Page 10 of Crossed
I haven’t tried to get to know them. I’m not here to socialize.
Quinten’s therapy is expensive, and between the astronomical price of insurance, trying to keep the lights on, and everything else in my life, I need all the money I can get. These women are my competition as much as I’d like them not to be. Most of them are tight- knit with one another, and I ache for that type of camaraderie.
The only person I’ve found it with is Dalia, and she doesn’t work here anymore.
So I keep my head down and focus on what matters.
I drop my bag in one of the small gray lockers that line the back wall and spin the lock I clicked into place, making sure my belongings are safe.
When I turn, Phillip, the owner, is waltzing through, and I give him a tiny wave as he moves past me to talk with one of the other girls.
Out of all the men I’ve ever known, he has to be the one I hate the least. He gave me a job when no one else would, and when I wanted to stop being a cocktail waitress and learn pole, he hooked me up with the best dancer—Dalia— and had her give me lessons while he footed the bill. He pretended like he was simply being nice, but I’m not naive enough to truly believe that. I know that most likely it was because he saw potential and thought I’d be a worthy investment. Either way, I appreciate what he’s done. Pole dancing is my outlet. Besides, he lets me use the empty studio he owns on the other side of town to dance on my days off, and that alone is worth its weight in gold.
He’s not necessarily attractive in the classic sense, with his spiked- up blond hair, fair skin, and muddy brown eyes. He has a softer jawline than most, and I stare down at him when I wear stage heels, but he’s bulky, and I like a man who makes me feel safe without being overpowering.
Like I said, I don’t enjoy losing control.
He moves right past me, not sparing me a single glance, and I ignore the way a slight pinch of jealousy hits me when he stops and grins at another one of the dancers. Not because I want his attention on me but because there’s a familial type of energy with everyone in the club, one that I’m excluded from. The same way I’m excluded back in Festivalé.
Gritting my teeth, I internally smack the shit out of myself and move to an open vanity.
It’s time to transform from Amaya toEsmeralda.
Twenty minutes later, I’m done, my raven-black hair hidden beneath a red wig that cascades down to my hips, secured by tape and bobby pins, purple- colored contacts, and full makeup, my long sparkly lashes brushing against the undersides of my eyes every time I blink. And when I finally waltz out to the main stage, the DJ’s voice booming out my introduction, I become someone else entirely.
I feel sensual as I move across the raised platform and around the pole, slowly stripteasing, allowing the eroticism of the moment to blend with the artistry of my craft. I imagine my energy as a pulsing red color, pouring out and covering the entire area, drawing everyone’s eyes and, more importantly, dollars tome.
Losing myself in the moment, my mind floats away, all my worries and troubles ceasing to exist as the power of holding attention cascades down my limbs and around my nearly naked form, infusing me with confidence and sensuality.
But then something sharp and hot pierces through the hazy numbness, my eyes popping open and swinging across the main floor.
My heart stutters in my chest when my gaze locks on a dark figure in the back corner, behind the plush couches with table service. He’s leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets and his body turned toward me. I can’t make out any features—other than the fact that he towers over everyone else—but his face is covered by the brim of an old-school black hat, like he’s some type of 1920s mafioso, and the rest of him is enshrouded in the shadows. And somehow, I know like I knowanythingthat he’s the reason for the heat currently slicing through my calm.
I shake my head and look away, not liking the way it feels, and scan the eager faces near the front of the stage instead. I reach above me and grip the pole, sliding my ass down the metal until I’m squatting with my legs parted in invitation.
A stocky man with slicked- back blond hair and a pinched nose is front and center, and my stomach somersaults violently when I recognize him. I lose my footing, stumbling enough to feel a small tug in my ankle.
Parker Errien.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Panic jumps along my nerves and my palms grow clammy as I straighten and continue with the rest of my set, my fingers slipping on the pole, making my movements appear sloppy and unsure. I grit my teeth, rushing through the last few moments of my dance, and the second it ends, I jerk forward, grabbing my clothes and the few bills thrown on the stage before hobbling off. I don’t stop, don’t think, don’tbreatheuntil my back hits the wall in the employee hall, my limbs shaking.
I don’t think he recognized me but Jesus.
What the hell is he doing here?
I peek back around the hallway once my heart calms down and scan the main floor, anxiety tormenting my mind with what- if questions. It’s a risk to walk out there and try for private dances because Ireallydon’t want him to recognize me, but my need for money wins the battle.
Besides, if he does, I’ll just explain thathe’spart of the reason I need the cash in the first place. Cringing, I visualize how that outcome would go. Probably the same as last time I tried telling him I wasn’t paying off my mother’s bullshit debt, and the cat that I had rescued two months earlier, one that Quinten had grown severely attached to, showed up dead with its head severed and placed in our mailbox. I found random pieces throughout the week, slipped into air vents in our home, underneath the cupboard, beneath the slats of my bed.
Bile rises in my throat as I remember the realization that Parker was far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. That the businessman front was just the tip of the iceberg. That he could come into my home anytime, and there was no way I could keep him out.
And then he proved that to be true a month later when he decided to take what he wanted from me without my consent.
My throat grows dry as I think of what he’ll do next time I decide to disagree.
Blowing out a deep breath, I stiffen my shoulders, shaking my fake red hair until it tickles the middle of my back, and I make my way onto the floor, making sure to keep to the edges in case I need to hide myself away.
