Chapter 13 Nina
NINA
Fire races up my calves as I sink deeper into Downward-Facing Dog, pushing my body harder than usual.
If I’m going to make it as a stripper, every muscle needs to be in peak condition.
“Listen to your body. Bend your knees if you need to.”
Keshia’s voice drifts over the class, but I know she’s talking to me.
She was worried when I came home early last night, and her concern only got worse when I explained what went down at the strip club. I told her I was fine, even though I’ve got fingerprint-shaped bruises on my ass from that biker’s rough hands.
I can tell she feels guilty by the way she’s been watching me all morning like I might shatter into pieces. This job was her idea, after all, and now I’m getting manhandled by leather-wearing psychos in. It’s not her fault, neither of us could have predicted that mess, but try telling her that.
Class wraps up and I’m chugging water, watching the other students pack up their mats and drift back to their normal lives. Must be nice to live in that world.
Keshia lingers to answer student questions, so I wait and pull out my phone.
This morning Starla sent a group text saying Alessio would pay everyone for full shifts despite last night’s chaos.
The relief I felt was embarrassing. I’d only made tips from one dance before everything went straight to hell.
Now I’ve got two days off. The club’s closed on Sundays, and I get Mondays off while everyone works Friday and Saturday nights without exception.
I fish my phone from my gym bag and use a towel to wipe the sweat from my neck. There’s a new message from Quinn.
Sorry about the other day. I’m fine. There was just a family emergency.
Family emergency. I think about those bikers at the cafe, then showing up at the club hours later. If Paolo’s connected to whatever dark shit Alessio’s swimming in, that’s an emergency, alright.
I text back suggesting coffee. Part of me wants answers about those bikers. Who they were. What they wanted.
“Someone interesting?” Keshia appears beside me, pulling her braids back into a ponytail.
“Quinn, that woman I met at the aquarium. She claims yesterday was a family emergency.”
“Makes sense.”
I roll up my mat, mind spinning. “Maybe. But those same guys at both places? That’s not coincidence.”
“What’s the connection?”
“Hell if I know.”
We weave through the gym’s main floor, dodging sweaty muscle-heads and clanging weights. Through the childcare room’s glass door, I spot Austin at a craft table, animated and chattering to a little girl while they both attack their coloring with serious concentration.
“Maybe Paolo owns the strip club,” Keshia says.
“No, that’s Alessio. Or his family, anyway.” I drop my voice as we pass a group of guys spotting each other. “Katie, one of the other dancers, told me his family runs a bunch of businesses. Casinos, hotels, the club.”
“Legal stuff?”
“Maybe. But after watching him handle those bikers? I’m not so sure.”
Keshia doesn’t even blink. Neither did I, really. The way Alessio dealt with those thugs seven years ago, the casual authority when he said he’d erase Eric’s debt like it was pocket change? All signs pointed to someone with serious power.
“Paolo’s probably in it, too.”
Nausea rolls through my stomach as I watch Austin. If these people are criminals, what does that mean for my son? Would they expect him to follow daddy’s footsteps into hell?
“This is insane,” I mutter. “Real life isn’t supposed to be this fucked up.”
“Jesus, Nina. You really know how to pick them.”
I shove her shoulder. “I don’t ‘pick’ anything. Sleeping with him seven years ago was a mistake.”
“And kissing him two nights ago?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying—”
“The point is, I don’t need that drama. Neither does Austin.” I thought about telling Alessio the truth when I realized he was my boss. His attitude made me hesitate. Now I’m glad. If he’s really mixed up in criminal shit, I don’t want that anywhere near my son.
“You think Quinn’s part of it too?”
“Paolo’s definitely involved. He’s got this edge, you know? Like violence is always an option. But then he was so sweet with the kids at the aquarium.” The contradiction gnaws at me. “Quinn said he was a good man.”
Can someone be genuinely kind and still be a killer?
“People are complicated,” Keshia says. “But Alessio’s still a dick.”
I laugh, but it tastes bitter. If I only looked at the last few days, I’d agree. But I can’t forget that night seven years ago. The unexpected gentleness. The way he made me laugh. The connection that felt real.
