The neon sign hummed with a low-frequency buzz that Crystal could feel in her molars. It was 1985, and the was the crown jewel of the industrial strip—a windowless velvet bunker where the air smelled of floor wax, Marlboro Lights, and Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume.
"This is work," she whispered to the bartender, ordering a whiskey dry. "Don't let the music fool you. This is the hardest work there is." She adjusted her strap, checked the mirror, and turned back to the floor. In the Palace, if you weren't working, you were just another decoration. pussy palace 1985 crystal honey work