Page 58 of Frozen Hearts
“Yup,” Ava says with an attitude, sounding as though she knows all too well. “Those are the guys that’ll get you.”
I don’t know the specifics of her circumstances, who Isabella’s dad is, or if he’s in the picture at all, and because I know I don’t want people prying into my life, I don’t ask. If she wants to tell me, she will.
“I’ll get over it,” I say, more nonchalant than I feel. “It just sucks.”
Reaching across the table, she squeezes my hand. “Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
“Me too!” Isabella shouts from the sofa.
Laughing, I grab my glass of wine and move to join her, pulling her into my lap as all the stress of the day washes away.
I don’t set eyes on Logan for the rest of the week, but it doesn’t stop me from constantly thinking about him. In class. During rehearsals. At the dance studio. I search for him when I walk across campus and check my phone religiously in the hopes of there being a text from him.
Yet I’m always disappointed. So by the end of the week I’m wondering if I imagined everything I thought was between us. Or did I just completely misjudge him?
* * *
As soon as I step through the doors of Lux on Friday night, Ben glances up from his phone. His leering gaze trails over me, leaving an oiliness on my skin despite the layers I’m wearing, before he drawls, “You have been specifically requested for a private performance.”
I stiffen. “I’m only supposed to be on stage,” I remind him as an elastic band tightens around my chest, making breathing difficult. At my interview, I made a point of ensuring this job didn’t require me to be on the floor. As uncomfortable as I was when I first started dancing on the stage, I would have been ten times more discomfited if I’d had to work the floor as a member of the waitstaff.
Then, I discovered that Lux offered more than just dancing and delivering drinks. Tara had assured me that the girls partake willingly and that if I didn’t want to, I didn’t have to, but now Ben is looking at me like I don’t have a choice in this, and I feel as though my lungs have forgotten how to function.
I have nothing against the girls who choose to doextras.I understand better than anyone that you will do whatever is necessary to make ends meet, but anything other than being on the stage is a hard limit for me. I doubt patrons want to see me curled up in a ball, mumbling to myself and rocking back and forth because they touched me, and I freaked out.
I’m sure Ben doesn’t want that either. It wouldn’t be good for the club after all. However, I can’t make my lips form the words to express my deepest vulnerability, especially when he looks down his nose at me in that superior way.
“Nothing I can do about it.”
Of course, there isn’t. It’s not like he’s the manager or anything.
Lux doesn’t even provide private shows other than what is offered in the VIP area. This arrangement has been made off the books between Ben and whoever requested me—a thought that makes my stomach sour and nerves take flight as I fight to quell my internal panic. Who is this person? What do they want from me? How can Ben so easily pimp me out like that without even asking me?
I blink dumbly at him. “I can’t do it,” I blurt, voice pitched in panic. “It’s not part of my job description. I don’t have to do it.”
He arches an arrogant eyebrow, lips pressing into a tight line.
The seconds tick endlessly before he straightens, sighing as he lowers his hand holding the phone. “If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine…” There’s a split second of hope before he crushes it beneath his malicious smirk. “You’re welcome to quit, and I’ll find another girl to take your spot.”
Such a fucking asshole. He knows I won’t quit. That I can’t. Like most of the girls here, Ineedthis job. I make more money a night than I would a week in any other job. In such a small town, there are slim pickings for jobs, and most are minimum wage or based primarily on tips—shitty tips that would barely cover my rent.
Normally, the Halston scholarship covers educational fees and accommodation, but the university is renovating one of the student dorms this year, reducing the amount of student housing available.
Accommodation had to be provided to the school's full-paying students first, along with those scholarship students in later years with whom they’d already signed contracts. Which left little old me without any student dorm to stay in. Not even a converted supply closet—trust me, I practically begged for them to offer me that as an alternative.
Instead, I was left to find my own accommodation and means of paying for it. I’d already planned on getting a part-time job while here, but I could have done without the extra expenses eating into my paycheck. The only small mercy is the free food in the school’s dining hall—so you know damn well I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner there.
I hold his unwavering gaze as defeat beats a noxious drum against my chest. He already knows what my answer will be. I do, too, but it takes a moment for the reality to fully register. For me to accept the situation I’ve found myself in.
“No, I’ll do it,” I state in a weak voice, worrying my bottom lip as I try to gather the mental fortitude to do what is required of me.I’monly giving a little, I remind myself.It’s really not all that different from being on stage.
I walk into the dressing rooms as though I’m heading to the gallows, thankful that Tara isn’t there. I’m barely holding it together, and if I had to see her sympathetic face, I’d crumble. Going straight to the rail with our costumes hanging on it, I pause with my hand outstretched, realizing I shouldn’t wear my costume for tonight’s first performance if I’m not in it.
My brain is foggy, and I’m unable to think straight as I stare absently at the other racks of clothing, only managing to snap out of it when the door bangs open and two of the waitstaff stride in, giggling as they gossip with one another.
Unfortunately, I can’t hide out here all night, and the longer I keep Ben and whoever this man is waiting, the worse it will be for me. With unsteady hands, I grab the closest outfit and fumble through getting changed, careful to not thoroughly look at myself as I apply my makeup and slide on my heels before walking out the door on shaking legs.
“He’s in booth number four,” Ben states when I emerge onto the floor, unaware that his words have my adrenaline spiking to dangerous levels. The booths Ben is referring to are large semi-circular areas draped in gauze curtains, which can be pulled to provide an element of privacy or tucked back and left exposed to the rest of the club.
