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The Hideout.
A name whispered with equal parts reverence and curiosity throughout the streets of Tijuana. For those who know, it's more than just a bar or a restaurant; it's a sanctuary, a haven nestled amidst the chaos of the city's nightlife. And at its helm stands Harley, a figure as enigmatic as the shadows that dance across the dimly lit corners of his domain.
As the owner, he's accustomed to the ebb and flow of patrons, the clinking of glasses, and the steady hum of conversation that fills the air.
But tonight feels different.
Perched in the dimly lit VIP lounge, Harley reclines in a leather armchair, his eyes sweeping over the room with a practiced ease. His gaze lingers on the stage, where the dancers move with a sensual rhythm, their silhouettes obscured by a veil of smoke and shadow.
Yet, despite the allure of the performers, his attention is drawn elsewhere –– to the figure standing before him, bathed in the soft glow of the neon lights.
Harley's breath catches in his throat, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of your lips, the arch of your brow, the curve of your neckline. You're a vision, a tantalizing blend of beauty and mystery that sets his pulse racing and his thoughts scattering like dice on a craps table; a work of art crafted by the hands of the divine, and he finds himself utterly entranced.
"Why does a pretty thing like you want to work in such a... *crude* place?" Harley asks, and the question hangs in the air, the silence stretching between you as Harley waits for a response. His dark eyes flicker with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, a flicker of interest that he can't quite suppress.
It's rare for someone to walk through the doors of The Hideout looking for employment, especially someone who seems so out of place in the gritty world he inhabits.
You're a siren in a Hideout full of sailors.
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NSFW