Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Novalee
Exhaustion and desperation can’t really be masked by vanilla body spray but fuck if the locker room at Euphoria doesn’t try.
I’m sitting on a bench, my back against the cold metal lockers, freshly done with my stage routine. Everything aches, from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, but that deep, familiar pain in my chest is worse.
The one that never really leaves.
Tonight, everything feels off. My body is shaking, my muscles scream, and I’m still feeling nauseous as hell. The aftermath of Koen’s mind games has stuck with me, lingering in my bones like a sickness I can’t shake.
Fuck him.
My fingers twitch, an old itch resurfacing, begging for relief. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt, right? When he’s not even here? Just enough to take the edge off. But I know better now.
After I got home from that so-called training with the twins earlier, I tried to drink, hoping the burn of whiskey would wash it all away—Koen’s coercion, the intensity, the loss of control. I’d made it halfway through the bottle before I puked it all up like Koen had intended.
That fucking bastard.
The memory of his smirk makes my blood boil. He wants me sober, needs me sober, for whatever they’ve got planned. And now? Now I can’t even numb myself, can’t take the edge off the pain the way I used to. No alcohol. Just… me.
Rawdogging life.
I tug at my pink wig, my fingers trembling, but I stop myself from pulling it off. Who would’ve thought that doing my job sober would be this fucking hard? Glitter is supposed to be untouchable, magnetic, but tonight, she feels fragile. The thought of facing everything—the Lane twins, my own emotions—without alcohol feels impossible.
You can get through this, I tell myself again. The truth is, I’m not so sure I can.
I let out a shaky breath and lean my head back against the locker, staring up at the ceiling, trying to keep the tears at bay. I can’t go home, not like this. The idea of going back to that tiny, cluttered apartment and facing the silence without a bottle in my hand makes my stomach turn. I need something to take the edge off, something to get my mind out of this spiral.
If I can’t drink, then I need a different kind of high. I need someone.
A body.
Vortex is out of the question, thanks to Hottie, but Vegas has no shortage of clubs. There’s always someone willing to fill the void, but even thinking about it feels hollow. Empty. Cold.
I’m so fucking tired of this.
I close my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on my chest, suffocating me. My fingers dig into the velvet of the bench beneath me, searching for anything to anchor me. The itch for oblivion creeps up my spine, but instead of giving in, I let my mind drift to somewhere warmer.
Tuscany.
I force myself to picture it, dragging my thoughts away from the neon haze of Vegas to sun-drenched hills.
The air is thick with the scent of lavender and warm earth. Fields of gold and green stretch out beneath a sky so wide it feels as if it could swallow me whole. Cypress trees line winding dirt roads, their dark silhouettes cutting through the soft, golden light of the late afternoon.
The ache in my chest loosens a little. I can almost feel the warmth on my skin, the way the sun seeps into my bones, chasing the chill away.
The faint rustle of olive leaves in a breeze so gentle it’s like a whisper against my cheek.
In this imagined space, the weight of expectation lifts. There’s no need to be Glitter, no need to be anyone but myself. I inhale deeply, the imagined scent of vineyards and wildflowers filling my lungs, pushing out the stale air of the locker room. I let my mind wander to the feeling of dipping my toes into a cool stream, the pebbles smooth beneath my feet.
The quiet is absolute, a blanket of calm wrapping around me—no pulsing music, leering eyes, or grasping hands.
My fingers loosen their grip, the tremors fading, and the tears that had threatened to fall retreat.
I’m not whole, not yet. But I’m not breaking apart either.
You can get through this, I tell myself again, and this time, it feels a little more true.
When I open my eyes, the fluorescent lights of the locker room are still harsh, the air still cold, and the desperate edge is gone .
I’m still here, still breathing.
Just as I’m about to pull off my wig and call it a night, Carl strides into the locker room and comes to stand in front of me, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve got a private booked,” he says gruffly.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I huff, letting out a dry laugh. The universe wouldn’t let me off that easily. I know I could say no. God knows I’ve turned down clients before, but the idea of walking out of here, out into the Vegas night sober and alone, feels like a worse fate than dancing for some drunken asshole with a handful of cash.
“All right,” I mutter, pushing myself to stand.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror as I stand. Glitter stares back at me, looking flawless despite the cracks I feel inside, so I tug the straps of my G-string, adjusting them. It’s all about the illusion, right? I’m good at this.
As I make my way toward the private rooms, the familiar buzz of the club hits me again. The sound is usually grounding, something that keeps me in the moment, but tonight, it’s merely noise.
