Page 89 of Dance of Devils
Luckily, most of my dance stuff—The Mirage stuff, not ballet—I keep in my locker there. So after rehearsal and after I park Pearl with her new taped-up driver’s side window in Soho, I take the subway to the club.
“Full house out there tonight, babes,” Lucy blurts, jogging into the backstage changing room holding her bra, panties, and an armful of cash. She drops it all on the chair in front of her vanity, stuffs the cash into a lockable drawer, then starts cleaning up with wet wipes before pulling on a fresh pair of underwear.
On the one hand, a packed club means tons of money.
On the other, it meansmore men.
Leering. Whistling. Screaming disgusting shit while you demean yourself.
Oh joy.
I finish getting dressed while another girl, Caroline, heads out on stage. I opt for the schoolgirl outfit again, just because it’s always a crowd-pleaser, and pair the plaid micromini-skirt, knotted blouse, and knee-highs with a plaid and black matching demi-bra and thong.
I touch up my makeup and pull my hair into two high ponytails, finishing just as Caroline sashays back into the dressing room with her own pile of bills.
“You’re up, Brooklyn,” she says, her gaze staying on me for a while.
I frown. “Everything okay?”
She flashes an awkward smile. “Yeah, all good.” She frowns. “Look, this is going to sound weird, but you don't have like, a dad, or an uncle or something who might be looking for you?”
I blink. “Nope. Why?”
“Give it up for the verrry sexxxy CHERRY PIE!!!” the DJ roars into the mic.
Maya turns from where she’s putting on makeup at her vanity and shoots me a look. “That time, B. You ready?”
“Yeah.” I give Caroline another confused look, but she just shakes her head.
“Forget it. Go make money. Tell you later.”
I’ve done this more times than I care to think, but there’s still a pulse of anxiety that hums through me when I walk out onto stage, listening to the hooting and whistling jeers of the crowd.
It’s not the same thrilling buzz I get before a ballet performance. Ilovethat kind of nervous excitement.
This feels…gross. Dirty. Cheap.
And just plain scary.
So I do what I always do: escape into my head.
I push it all away: the men, the music, the cat-calls, the thrown dollar bills. I tell myself I’m giving just another dance performance as I prance across the stage and grab the pole. I spin, stopping with my back to the audience and bending over,hatingthe sounds they make when I flash my underwear.
I lose the blouse first, tossing it to the side and cupping my breasts as I cat-walk to the front of the stage. I turn around, andagain, I bend at the waist, lowering my head all the way to my knees before I turn to wink at the audience from between my legs as I flash a full view of my ass.
Suddenly Ifreeze,and my stomach drops through the floor.
Because there, at the very back of the audience, behind the rest of them, is a pair of dark, piercing, devil eyes,rippinginto me.
No.
Please God, no.
For a second, I just stay where I am: bent over in a fuckingschoolgirloutfit and pigtails, my mouth open in horror.
Bitter, poisonous shame like I’ve never felt before…which is saying something…floods through me. I almost trip as I stand up, my pulse slowly hammering in my chest and roaring in my ears as I turn and stare back at Kir.
Whatever I felt before, feeling too dirty for someone like him, or broken, or messy, increases to gigantic proportions as I stand there, feeling his eyes on me.
