1. PAIGE
ONE
PAIGE
PRESENT DAY
“MOTHERFU—” My curse is cut off as the car behind me lays on their horn—which is fair, seeing as I just crossed over four lanes of traffic on the jam-packed 101.
The commotion on the freeway is even louder with the car’s top down, and it mixes with the big-band sounds of “Sell Out” by Reel Big Fish as it blares it through my speakers.
Karma strikes immediately, though, as I pull off the exit ramp and see a long line of cars at a dead stop.
Goddamn LA traffic. It’s unpredictability and my poor time management have conspired to fuck me once again.
With my foot on the brake, I lift my chin, trying to look over the line of cars—seeing if it’s an accident or just a random cluster-fuck—but I can’t see anything past the red light at the end of the ramp.
I pick up my phone and tap out a quick message to Jackson, letting him know I’ll probably be late . . . er. I’m already twenty minutes behind, and a groan escapes at the lecture that inevitably awaits me.
Ugh. And then there’s the dislodging of the stick up his ass before he holds it like a baton while he reprimands me.
Usually I don’t have a good excuse. But today’s different. I knew it would be a hard day and I just . . . lost track of time.
I went back and forth about calling out, but I think the distraction will be good. And the money, of course.
My nose twitches through my inhale as the smells of Hollywood resettle in my senses.
After spending the majority of the day over in Venice, the varying scents of the city are more noticeable. I had gotten used to it, I guess, in my year of living out here but . . . I forgot how much I loved the smell of the ocean at home.
I sigh, pulling my eyes back in front of me—willing the traffic to fucking move.
It’s torture. I could probably park my sweet little blue Cabrio right here and walk to the club faster than this.
My fuse is wearing thin. After spending the day in my own personal pity party, I just want to get through my shift. If I make enough money, I even promised myself that I could continue the party back at my apartment later with a solo bottle of sad-girl champagne.
My chest jumps as my phone buzzes, bringing me back to now, and I look down at the screen.
Jackson:
Get here in 10 or I’m giving your spot to Cherry.
My mouth flattens.
Asshole.
And who the fuck is Cherry?
Stupid club names.
The Window is LA’s most exclusive burlesque club. An institution for the upper echelon of Hollywood society where anonymity is required.
They claim the strict use of our club names is to protect our privacy from patrons, but I have a feeling it’s mostly for the benefit of our famous and incredibly wealthy guests.
Either way, given my stellar ability to space out, it makes it all the more difficult to remember everyone’s stupid names.
The stoplight finally turns green and relief lifts my chest. The Window is only a block away—but my heart suddenly drops.
The song changes. A few familiar, heart-wrenching, acoustic chords play through the speakers.
It’s the song I never listen to.
The one I thought I had deleted.
My hand fumbles for my phone to switch it. Not today.
Not today. Not today. Not today.
My thumb trembles, finally managing to unlock the phone and stop the music. I breathe in, still not pushing the gas as my hands grip the steering wheel.
“ You’re okay, Paigey May. ”
Fuck. My eyes slam shut as a line of people pass by me in the left lane, yelling a variety of “ fuck yous ,” but I don’t care—well, I can’t care. All of my energy is going into breathing through the unexpected attack.
Please, stop. This day already sucks so fucking much.
I have no idea who I’m talking to in my head. But I aim the message at my heart, taking a series of practiced breaths.
After a moment, when I’m more calm, when the song fades, I let the voice resurface. “ You’re okay, my girl. ”
I’m okay, I tell myself, nodding. I open my eyes just as my foot abruptly taps on the gas, jerking the car forward and lurching my body with it. My seatbelt does its job, though, and then my pressure on the gas evens out.
Another deep breath. The breeze whips around me with my moderate speed, as I finally pull off the ramp and onto the street, the sky is a heavy set of pinks and oranges, with just a blip of yellow peeking over the mountains.
The Hollywood sign is illuminated in the distance, and I huff a small laugh. It always kind of reminded me of getting your name tattooed on your forehead.
Continuing to focus on my breathing, my heart rate begins to calm, and I mindlessly start to hum the first song that comes to mind.
