Waves rolled gently onto the sand, the sound blending with crackling firewood and the soft laughter of college students gathered on the campus beach. Someone strummed an acoustic guitar nearby, its melody drifting lazily through the night air. The breeze was crisp, lifting the sparks from the bonfire into the dark sky.
Nicholas hadn’t transitioned yet — still finding his rhythm, still working nights at Po Boyz Gentleman’s Club. But even then, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew the spotlight was waiting for him.
He stepped closer to the fire, sand crunching beneath his shoes.
“Don’t play with me,” he said playfully, waving two fingers. “Two fingers is a dime bag all day. I do business fair and square.”
He inhaled, then shook his head. “That’s what’s wrong with y’all… just spoiled. I do no credit and no favors.” He giggled. “That’s how a bitch stays paid. I don’t plan to do this shit forever… One day you’re going to see my name in lights on Broadway. Except it’ll be my own… Nicky Slaw presents Blackway Broad.”
The fire snapped loudly as he exhaled.
Malachai chuckled. “If Blackway Broad doesn’t work out, just keep in touch with your plug — this is some good stuff.”
They laughed together.
“Joker, please! I’m going to be a star!” Nicholas protested with mock indignation.
Malachai grinned. “Don’t. Don’t forget about the little people when you blow up.”
“I could never forget about you,” Nicholas said warmly. “You’re one of my favorite customers.”
“And fans…” Malachai mumbled jokingly under his breath.
The fire crackled in the quiet.
Sylvia approached, her voice teasing and slightly slurred. “What are you two over here gossiping about? Sorry about that. You gotta excuse my husband — he really hates these things. All the noise, smoke, and fun…” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “What can I say? That’s what it’s like being married to a cop.”
Nicholas gave an awkward laugh.
“Husband, dance with your wife!” Sylvia insisted, nudging him. “It feels so nice out here — don’t wanna waste it boring your friend to death.”
“’Scuse me,” Malachai chuckled. “Duty calls.”
“Don’t mind me,” Nicholas said, inhaling again. “I’ve got my own party going on right here.”
Music drifted in from a speaker, soft and mellow.
Later That Night
“Well, you guys… I’ve got to go,” Nicholas announced. “I have a big day tomorrow. Anyone need anything before I head out?”
Voices called out their goodbyes. Sylvia lifted a hand.
“Chai, don’t let him leave without getting us a nightcap.”
“Hey Nick, wait up!” Malachai called.
Nicholas grinned. “Follow me — I’ve got something special just for you guys. Try it and let me know what you think. It’s on me, officer.”
They walked across the gravel path.
“I’m in the Academy,” Malachai said earnestly. “And this stuff’s just to take the edge off from class. This is my last week smoking.”
“Well, that’s good,” Nicholas replied. “Even though… I was kinda looking forward to seeing you more.”
“Oh yeah?” Malachai’s interest sharpened.
“Yeah…” Nicholas said, voice dropping into a flirt. “I mean, how else can you see my name in lights if you bail on me now?”
“Don’t worry,” Malachai said warmly. “I think I can manage to stay around for a while.”
They shared a long embrace, the world falling quiet around them.
Quiet footsteps approached and Sylvia’s voice rang out, playful and teasing but not surprised.
“Well now… what do we have here?”
The fire popped, waves whispering behind them as music swelled gently.
And that night, under the glow of the bonfire and the stretch of stars above, Nicholas — soon to become Nicky Slaw — found friendship, flirtation, and the beginnings of connections that would ripple into the nights yet to come.
The club hummed with a soft R&B groove, low and seductive beneath the murmur of men and the clink of ice in heavy glasses. Neon lights painted the walls in violet and amber, casting long, slow shadows across the room.
Before Nicole there was just Nicky Slaw.
Every night she stepped into the club lights, she felt like Nicole, but her heart knew different.
The crowd watched her body… but he watched her eyes, quietly studying the sadness behind them from a distance.
The DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers.
“Give it up, fellas — you know her, you love her… Nicky Slaw!”
Applause surged. Music swelled. Then gradually, it all faded as her set ended.
Nicky slipped offstage with practiced grace, the room thick with sweat, neon, and the leftover haze of fantasy. But when the lights dimmed, the magic dissolved. Nicky Slaw became just Nicky again.
Backstage, curtains slid open and shut as dancers moved around her. She was halfway to the dressing room when a regular — too drunk and far too sure of himself — blocked her path.
“C’mon, baby… one dance off the clock. You know I tip good,” he slurred.
“Get your damn hands off me — and take yo’ drunk ass home,” she snapped.
The scrape of a chair cut through the air. Silence followed. Then slow, deliberate footsteps approached.
There was no shouting, no fists, no scene.
Just a man stepping out from a dark corner.
He leaned in close to the patron and whispered something Nicky couldn’t hear. Whatever he said drained the color from the man’s face. The drunk stumbled toward the exit without another word.
She watched him go…
then watched the other man step closer — quiet, commanding, steady.
“You alright, Miss?” he asked, his Ghanaian accent low and calm.
“Thank you…” Nicky replied cautiously.
“Sorry,” he said gently. “I know that must’ve been alarming.”
“Believe it or not, I’m used to it.”
He heard the disappointment behind her voice, even over the muffled bass bleeding from the stage.
“I hate to be a bother,” he continued, “but… do you think I could take you out for coffee sometime?”
“I don’t go out with customers.”
“Good — because I’m not a customer.”
His voice was soft but confident. The pause between them warmed with unspoken interest.
“Hold on, Superman — I ain’t charity!” she teased.
He chuckled. “I would hope not. Coffee’s pretty cheap.”
She laughed — a small, unexpected sound.
“In that case… yeah. Maybe. I gotta go. Thanks again, tho.”