Page 124 of Divine Temptations
The bass thumped so hard I felt it in my bones, every beat rattling through my chest like a second pulse. Strobe lights flashed in rapid bursts, washing the room in neon pinks and blues, and the crowd pressed in tight around the stage, drinks sloshing in raised glasses.
A bachelorette party had practically taken over half the bar—sashes, tiaras, plastic diamond rings, the whole nine yards. Normally, those nights made me want to roll my eyes into another dimension. A bunch of drunk girls shrieking over mostly-naked men wasn’t exactly my scene. But tonight? Tonight their wild energy was a balm, something loud and silly to drown out the storm still raging in my chest after Henry.
I rolled my hips in time with the music, leaning into the edge of the stage, sweat slick on my skin, and the women went wild. One of them screamed, “Take it off, baby!” so loud my ears rang, and I couldn’t help but grin.
Then, before I even registered what was happening, two of them staggered forward, heels wobbling on the sticky floor, and scrambled onto the stage. “Oh, hell no,” I muttered, though my grin widened for the crowd’s benefit. The taller one immediately wrapped herself around my arm like we were old lovers, while the other grabbed my waist and tried to grind against me, hair falling into her smeared lipstick.
“Ladies, ladies,” I said, laughing through the mic clipped to my waistband. “Rule number one—no touching the merchandise.”
They howled at that, the crowd egging them on.
“Oh, come on,” the one on my arm slurred, her breath hot with tequila. “Just one dance!”
“You’re already dancing,” I shot back, wiggling my brows at her. “But my boss doesn’t pay me enough to let you break the rules. So unless one of you’s planning to stuff a fifty in my waistband…” I trailed off, holding my hands up like I was just the messenger.
That got another round of shrieks and laughter.
The shorter girl tried to pout, but it looked more like her face was melting. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m loads of fun,” I said, spinning away from her. “Fun you’re not allowed to have.”
They finally gave up, wobbling their way off the stage—until one of them misjudged the step. She let out a squeal and went down like a felled tree, tiara bouncing off her head and skittering across the floor.
I cracked up before I could stop myself, giggles spilling out as the bouncer, a mountain of a guy named Tony, strode over. “Alright, ladies,” he said in a voice like gravel, “time to call it a night.”
The girls protested, slurring out excuses, pointing fingers, clinging to each other like they were auditioning for Drunk Bridesmaids: The Musical. The whole scene was ridiculous, and I was still half-laughing when my gaze shifted past them, just beyond the flashing lights and raised drinks.
And there he was.
Henry.
For a split second, I froze—every muscle in my body tightening like I’d been caught in a spotlight I couldn’t step out of. What the hell was he doing here? Did he really think he could just walk in, bat those guilt-ridden eyes at me, lure me into another night, and then vanish again before sunrise?
Hell no.
But then I caught the look on his face.
Not lust. Not arrogance. Fear. His pale blue eyes darted like a trapped animal’s, his shoulders hunched, as if just being in this room was a battle. And something in me cracked. It had to have taken every ounce of courage he had to step foot in Babylon, a place that screamed queer at the top of its lungs. And for one aching moment, sympathy stabbed through my anger, sharp enough to leave me breathless.
The music thundered to a close. The announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system: “Give it up for Solomon, everybody! And next up, you know him, you love him, the man, the myth, the muscles—Hercules!”
The crowd erupted as Hercules bounded onto the stage in little more than a loincloth, flexing like some gay Greek god made flesh. I pasted a grin on my face, gave the crowd one last playful wink, and slipped off the stage. My pulse was still hammering as I headed for the dressing room, every step heavy with the knowledge that Henry was out there.
Backstage, I sat hunched on the ripped vinyl couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the scuffed linoleum like it might offer me a way out. The air was thick with cologne, sweat, and the faint tang of cheap whiskey—every dancer’s perfume mixed into one. My name was still on the lineup, second set looming, and I was praying against it like a man begging for divine intervention. Maybe the DJ would forget. Maybe the sound system would blow. Hell, maybe the ceiling would cave in. Anything to keep me from stepping back out there and seeing if Henry was still in the crowd.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. If he’d left, I’d feel gutted. If he was still there, I’d come apart. My chest was tight either way. The other dancers moved around me, snapping g-strings and spraying themselves down with body glitter. I just sat there with my heart pounding, knowing the second I walked out, I’d find my answer.
The announcer’s voice cut through the haze, harsh and final: “Put your hands together for Solomon!”
My cue.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the silver waistband clinging to my hips. My palms were clammy. I’d been hiding out in the dressing room for the past hour, willing Henry to take the hint and get the hell out.
But as I stepped back onto the stage, my chest squeezed. Half the bar had cleared out, the drunk bachelorette party long gone, leaving behind a scatter of crumpled napkins and lipstick-smudged glasses. The lighting was dimmer now, softer, like the night itself was winding down. Music thumped, low and sultry, vibrating through my bones.
And then I saw him.
Henry. Standing right there in front of the stage like he’d been waiting for me. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, but his posture was still stiff—like he was bracing against some invisible storm.
