4. LYLA
Chapter four
I moved down the alley that ran behind The Sacrifice, raced up the steps, and pressed my hand to the palm scanner beside the back door. It flashed green and beeped. The lock clicked, and I hurried inside.
The hallway was dim and humming with the bass from the club. The door slammed behind me, sealing out the chilly night air.
Dammit, I was late.
I made a beeline for the dressing room, jogging up the narrow stairwell to the second level.
The club had been open for hours. Music pounded through the walls, drowning out my thoughts, but it did nothing to alleviate the nerves crawling up my spine.
Carlos was going to murder me. I should be going on stage at this very moment.
I burst through the door of the dressing room, breathless. Two other girls—Nina and Jade—were halfway through their costume changes after performing their first double.
“You’re late,” Nina muttered, tugging on her sheer corset and eyeing the clock. “Carlos is gonna flip.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, stripping off my hoodie, T-shirt, and jeans.
My body ached from the long day, my knee still throbbed, and I was starving, but there wasn’t time to dwell on any of it.
I threw on the outfit laid out on my dressing table—a barely-there hot pink bikini trimmed in sequins and paired with a gauzy sheer skirt that wouldn’t survive a single grope if I got close enough to a handsy patron.
I yanked my hair into a high ponytail, grabbing my false lashes and liner.
That was when the door banged open behind us.
Carlos Hernandez stepped inside without knocking.
The other girls scattered, slipping out of the room like smoke.
I froze, clutching my top while I held my bikini bottoms halfway up one leg.
His eyes dropped to my bare chest, then to my ass. “Jesus Christ, girl. You got a watch?”
I yanked the bottoms up and snapped the top into place, turning to smile at him like nothing was wrong. “Sorry, Carlos. The audition ran long. But I’m ready. No worries.”
He took two steps toward me, real slow. Then he lifted his hand and slapped me across the cheek.
I reeled but didn’t fall. The sting flared hot.
“You make this club look bad, you make the boss look bad,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know what happens to girls who make us look unprofessional? They end up in a fucking dumpster in Jersey.”
I blinked and forced a tight-lipped smile. “Right. Of course.”
“Get your ass downstairs. Now.”
He turned and slammed the door behind him.
For the first time since performing here, real fear gripped me. My hands trembled as I painted on my stage face—liner, lashes, lips. I’d been wearing stage makeup since I was four years old, but I’d never had to apply it with my hands shaking and my heart beating this fast, my cheek still stinging.
I didn’t look in the mirror for long. Just long enough to breathe.
And then I bolted.
Carlos stood by the stage stairs, scowling. “Don’t fuck this up,” he sneered.
It was all I could do not to roll my eyes.
I climbed onto the low scaffolding just off stage left, my bare feet gripping the cold metal as I steadied myself. The overhead rigging was already locked to the top of the pole, ready for me to swing out.
“Let’s go, sweetheart. Time to give ’em something to drool over,” a stagehand muttered, thrusting the pole into my hands.
I didn’t respond, just tightened my grip, braced my core, and pushed off.
The rig caught my weight as I flew out over the stage.
The move was smooth and practiced, muscle memory taking over.
The men in the crowd below clapped, whistled, and muttered filthy things to their friends as the spotlight cut through the haze and followed me toward center stage, where I hung suspended in midair.
The momentum carried me forward while I shifted my grip, and my thighs scissored up the pole to catch and climb. In one smooth motion, I twisted into a jade split, stretching my torso into a deliberate, sultry arch. The hot pink sequins scattered light like embers across my skin.
I transitioned into a controlled spin, sliding into a butterfly, then rolled back into an inverted crucifix, my muscles firing as the burn bit deep—because control always cost something.
My toes sliced through the air, pointed and perfect, while my body coiled down the pole like smoke poured in human form. I wasn’t dancing—I was showcasing.
Each movement was engineered to hit the rhythm perfectly on cue, to tease without trying too hard.
The sheer skirt fluttered as I dropped into a shoulder-mount spin, flipping upright just long enough to let the spotlight shimmer across my skin.
Then I leaned back, slicing my legs open into an inverted straddle with a slow grind—a move that was practically a dare—only the pole between me and their hungry stares.
