The bass of the music thudded through Tad’s chest, vibrating against his ribcage as he leaned back in his chair and watched the women on the stage.

The club, dimly lit with pulsating neon lights, smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint tang of spilt alcohol.

Ophelia’s Lounge was unlike anything in Stoneraine, a suburb where the closest thing to the excitement was the Friday night pub scene and nosy neighbours who peeked through curtains at every passing car. Acadia, though?

Acadia was alive, pulsing with life and vice.

The women on stage, clad in shreds of sparkling fabric that barely covered their curves, moved with practised precision.

A...