The music was ideal. While James had never been to this particular club, she was quickly deciding that it was one of her favorites. Raw shots of Patron at the bar and enough bass coming from the speakers to rattle the fillings loose from your teeth. She'd arrived directly from work, arm-in-arm with a coworker(who was now lost in the crowd), with the shared knowledge that stripperwear also functioned as clubwear. In the rare glimpses of colored light, the shimmer of her gold shorts and gartered fishnets was right at home. The ripped Culture Club t-shirt might have been an odd contrast, but it's careless confidence worked for her. There was still glitter and hairspray in the endless tide of her dark hair, and the skin that was visible was dewed with well-earned sweat when she broke free from the gather of dancers. With her arms above her head and spinning ecstatic on pointed heels, a dozen sets of eyes followed James, lured by the magic of her movement. She was impervious to them all, so enraptured in the music and what it pulled from her, that when she slid up to the bar, it was with a smile that bordered on high. After taking another shot and swiping one of their cute little foil party masks from a basket at the end of the bar, she was drifting back into the crowd. A sway, and a spin, and a bewitching laugh.