My hips rocked into it with dancer’s control, teasing tension from the crowd.
The bills started to fly, fluttering onto the stage—a silent tribute for my willingness to please, to stir their desire.
A group of men at a table close to the stage leaned forward, hypnotized, caught between lust and awe as I continued.
I never looked at them directly. That was part of the magic.
I was above them, out of reach, all illusion.
I’d practiced this set for weeks. Refined it. Perfected it. I’d drilled it until it lived in my body, until every climb, spin, and tilt dripped with confidence and sensuality.
And tonight, they were eating it up.
It used to feel like flying—like freedom.
Now? Now it was just survival.
Ever since the accident—ever since that bastard had ripped something away from me I couldn’t get back—I danced because I had to. Because it paid the rent. Now, I was alone on a stage in a club full of strangers who desired pieces of me I didn’t want to give.
The music slowed. I hit my final spin, dragging one leg into an arc, my toes brushing the air as I descended. My feet kissed the stage. I stood and took a sweeping bow.
The crowd erupted. Catcalls. Whistles. More bills.
I smiled and waved as though it meant something.
Then I walked straight offstage left, into the dark.
Carlos slapped my ass as I went by. “Now, that’s what we pay you for. But if you’re late again? The boss is gonna take it outta you—one pound of flesh at a time.”
I was going to walk away without a word, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers biting in just above my elbow, and dragged me to a halt.
He leaned in too close, his breath sour in my nose as he whispered, “Careful, princesa. Overconfidence gets girls replaced.”
I tensed but didn’t flinch. He squeezed tighter.
“You’re only here because the boss thinks you’re building value.” His eyes raked over me. “Let’s hope you don’t fuck that up before he cashes in.”
I swallowed hard. “Let go of me.”
He did—with a final, dismissive shove. “Go change.”
As I turned, the stagehand hurried over with a stack of bills.
“Here ya go, sweetheart. Great dance,” he said, stuffing the thick wad into my palm before disappearing again.
“Thanks,” I said, looking down at the cash, noticing lots of Benjamins. I was a huge draw for this place, pulling in loads of cash. They might threaten me, but I knew my worth, and so did they.
Officially, the house took a twenty-percent cut.
But who the hell knew what got skimmed during the sweep—how much got slipped into pockets as the money made its way from the stage to my hand?
I never saw the full pile, just whatever they decided to pass along.
Still, it was more money than I could make anywhere else in a single night, and they knew that.
Arguing wouldn’t get me anything but a hard time.
I hated having this much cash on me. The dressing room wasn’t secure—no locks. Just some sketchy lockers. There was the constant threat of someone taking what wasn’t theirs.
And then there was the walk home. Alone. At two in the morning. With no one watching my six and nothing but a half-empty can of pepper spray to defend myself with.
Back in the dressing room, I peeled off the glittery pink getup and tossed it onto my garment rack, swapping it out for the second costume of the night—same skimpy design, this one black with silver trim.
I blotted sweat off my chest and collarbone, reapplied highlighter, reshaped my brows with a swipe of tinted gel, and redid my lips.
The downtime between sets wasn’t that much, but it was mine.
I didn’t do private dances or circulate around the floor.
Occasionally, I was required to sit with some VIP, have a drink, and play nice.
It was gross—rich men trying to grope me while I dodged their hands and fed them whatever sweet nothings they wanted to hear.
But today, I stretched out on the couch with my phone, scrolled through my rather pathetic social media accounts, checked audition boards, watched a couple of reels for inspiration, and skimmed a rejection email.
On a brighter note, I’d received a callback for a show I’d auditioned for a while ago—next Thursday at noon.
I flagged it and set a reminder. Another day, another shot.
A few of the other girls filtered in and out.
Some prepped. Some chatted about the Champagne Room, which they’d been invited to dance in.
One was sobbing into a makeup wipe over something her boyfriend had texted.
I stayed in my corner, sipping water. Twenty minutes before I had to go on stage again, I stretched and warmed up, ready for this day to be over.
My second performance passed in a blur.
Finally, a little before two in the morning, I was finished. I changed into the oversized hoodie and baggy joggers I always brought with me to hide my curves as I walked home. I shoved everything else into my backpack and crept out the back door, dragging the hood up over my head.