Chapter 1 #2
When the music starts, I move the way I’ve been taught. I arch, twist, and lean. Look cheekily to the right side of the room. It’s attention and control, choreography and instinct. A small slice of my life where nothing’s demanded of me except my presence.
Luxe doesn’t do fully nude until midnight. So, for now, I’m in a sparkly bodysuit cut high on the hip, sheer down the sides, leaving long lines of skin visible. Enough to tempt but not enough to get the club fined before midnight.
The stage lights are warm and low, painting everything gold and violet. Patrons sit around the runway on half-moon couches, mostly finance guys still in their dress shirts and a few tourists who might’ve wandered in on a dare.
Nobody’s handsy. The bouncers make sure of it.
I move slowly, letting anticipation do the heavy lifting. A slide of my thigh against chrome. A bend that looks lazier than it is. A smile aimed at nobody and everybody. By the time the chorus hits, the whole room is paying attention.
I’m lucky. I know that.
Most dancers start in basements with sticky floors and managers who call themselves protective but don’t know the first thing about what that really entails. Luxe is different. It’s clean and legitimate. Management is reasonable.
Most importantly, we stop serving alcohol at midnight. That way, we can dance fully nude for the rest of our shift. Connecticut law allows it, so long as our cocktails are mocktails made from overpriced juices.
It also helps that the security guards here are ex-military. They have soft hearts and quick hands. They’re protective of the dancers. It’s not perfect, but it’s safe.
And I don’t mind the dancing itself. I even like it sometimes.
It’s money I don’t have to beg for. It’s a job that allows me to be someone who isn’t crushed by responsibility every waking hour.
When I get offstage, Simone goes on. She’s a headliner tonight, and her set is gorgeous. She’s been dancing for a lot longer than I have, so she knows all the best tricks. While she works, I catch glimpses of her on the monitors backstage, check my phone, and prep myself for round two.
Girls usually perform two sets a shift. Three if someone calls out. Tonight, it’s quiet, so I’ll be swapping between the stage and serving customers in a tiny black dress.
By the time I finish my second rotation, the crowd’s warmed up. Simone’s collecting tips. The room smells like perfume and sugar and sweat. I towel off, slide into a new outfit, and head out onto the floor.
Booth ten sits near the edge of the room, where Roland leans back in his seat, nursing something amber and expensive. There are still ten minutes left until midnight, which means he must have made last call.
“Starla, honey,” he says, standing as I approach. “So good to see you.”
“My pleasure, as always.”
I let my hand trail lightly along his shoulder as I sit. He smiles, and I settle into the version of me he expects, all lackadaisical ease and soft, amused detachment.
Roland has the sort of face that’s too symmetrical to trust. Buttoned-up and handsome in that Ivy League way, like he’s never sweat through a shirt in his life. He’s a lot like Beau in that respect.
I cross my legs slowly. “Rough day?”
“Long one,” he says. “The markets were hell.”
“You poor thing.”
His smile twitches. “Tell me something good.”
“I sold six jars of spiced plum preserves and almost punched a man in a café.”
He laughs, fingers tapping the rim of his glass. “How’s the farm?”
“It’s an orchard,” I correct.
He lifts a hand in mock apology. “Orchard.”
“Still there.”
“You ever thought of going commercial? I could see your face on a billboard, Star.”
I laugh. “That would require a lot more heavy machinery.”
“I suppose you’d have to cost analyze the returns,” he mutters. “And the teacher?”
Roland doesn’t just come here for the stellar view and small talk; he pays me extra for information.
Little things like patterns or names I overhear at the bar.
Who tips well and who stiffs me. He’s especially interested in one regular, an off-duty professor who comes in twice a month and never looks directly at any of us.
I don’t know why, and I don’t ask. “Nothing unusual.”
“Pity,” he murmurs, sliding a twenty across the table. “For your time. Maybe next week, you’ll tell me a secret.”
I tap the bill into my hand. “Maybe next week, I’ll have one.”
He reaches for his drink again, but his sleeve catches the base of the glass. It tips, strikes the edge of the table, and shatters across the floor between us.
“Dammit,” he says, half rising.
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, already slipping from the booth. “Occupational hazard.”
One of the larger shards has skidded under the table. I crouch to grab it before someone steps on it, but it shifts in my fingers. A sharp sting slices across my palm.
“Shit, that hurts.”
Blood wells fast, bright and sudden, dripping down the heel of my hand and onto the carpet.
Roland’s face tightens. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I wrap my fingers around the cut and stand. “No worries. I’ve got something for it in my bag backstage.”
“You should have someone look at that.”
“I am someone,” I say, grimacing. “I’ll have Alvina grab you a fancy club soda or something.”
He huffs. “I’m drinking Blue Label.”
“Sorry, Roland. It’s after midnight.” I wave at the other server with my free hand and add, “She’ll get you a refund on the whiskey, too.”
Then I scurry away, palm throbbing with the pain. Backstage, the noise drops to a dull pulse, and I tip my head back, savoring the quiet.
There’s a little tin in my bag, dented at one corner, plum branch stamped into the lid. The salve inside it is deep violet, almost black in this light. It smells faintly of beeswax and fruit with something greener underneath.
I scoop out a little bit with two fingers and smooth it over the cut.
The sting goes hot first, bright enough to make me suck in a breath. Then the heat softens. The skin pulls itself together under the gloss of the salve, neat as a seam being stitched from the inside.
By the time I wipe away the excess, the cut has shrunk to a pale pink line so thin it could pass for a paper scrape.
I flex my hand once. There’s no more pain or blood.
That’s Blue Willow magic. Quiet, useful, impossible to believe if you weren’t already seeing it with your own two eyes. That makes me lucky, too.
I snap the tin shut and toss it back in my bag. Then I strip everything off in reverse. Glitter clings to my collarbone. My thighs ache.
“You look like your regular bored you half to death out there,” Simone calls from her perch. She’s eating fries from a paper bag, eyeliner smudged.
“I’m one bad night away from putting him on our watch list.”
She smirks, popping a fry into her mouth. “That man does not come here for the ambiance.”
“What can I say?” I mutter. “I’m irresistible.”
When I’m finally dressed again, rain is pelting against the dressing room window in a soft, steady pattern. I gather my things, tuck the twenty into the pocket of my jeans, and stand still for a moment.
It hits me then, the same way it does every night when Starla slips away and Isla settles back in. The ache behind my ribs. The knot in my throat. The problems waiting for me back home.
I’m dancing to buy myself time. And time, despite everything I’m doing to stretch it, is close to running out.