Chapter 7 Nina
NINA
The neon sign flickers like it’s as uncertain about this decision as I am.
I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Velvet Nights, taking deep breaths and trying to convince my racing heart to settle down. It’s not cooperating. My hands are clammy against the steering wheel, but that’s just nerves. I can handle nerves.
I stare at that pink and purple neon like it might suddenly spell out a different solution to my problems. But it doesn’t. This is my solution.
It’s my first night working here, and the butterflies in my stomach have apparently invited their extended family over for a rave.
I auditioned at the beginning of the week, and the assistant manager, a no-nonsense woman who smells like cigarettes and has a voice deep enough to suggest the habit isn’t new, hired me on the spot.
I was shocked because all I did was swing around the pole for about a minute while they played some cheesy rock song over the speakers.
It was ten in the morning, the club was empty except for me and the assistant manager, so it wasn’t too hard to close my eyes and pretend I was back in my pole dancing aerobics class.
What confused me was that she didn’t ask me to actually strip. She just wanted to see if I could handle myself on the pole, if I had enough rhythm to move with the music.
“You’re hired,” she said, cutting the music off mid-song while I was still mid-spin around the pole.
I nearly lost my grip and face-planted. “What? Just like that?”
“Yep.” She looked me up and down, all business.
“You don’t want to see me...” I gestured vaguely at my fully clothed body.
A flicker of amusement crossed her weathered features. “There’s no need. You’re attractive, you’ve got the body for it, and you can dance. The rest you’ll figure out as you go.”
Easy for her to say. She gets to keep her clothes on.
Now, walking through the back entrance of the club, the “taking off my clothes” part is exactly what has my stomach doing gymnastic routines. But I don’t hesitate. My nerves can throw their tantrum all they want, but I’ve got bills to pay and a son who needs his medication.
“Good, you’re here.” The assistant manager—Starla, I learned during my brief tour—spots me immediately. “You brought outfits?”
I wouldn’t call the scraps of fabric in my duffle bag “outfits” so much as “strategic cloth placement,” but I nod anyway. Keshia and I spent an enlightening evening online shopping for what she diplomatically called “work clothes.” My browser history will never recover.
“Come with me.”
She leads me to the dressing room, a long, narrow space with mirrors lining one wall and vanity tables that have seen better decades. We pass other strippers in various states of undress, applying makeup and chatting.
“This is your space.” Starla stops at a clean vanity table with an empty clothing rack behind it. “I’m not a big believer in putting off the inevitable. New girls get overly nervous if they wait backstage too long, so you’re up in fifteen minutes.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Trust me. It’s like ripping off a band-aid.
Just get the first time over with, and you’ll be fine.
” She rattles off rules like she’s reading a grocery list. “Don’t leave the stage.
No customers allowed up there with you. Bouncers handle any trouble.
You can go fully nude or just topless, it’s your choice.
Song ends, you get off. Tonight you’re stage-only while you get used to this.
After that, you work the floor between performances.
Lap dances happen in the private rooms. And no glitter.
It transfers to clothes, and wives always know where their husbands have been. We want to avoid that kind of drama.”
She pauses. “Questions?”
About a million, but none I want to ask right now.
“No, I think I’ve got it,” I say.
“Good. What’s your stage name? I need something to introduce you with.”
Shit. Of course there’s a stage name. This isn’t exactly the kind of job where you use your real identity. My mind goes completely blank. The harder I try to think of something sexy and mysterious, the more my brain offers up ridiculous suggestions like “Sparkles” or “Cinnamon.”
Just when I’m about to embarrass myself by asking Starla to pick something for me, a memory surfaces. A deep voice in a hotel room seven years ago, rough with need.
Hand and knees, Temptress. I’m going to fuck you hard from behind.
The memory sends an unexpected jolt of heat through me. That night was supposed to be a transaction—my body for protection from those thugs—but it became something else entirely. Something that gave me Austin, even if the man who spoke those words doesn’t know it.
The confidence I felt that night, the power I discovered in my own desire, floods back now.
“Temptress,” I say.
Starla nods, and I swear I catch the ghost of a smile before she turns away. “Good choice.”
As she leaves, I unzip my duffle bag with shaking hands and grab the hot pink mesh dress. Tiny, bright, and shameless. Perfect for tonight.
I change quickly, trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing. Looking in the mirror, I see someone I don’t quite recognize. Wild hair, bright eyes full of nervous energy, all curves and angles.
Ten minutes down. Five to go.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it’s not visible through the mesh dress.
“You okay, honey?” The woman at the vanity next to mine has been watching me with concern. She’s bottle blonde with the kind of pouty lips that definitely didn’t come from nature.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
I grab my makeup and start applying dark eyeshadow with hands that won’t quite steady. The woman keeps staring.
