater was blasting, but she was still trembling.

"Thank you," she said for the tenth time. "I don't know what I would have done."

"Don't worry about it."

She looked at him. The streetlights played across his face—the boyish charm she’d seen at the club was layered over something harder, more capable.

"What did you say to them?" she asked softly. "Before they ran?"

Robert glanced at her, shifting gears. His hand lingered near hers on the console.

"I told them they were making a mistake," he said, his voice dropping to that low, resonant rumble that made her stomach flip. "I told them you belong to me."

Blair looked at him, breath hitching. She should have been offended. She should have been skeptical.

Instead, she leaned back into the seat, watching him drive, and felt a thrill chase the chill right out of her bones.

"Okay," she whispered. "I can live with that."