Chapter 6
R ichard's office feels different tonight.
Less theatrical, more functional. The man himself sits behind his imposing desk, dressed in a charcoal suit.
The contract lies between us, that single sheet of paper.
Somehow that makes it more dangerous—like whatever I'm agreeing to is too dark to commit fully to paper.
"You have questions." It's not a question. Richard's voice is smooth, confident. A man used to being right.
"Several." I keep my back straight, shoulders squared. "What exactly would I be treating?"
"Injuries that would raise questions at hospitals. Gunshot wounds. Knife injuries. Occasionally beatings." He says this like he's listing grocery items. "Nothing beyond your capabilities, I assure you."
"And if something is beyond my capabilities?"
One corner of his mouth lifts. "Then we'd seek alternative care. I'm not asking you to perform brain surgery, Ms. Young. Just basic trauma care with discretion."
I nod, trying to look unfazed. "And the legality?"
"Technically, you'd be practicing without a license." He leans forward slightly. "But then, technically, you're already committing tax fraud by not reporting all your... income from the stage."
My stomach drops. Not a threat, exactly. Just a reminder that I'm already compromised.
"The compensation is significant," he continues. "Five thousand per month as a retainer. Additional fees per treatment, depending on severity. All cash."
Sixty thousand a year, just on retainer. More than enough to cover tuition, loans and bills.
"Why me?" I ask, the most important question.
Richard studies me for a long moment. "You're intelligent. Discreet. Hungry. And you understand that sometimes survival requires... flexibility in one's principles."
He's not wrong. The Claire who started med school would have walked out already. But that Claire hadn't dealt with bills mounting. Hadn't stripped to pay for textbooks. Hadn't learned how quickly principles dissolve when reality hits.
"One condition," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "I need guaranteed time for my studies. This can't interfere with my classes or exams."
Richard nods. "Acceptable. Most situations arise at night anyway."
I pick up the pen.
"You're making the right choice," Richard says as I hover over the signature line.
I almost laugh out loud.
The pen glides across the paper, my name in blue ink sealing whatever comes next. Richard takes the contract, tucking it into a folder without looking at it again.
"Welcome to the family, Claire." He extends his hand, and I shake it. His grip is firm, cool. "I believe your first patient is already waiting.
The back room they've set up looks nothing like a proper medical facility.
It's a storage room hastily converted—metal shelving pushed aside, a sturdy table in the center, bright construction lights casting harsh shadows.
But someone has supplied medical equipment.
Good equipment. A proper suture kit. Antiseptics.
Analgesics. Even a portable vital signs monitor.
The man on the table is sweating, pale. Latino, maybe mid-thirties, with a tattoo creeping up his neck. His right side is soaked with blood, a makeshift pressure bandage already saturated.
"Knife," he grunts when he sees me. "Caught me between the ribs."
I snap on gloves automatically, moving to his side. "How long ago?"
"Twenty minutes." This from Ian, who materializes at the door. His eyes track me as I cut away the man's shirt. "Miguel here had a disagreement with a business associate."
The wound is ugly—a deep slash about four inches long, angled upward between his ribs. But the location is fortunate; a few inches higher and I'd be dealing with a punctured lung.
"I need to clean and assess this," I say, already reaching for the antiseptic. My hands don't shake. Shouldn't I be more nervous? "It'll hurt."
Miguel laughs, a pained sound. "Not my first rodeo, girl."
I work methodically, cleaning, probing, assessing. The blade missed anything vital. It needs internal and external sutures, but it's manageable. As I work, I feel myself slip into a strange calm. This is what I'm meant to do—fix broken bodies. The circumstances are irrelevant.
"You've done this before," Richard observes from the doorway. I hadn't noticed him arrive.
I don't respond, focusing on the even, careful stitches. Layer by layer, I close Miguel up, my world narrowing to the wound and my hands. Nothing else exists—not the illegality, not the danger, not the blood money I'm earning. Just the work. The healing.
It takes forty-three minutes to complete. When I finish, I step back, peeling off my gloves.
"Keep it clean. No exertion for at least a week. Watch for signs of infection—increased pain, redness, fever." I recite instructions automatically. "The internal stitches will dissolve. The external ones need to come out in ten days."
Miguel nods, already sitting up. "Thanks, Doc."