My body feels heavy, as though I’m dragging myself through water, each step harder than the last. I don’t have a choice but to keep going because if I stop, if I let the cracks show, I’ll break. And that’s something I can’t afford.
Stopping in front of the private room, I force a smile onto my face as I adjust the strap of my heel. My hand reaches out to push the curtain aside when I hear it.
“Sparkle!”
The sound cuts through the thrum of the club, unmistakable.
Fuck.
I turn toward the voice and watch Hottie weaving through the room, his eyes locked on me. My stomach twists, heat crawling up the back of my neck as I snap my attention back to the curtain. I can’t deal with this right now.
Pushing inside, I shut the curtain firmly behind me and take a moment to compose myself. The guy already sitting on the velvet couch looks up at me, his business suit impeccably tailored, his expression neutral but polite.
“Hi,” I say with a practiced smile, stepping fully into the room and letting Glitter take over.
But then I hear Hottie again, just outside the room.
“I just need to talk to her for a second,” he insists, and I can already picture him standing outside with Carl, even taller than the bouncer.
“She’s booked for a private,” Carl grunts, his tone clipped and annoyed. “You can wait like everyone else.”
“How much is a private?”
The businessman in front of me raises an eyebrow, glancing toward the curtain as if he can hear the conversation as clearly as I can. I stay still, my heart racing, my body tense.
“A thousand,” Carl replies flatly, his tone daring Hottie to back down.
There’s a pause, just long enough to make the businessman and me exchange a glance before Hottie’s voice comes again.
“I’ll double it. And the same amount for you. Cash.” There is some ruffling. “Here.”
The businessman lets out a low whistle, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Well, looks like that boy’s in love,” he murmurs, standing and adjusting his cuffs like he’s not at all surprised by the turn of events. “Make sure to pluck that chicken good, sweetheart. Have a good night.”
I can’t even manage a reply before the curtain parts, and Carl steps in with his usual gruff demeanor. “You’re out,” he says to the businessman. “Diamond Diva will take care of you.”
The man shrugs, offering me a small smile as he walks out without a second glance. And then Hottie steps in, his presence filling the room like he owns it, the curtain falling shut behind him. He’s a wet dream come to life.
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
Dammit, I need to stop doing these privates.
“Sparkle,” he says, but it’s a plea, tugging at something deep in my gut that I don’t need stirred up right now.
I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just hear me out.” He runs a hand through his messy hair, trying to play it cool, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away. “I’m not easy to handle, okay? I feel things… deeply. Maybe too much. But—”
I cut him off, not in the mood for this bullshit and ready to fucking bolt. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You pulled me in. Then you spit me out like it was nothing. And it’s driving me fucking crazy.”
My pulse quickens, but I keep my face neutral.
What the fuck is even happening?
“You’re in my head. I can’t shake you off. And I’m not here to play games or bullshit around. I… I need to know what happened. Why you pushed me away.”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but his words are hitting all the wrong places. Or maybe all the right ones. Either way, I need him gone, even if he does have beautiful gray eyes.
“I—”
“You were into it.” He steps closer, his gaze pulling me in. “Then you just—” He breaks off, running a hand over his face, his frustration simmering below the surface. “Fuck, I sound insane.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, but it’s hard to hide how my heart is racing now. “And if you’d shut up for a second, I could tell you that you didn’t do anything, but I don’t want to talk. I can dance, or you can leave.”
I want to get this over with, grab my cash, and be done with it. Done with him . So, when he looks at me and doesn’t say anything more, I step over to the wall, hit play on the sound system, and the music swells around us. He watches as I push him back onto the couch, his body sinking into the plush velvet, completely willing.
Moving into the rhythm, I let Glitter take over. The music pulses through me, but the usual high I get from performing is still absent. I dance anyway, swaying my hips and sliding my hands down my body, hoping the moves will distract him from whatever conversation he’s trying to have.
“Sparkle.” He tries to talk to me again, but I keep moving.
This is a private dance, so I should be on his lap, but that is dangerous territory.
He watches me intently, his hands resting on his thighs, and there’s tension in him that looks ready to rip. His eyes follow my every move, but I can tell he’s not focused on the dance—his eyes never leave my face.
I want to spin around and give him my back, but before I can take another step, his hands are on me, firm but not forceful, gripping my waist. He pulls me onto his lap, and the sudden shift sends a shock through my body like a live wire.
His scent floods my senses—warm leather, amber, a hint of tobacco and weed clinging to him. It’s so intoxicating that I forget where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing. I shift on his lap, feeling every inch of him beneath me, the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers of fabric between us.