I’m doing it again. Building fairy tales around scraps of kindness. Foster care 101: when someone shows you who they are, believe them.
“I’m not telling him about Austin. Ever.”
Saying it out loud feels like locking a door and throwing away the key. Austin stays mine. Safe. Untouchable.
Keshia nods as we reach the childcare room. Austin bounces over with his drawing, beaming as he shows me what looks like a colorful explosion with stick limbs.
“It’s Spider-Man!”
My heart melts. “It’s perfect. Fridge gallery, here we come.”
Austin’s masterpiece joins the growing collection on our refrigerator. He studies it with the satisfaction of Michelangelo, then announces he wants to watch Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse.
I settle beside him on our threadbare couch, pulling him close. His warmth against my side and his delighted giggles at the opening credits ease the tension I’ve been carrying.
While he’s absorbed in the movie, I reach for my sketchpad from the side table. Drawing has been my escape since foster care. When the world got too loud, too harsh, too much, I could disappear into pencil and paper. Never had formal training, but it centers me like nothing else can.
I start sketching Austin’s profile as he watches, capturing the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the intense concentration in his expression. He looks so much like Alessio it terrifies me sometimes. The same eyes, the same stubborn set to his jaw when he's focused.
After what I learned about Alessio’s world, I know keeping them apart is the right choice. Austin deserves safety. Stability. Not the kind of danger that clings to men like Alessio.
My pencil moves across the page, shading my little boy’s cheek. This is what matters. These quiet moments. His laughter. His art on the fridge. This is the life I’m fighting to protect.
Tuesday evening arrives too quickly, and I’m back at the club for another shift. Weeknights mean smaller crowds and fewer tips, but I can stretch a dollar when I need to.
I slip through the back entrance but head to the front bar first. Unlimited soft drinks are one of the few perks of working here. We’re banned from alcohol on shift, which is fine by me. Getting drunk in six-inch heels sounds like a fast track to the ER.
I’m mentally rehearsing the new routine I worked out during my days off. Katie gave me intel about repeat customers. Apparently the same lonely locals come in every week, some multiple times. Want their tips? Keep things fresh.
I spent hours online researching songs and moves. Tonight’s jade split is uncharted territory, but I practiced until I could nail it without eating shit.
I’m so focused on the routine that I’m already at the bar before I notice Alessio at the far end.
He’s not alone.
The woman draped over him is magazine-perfect. Platinum hair, golden skin, teeth so white they probably glow in the dark. She’s pressed against him like a second skin, blue eyes sparkling as they murmur in low voices.
Jealousy burns through me, hot and acidic. Two nights ago his hands were in my hair, his mouth claiming mine like he couldn’t get enough, setting every nerve ending on fire.
Of course, he made it crystal clear afterward that he regretted it. Couldn’t even look at me when he pawned me off on someone else. Still, seeing him with her feels like swallowing glass.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
My hands shake as I pour the Sprite. The blonde laughs at something he says, tossing her perfect hair, and I want to march over there to remind her that she’s not the only woman he’s had his hands on this week. The thought makes me feel pathetic.
What am I, sixteen?
I need to get over this. Whatever I thought I saw in him seven years ago was fantasy. We have chemistry. That’s it. And chemistry isn’t worth the knife twisting in my chest every time I see him.
Time to focus on reality. Austin’s medical bills. Building something better for us. Maybe even art school someday.
I grab my drink and head backstage, spine straight and chin up. I might be drowning in feelings I shouldn’t have, but I’ll die before I let him see it.
Goosebumps race down my arms as I turn away. I know he’s watching. I can feel those amber eyes burning into my back.
I turn back and meet his gaze head-on. Twenty feet of space stretches between us, but I can feel the pull like a physical thing. His eyes are dark, unreadable. For a second, the blonde beside him might as well not exist. Then she slides her hand up his chest, and whatever spell that held us breaks.
I turn away again, my pulse racing.
My skin feels too tight, like I might crawl out of it. Whatever that look meant, I can’t let it mess with my head.
I push through the backstage door and don’t look back.
He made his choice. I’ll make mine.