“You seem nervous,” she says as I finish with my lipstick. “I can help with that.”
I glance at the clock. Two minutes left. “How?”
Instead of pulling out more makeup, she produces a small metal tin from her bag. Inside are little white capsules that definitely aren’t breath mints.
“Just take one, and you won’t just be relaxed—you’ll have so much fun you’ll never want to leave that stage. Nothing like dancing naked while you’re riding the lightning.”
“The lightning?”
She giggles, and that’s when I notice her eyes are mostly pupil. One look at her glassy stare tells me everything I need to know about that particular choice.
“It’s what they call this stuff,” she whispers conspiratorially. “But keep it quiet. Management doesn’t like us using.”
Another stripper in a silk robe walks by and stops, shooting the woman a disgusted look. “What the hell, Candy? It’s not just that he doesn’t like it—it’s automatic termination if you get caught. You know the boss wants us sober.”
“Fuck off, Katie,” Candy mumbles, tucking the tin away with a huff.
Good. I was going to refuse anyway. I can’t afford to lose this job, and I can’t afford to lose focus. I’ve seen what drugs do, watched them hollow out neighbors and burn up classmates. I’m not about to be the next cautionary tale.
I’m desperate, but I’m not stupid.
“Thanks anyway,” I tell Candy, then check the time. “Shit, I’ve got to go.”
I rush out before she can argue, my heels clicking against the floor as I hurry to the stage. Starla is waiting with a headset, gesturing for me to take my position as a man’s voice booms over the speakers, introducing “Temptress” to the crowd.
There’s no time left to overthink this. Nervousness won’t pay Austin’s medical bills.
I have to perform.
Turns out Starla was right. Being thrown into it doesn’t give me a chance to freak out. When I step onto the stage, lights blind me immediately. I blink hard, then deliberately look away from the crowd. I don’t want to see the faces yet. Feeling their attention is nerve-wracking enough.
“Feeling Myself” by Nicki Minaj starts, its driving beat perfect for dancing.
I move to the pole, switching off the part of my brain that wants to analyze and worry.
I’ve practiced this routine every night this week with the pole I set up in my bedroom.
Austin thinks it's for exercise, which isn't exactly a lie.
I lose myself in the movement, muscle memory taking over. The routine flows from one move to the next, my body remembering the grace I found in those pole dancing classes last year.
Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
Time to bare myself to a room full of strangers.
I’ve already kicked off my heels. Now for the dress. I turn around, working the mesh up my body slowly, letting the cool air hit my skin as the crowd’s energy shifts. The hooting and hollering grows louder, and something unexpected happens.
I feel powerful.
Not degraded or ashamed like I thought I would. Powerful. These men want something from me, and I’m the one controlling how much they get. I’m the one setting the terms.
With every move, I remember why that name fits. Temptress. They want what I’m giving, but only I decide how much they can have.
I glance over my shoulder, actually looking at the crowd for the first time. The place is packed, dozens of faces watching me eagerly as I continue to peel away my dress.
Most of them blur together, but for a split second I swear I feel one pair of eyes pin me to the stage. The sensation jolts me, hot and unsettling. I look away before I can search for the source.
Ten minutes ago, the idea of this many eyes on me would have sent me running. Now?
Now I feel like I’m in control.
That feeling carries me through the rest of the routine. I spend most of the song in my lingerie, but at the end, I drop to my knees near the edge of the stage and unclasp my bra, exposing my breasts just as the final notes fade.
The cheering is immediate and loud. Money flies onto the stage—fives, tens, even a few twenties. The sight of that cash puts everything into sharp perspective.
This is why I’m here.
I’m quick to gather the bills, then scurry off stage clutching my discarded clothes to my chest. Without the distraction of music and movement, self-consciousness threatens to creep in, but the weight of money in my hands keeps me focused on what matters.
As I head backstage, my mind is already working, cataloging what I learned. The crowd responded best when I made eye contact, when I smiled instead of looking nervous. The moves that brought me closest to the edge of the stage earned the most tips.
This isn’t about being a victim or selling my dignity. I’m providing a service that people want to pay for, and to my surprise, I think I could be good at it. I’ve found a way to use my body, my intelligence, and my ability to perform to solve my financial problems.
The dressing room is empty when I walk in, most of the other girls probably out on the floor offering lap dances. I grab my robe from my duffle bag and count my tips while I get dressed.
Eighty-three dollars. For one song.
I’m still processing that number when the door opens. I look up expecting to see another dancer, but my entire world tilts sideways.
My chest seizes. My hands go cold. In the doorway is the man who once saved me and ruined me in the same night.
Alessio.