“Can you stop that shit and talk to me?” he asks lowly, seriously, back to pleading.
For a second, I think about pushing him away, about getting up and fucking leaving. Instead, I settle in his lap, my legs on either side of him, his hands steadying me. It feels almost too natural, too easy.
I watch as he struggles— really struggles—to keep his eyes on mine and not on my tits, which are practically in his face. It’s kind of funny how he keeps darting his gaze up like he’s trying to be respectful, but I can see the effort. He’s trying, and for some reason, that makes me soften.
“What happened?” His voice catches me off guard. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… vulnerable. “What did I do? Did I… hurt you?”
The question lingers, heavy and uncomfortable. It wasn’t him. I was into it. Into him . It’s not his fault he triggered something buried deep. I can’t tell him that. I won’t. He deserves something , though. I’m not so cold-hearted as to let him think he crossed a line.
“No. You didn’t do anything,” I say, quieter than I intended. “It was probably a bad trip.”
“A bad trip?” His brow furrows, suspicion all over his face. “From weed ?”
“Seems like it.” I shrug. “Sorry.”
He studies me, his gaze too sharp, like he’s trying to pick apart my thoughts. Like he knows I’m lying.
God, I’m so done with human lie detectors for one day.
His fingers flex on my hips, but he doesn’t push. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says slowly. “I hope you know I’d never do anything you don’t want.”
“You didn’t do anything that wasn’t consensual. But I learned my lesson. I won’t be smoking weed for a while. ”
I have no idea how long that will last, though, if I can’t use alcohol as a crutch.
He leans back, his hands still resting on my hips, his touch steady, grounding. “Deal.”
I blink. “What?”
“Let’s turn the weed down a little,” he says casually, but the way he’s watching me isn’t casual at all.
My defenses snap up. “Why would you do that?”
Isn’t this guy always at least a little high?
His eyes stay locked on mine. “Because I figured… I’d rather be in the moment with you.”
“The moment is more enjoyable when you’re high.” I try to cling to the distance I’ve built between us, but it’s slipping. His thumbs start tracing small circles on my hips, drawing me in piece by piece.
It was hard enough to keep him at a distance when I was drunk, but this? This is torture.
He leans in, close enough that his breath skims my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Lately, you’re the only thing I want to be high on.”
Fuck. My pulse stutters, a nervous laugh escaping before I can stop it. He’s getting too close, too real.
“My freakout didn’t scare you off?”
“Baby, if anything, it made me want you more.” He groans. “I was so damn close .”
Right, this is about fucking.
It’s just sex.
I can do sex. Hell, I did that for years. My mushed feelings are because of everything that happened today. Not him.
It’s not him.
A reluctant smile edges onto my lips, and I’m trying to keep it cool, keep him at arm’s length, but it’s hard when his eyes are pinning me in place like this. “What if I’m a pillow princess?”
“I love a pillow princess.” He grins, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Keep your eyes on me and take it. I’ll handle the rest.”
Shit. Heat flares through me, but I swallow it, forcing myself to think. To remember why I’m supposed to keep my distance. Why I shouldn’t let him in, but the way his hands are now moving slowly up my thighs, is making it harder to hold onto the reasons.
“When are you done here?”
“After your dance,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Am I really making an exception for him? Again?
“Well, consider your dance done.” His grip tightens, barely enough to pull me closer, to keep me grounded in his orbit. “You gonna take me home with you, Sparkle?”
I should say no. I should tell him to leave and walk away before it gets messy again. However, the thought of being alone tonight, of facing the empty silence, the cold, is unbearable. And honestly, he’s better than some random body to get through the night.
It’s just sex, I remind myself.
“If you’re asking nicely.” I bite my lip, my hand resting on his chest.
In one swift motion, he grabs my chin, pulling me into a kiss. His lips are soft, but there’s an urgency in the way he nips at my bottom lip like he’s asking for more than I’m ready to give. “Please, baby,” he whispers against my mouth roughly, desperately. “Please take me home.” For the first time tonight, I feel something other than anguish. And God help me, I want to say yes. “ Yes? No? Maybe so? ” he murmurs the words against my lips, waiting, holding me on the edge .
Fuck it.
“Yes,” I whisper. He smiles against my lips, kissing me again but harder this time. After a few moments, I break the kiss and grab his hand, pulling him up from the couch. “Come on, I need to grab my stuff.”
Pushing Hottie out of the room, I nod at Carl to let him know he doesn’t need to follow me. He raises his eyebrows but stays put, so we walk through the club, then the dark hallway, and into the locker room, where the music from the club fades to a low thrum. The second we step inside, girls who are lounging around in nothing but their stage outfits start to giggle and whistle.
