Transit, 52

Lori strutted toward the reception desk, her red platform heels clicking against the marble floor with each exaggerated sway of her hips. It wasn’t intentional—god, no—but this damn outfit made it impossible to walk normally. The latex clung to her body like a second skin, her new breasts bouncing in ways that felt alien yet weirdly… hypnotic.

She caught glimpses of people watching her, their gazes dragging up and down her body. A trio of businessmen near the bar exchanged murmured words, their smirks lingering. An older woman, draped in a luxurious shawl, raised a single brow in disapproval. A young bellboy, no older than twenty, looked as if he might pass out when she locked eyes with him.

What the fuck is wrong with people? Lori wanted to snap, but the truth was worse. They weren’t the ones acting strange. She was.

She reached the desk, flipping her long, platinum blonde hair over her shoulder, her glossy red nails tapping impatiently on the polished surface.

The receptionist, a man she vaguely remembered from check-in, straightened at her approach. His gaze slid over her body before he caught himself, his posture stiffening like a man trying very hard to remain professional.

“Miss Pleasure… excuse me,” he said smoothly, his light Russian accent curling around the words.

Lori blinked. "Pleason," she corrected automatically, but her lips tingled the moment she said it. The correction felt off, like trying to force a puzzle piece where it didn’t belong.

The receptionist’s lips twitched, but he continued. “Your belongings, the ones sent to the laundry service… they have been found.”

Lori’s breath hitched. Finally. Something going fucking right.

“They have been sent to your room,” he added, giving a slight nod toward the elevators.

A relieved laugh burst from Lori’s lips, her hands landing on her hips. “Well, fuck me sideways, finally some good news!”

The receptionist’s expression flickered surprise? Amusement? Whatever it was, it was gone in a second, masked beneath that same professional detachment.

Lori hesitated. That came out way too easily. The words, the casual filthiness of it—like it belonged in a bar flirtation, not a hotel reception.

“Uh—yeah, I mean, thanks, babe—uh, sir,” she added quickly, shifting awkwardly on her heels.

The receptionist smiled, his gaze settling on her just a fraction longer than necessary. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Pleasure.”

Lori’s stomach clenched. Again, that name. Again, it fucking stuck.

She spun on her heel, determined to put as much distance between herself and the sudden weirdness clinging to her like static.

At least she’d have her own clothes again.

The moment she stepped into her suite, Lori exhaled sharply. The tension in her shoulders loosened, and she eagerly reached for the zipper of her faux leather top ready to strip off this ridiculous, suffocating second skin and finally slip back into normalcy.

But then she saw it. A luggage cart sat in the center of the room, positioned with precise care. Lori’s breath caught.

Something, still hidden within a garment bag, hung neatly from the top rail. Below it, a white fur coat, its plush material almost glowing under the dim hotel lighting.

And beneath that, the shoes—oh god, the shoes.

Towering, obscene, red platform boots. The kind of heels worn by women who strutted on stages, on dimly lit streets, in VIP rooms with men whose wallets did the talking.

Lori’s fingers twitched at her sides. Her red nails clacked lightly as she flexed her hands.

“Oh, no no no, maybe not,” she murmured, shaking her head, stepping back like the cart might lunge at her.

But the air felt wrong. Heavy. Expectant. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Then her phone rang…