"I'm not a doctor," I correct him automatically.
"Yet," Richard adds, looking pleased. "You're not a doctor yet."
I clean up methodically, disposing of the bloody gauze and packaging in a trash bag someone has thoughtfully provided. The rhythm of it is soothing—wipe, dispose, organize. When I finish, I turn to find only Ian remaining, leaning against the doorframe.
"You did well," he says, his voice neutral.
"Thanks." I wash my hands thoroughly in the small sink. The water runs pink, then clear. "It wasn't that complicated."
"That's not what I meant." His eyes are dark, unreadable. "You didn't hesitate."
I dry my hands, considering my response. "Would hesitation have helped Miguel?"
"No. But most people would have anyway." He pushes off the doorframe, moving closer. "Most people would be freaking out right now."
"I'm not most people." The words come out sharper than intended.
"No," Ian agrees, stopping just short of my personal space. "You're not. That's what worries me."
His concern irritates me. "I don't need your worry."
"Someone should worry about you, Claire. You certainly don't."
The use of my real name sends a jolt through me. "Don't call me that here."
"Why not? Isn't that who just performed illegal medical treatment? Claire the med student?" His voice is low, intense. "Or was that Rose the stripper with the mysterious medical skills?"
"Does it matter?" I challenge, stepping closer instead of away. "I did what needed to be done."
"And next time? When it's a gunshot wound? Or worse?" His jaw tightens. "There are lines, once crossed, you can't come back from."
"Lines?" I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "I crossed those lines the first night I took my clothes off for cash. This is just... expanding my skill set."
Ian's eyes darken. "You're playing with fire."
"No," I correct him, gathering my things. "I'm getting paid to put the fires out. There's a difference."
I brush past him, our shoulders touching briefly. The contact sends an electric current through my skin that I refuse to acknowledge.
"My shift starts in twenty minutes," I say over my shoulder. "I need to get ready."
He doesn't try to stop me, but I feel his eyes on my back all the way to the dressing room.
The dressing room buzzes with pre-shift energy. Lilac touches up her makeup while Dahlia stretches in the corner. Saffron is already in costume, adjusting her rhinestone bra in the mirror.
"There she is!" Saffron calls when I enter. "Thought you might be skipping tonight."
I shake my head, moving to my station. "Just had a meeting with the boss."
"Ooh, private meeting with Daddy Warbucks," Lilac teases. "Moving up in the world, Rose."
If only they knew. I apply my makeup with practiced efficiency—heavier than I'd wear in daylight, designed to be seen under stage lights. Contouring to sharpen my cheekbones. Smoky eyes that make the green pop. Red lips that promise things I'll never deliver.
"You look different," Dahlia observes, appearing behind me in the mirror.
"New highlighter," I lie easily, reaching for my costume—a black lace bodysuit with strategic cutouts.
"No, not your face." She tilts her head, studying me. "Something else. Like you've... I don't know. Leveled up or something."
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "Just feeling good tonight."
It's not entirely a lie. There's a strange power humming through me. I just saved a man's life with my hands. Illegal or not, that means something. And now I'll go dance, using my body as both art and commerce. Two different parts of me merging into something new.
The song changes overhead—my five-minute warning. I finish dressing, checking my appearance one last time. Rose stares back at me from the mirror—confident, seductive, untouchable.
"Showtime, ladies!" The stage manager's voice calls from the hallway.
I follow the others out, my heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. The club is packed tonight, the air thick with cologne and anticipation. As I scan the crowd, my eyes automatically find Ian at his usual post by the bar. His face is expressionless, but his eyes burn when they meet mine.
Let him watch. Let him worry. I step onto the stage as the lights dim, finding my mark in the darkness. When the spotlight hits and the music pounds, I move with new confidence. Each twist, each turn, each calculated reveal feels different tonight. More deliberate. More mine.
I'm not just Rose anymore. I'm not just Claire. I'm both and neither.
The men watch, entranced, bills ready in their hands.
After my set, I collect my tips, accepting compliments with practiced smiles. As I move through the crowd toward the dressing room, a firm hand closes around my upper arm. I don't need to look to know it's Ian.
"My office," he says, his breath warm against my ear. "Now."
I could refuse. Could pull away, disappear into the crowd. But curiosity—or something more dangerous—makes me nod instead.