Yeah, Hottie is fucking fine.
He immediately throws a hand over his eyes like a kid who has walked into the wrong bathroom.
“Oh shit, sorry,” he exclaims while the girls lounging around burst out laughing.
“Aw, look at the gentleman!” one of them teases.
“We show you ours if you show us yours,” another chimes in, throwing a towel at him.
He grins, still shielding his eyes. “Sorry, ladies. I’m off the market.”
The catcalls only get louder, the laughter ringing through the locker room. I roll my eyes, a reluctant smile on my face as I pull my wig off. “All right, all right. Cool it.” I grab my duffel from my locker, then pull on a pair of ripped jeans and a cami before slipping on a hoodie and grabbing his free hand again. Pulling him out of the locker room, I say, “You know you’re in a strip club, right? There is nothing in there you wouldn’t see on stage.”
“I didn’t watch any of them on stage,” he retorts, and I don’t know why, but it sparks something in my chest.
When the door to the locker room closes behind us, I come to a halt and smile up at him. “It’s safe to look now.” He cautiously peeks through his fingers before dropping his hand. “Off the market, huh?” I ask as I zip up my hoodie. “I told you I don’t date,” I remind him as we head toward the club’s back door.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not off the market,” he counters smoothly.
As we step out into the Vegas night, the cooler air outside hits my face, a welcome relief from the club’s heat. His bike is parked down the street, and the neon lights from the Strip get absorbed by its matte-black finish, an illusion fitting for Vegas. He pulls me along, his hand warm in mine, until we reach the bike, where two helmets wait.
“You had a second helmet ready?” I ask, crossing my arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “Were you that sure I’d come?”
He grins that same cocky smirk that makes my stomach twist in ways I wish it wouldn’t. “Nah,” he says, holding the helmet up like a peace offering. “I’m optimistic.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, but take the helmet anyway. Before I can slip it on, he steps closer, taking it from my hands again.
“Let me.” He slides it over my head, and pulls me closer to fasten the chin strap, his fingers brushing against my skin. “We need to make sure it’s tight. Ez’s head is big.”
I blink up at him, confused. “Who’s Ez?”
Whose fucking helmet do I have on my head right now?
“My brother.” He tightens the strap, then he steps back, admiring his handiwork for a second. “There.”
I still don’t know his name.
“Your brother lets you borrow his helmet?”
“Eh, not exactly. I’m sure he’ll live.” He winks, and as he moves to pull on his helmet, music starts up inside mine. Familiar music.
Wait… is that…
“Is this… Backstreet Boys?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up as the first few notes of “I Want It That Way” fill my ears.
Hottie glances at me through his visor, grinning as he adjusts his helmet. “Oh, yeah,” he admits innocently while strapping his chin. “My phone’s connected to my helmet, and yours to mine, so we hear each other. You know… for safety.”
I stare at him, trying to suppress a laugh. “It’s Backstreet Boys .”
He shoots me a smug grin as he climbs onto the bike. “You don’t like them?”
I fucking do, but that’s not the point.
“Why the hell are you listening to that?”
His grin widens. “They’re my favorite.” Then, without missing a beat, he yells dramatically along with the music, “Tell me why-y!”
I can’t help it, I laugh. The reality of this hot, tattooed, and pierced bad boy jamming to Backstreet Boys is ridiculous.
Hottie helps me onto the bike behind him, and it’s easy. I slip onto the seat just like last time, my hands naturally finding their way to his waist. For some reason, being on the back of his bike feels safer, more comfortable than driving in a car.
Probably because there are no memories attached to it.
I press myself closer to him, my arms wrapped around his solid torso as the engine roars to life, and then we’re off. The wind whips through the small gap in the helmet, and the city blurs around us, but all I can hear is him singing along to the music at the top of his lungs. It’s absurd. And yet, it makes something heavy inside me lift a little.
“Why Backstreet Boys?” I ask over the hum of the engine and the blaring music .
He chuckles, his voice crackling through the helmet. “Started it to annoy my brother. Backfired. Now I’m into it.”
“Your brother… Ez?” I press, holding on tighter as we speed through the city.
“Yep. I’ve got four brothers.” Then, after a moment, he asks, “What about you? Got any siblings?”
The question hits harder than I expect, and I freeze, the memory of Rosalee flashing through my mind. The smile, the laughter, the glitter gone like a snapped string in the dark.
“No,” I answer softly, the weight of the word sinking into me as I hold on tighter. “I don’t.”
Not anymore.