“Daydream Believer” by The Monkees.
One of Gram’s favorites.
My mind floats to all the times I’d hear the song sneaking its way through the walls while she was washing dishes. Or the countless times I’d hear her humming the chorus out in the backyard while she tended to her garden.
The corners of my mouth tilt as I start to sing it—using her lyrics, of course. She always switched, “Sleepy Jean,” to “Paigey May.”
Her voice follows mine until my singing trails off just as I pull into the public parking lot south of the club. It costs five bucks, but whatever.
Only in LA do you have to pay for parking to go to work.
Maybe that’s not true. But the parking laws are so fucking crazy here, that I’d rather not mess around and get a ticket or towed. And I like that it’s not a far walk from the club since I’m typically not leaving until one or two in the morning.
Before I even park, I’m pressing the button on my dashboard to put the top back on the car.
She’s an old 2002 Cabrio convertible and whenever I utilize the top-down feature, I feel a little bit like the asshole making an eighty-year-old woman stand up to give me a hug.
Once I hear the top lock in place, I grab my keys and bag, lock up my girl, then start quickly in the direction of the club.
After practically sprinting the last five hundred feet, I make it to the big brick building on the corner, but continue around to the back and I put in my code, 2496, on the keypad beside the door.
As soon as it turns green, I pull the door. Glancing down at my phone, I see it’s been eight minutes since Jackson texted me.
I walk over to the tablet on the wall by the bathrooms and put in the same code—waiting for the green check to appear that says “IN” before I smirk.
Made it.
The building is huge. There’s five different showrooms—the Saloon, Drawing Room, Great Hall, the Library, and then there’s the Veranda upstairs for VIP events. I guess the check-in tablet is a way for management to know who’s here and who’s not.
I’m hereee, Jackson.
I snicker breathlessly to myself, before dropping my bag on my usual vanity seat, taking a second to catch my breath, still winded from my little bout of cardio.
“Hey, Blue,” a girl . . . Fuck. What the hell is her name again?
Is that Cherry?
I give her a quick, “Hey,” back, but leave it at that. Clearly, I’m late, so I don’t exactly have time to chat and it will save me the awkwardness of having to ask her name.
Not that I make a habit of getting to know anyone here, anyway.
Thanks to the club-names rule, Rio is the only person who even knows my real name—to everyone here, I’m known simply as Blue.
Real original given that my hair is blue. But I picked the name before the hair color.
Naturally blond, I started dyeing it about a year ago, and it’s kind of fascinating the way the color takes to my hair. The first few days it’s always a bit Smurf-ish, and after a month or so, it fades to an icy silver with a light blue hue.
I like it. It’s weird.
I strip all of my clothes off, but do a quick peek around to see how many people are still in here. The doors open in ten minutes, so other than a couple of dancers still stretching by the doorway, the room is empty.
Quickly, I slide my wristbands and bracelets off, revealing the silvery-pink, puckered flesh around my wrists, and then replace them with the thick lace wrist cuffs Rio made me to go with my costume.
She’s made me a few colors to go with different corsets. It’s been an unspoken kindness she’s done without ever mentioning it to me or asking questions—something I greatly appreciate.
My waist cinches as I tighten my plum-colored corset, giving my petite frame a slight hourglass effect. I pause on lacing it up once I reach my tits—I like to give them till the last possible minute to breathe.
Twisting my hips, I lift my barely-covered backside to give it a quick check, and my lips tilt into a smirk.
If I do nothing else in this life.
Rio’s been working with me on new tricks and, thanks to most of them being of the upside-down variety , my once-flat ass is really starting to become something.
Without sitting down, I start in on my makeup. The big bulbed vanity lights give my pupils that little ring in the center, and I line my eyelids with some purple liner, making the blue in my eyes a nice blend between my corset and my hair.
Shaking out the icy blue strands, I use some spray to lift it up just a bit, but I’m a big fan of the bedhead look so I mostly leave it alone.
I flex my arms and dip one of my makeup brushes in some glitter, using it to outline the light definition in my arms—another thing that’s gotten stronger thanks to my extra work with Rio. I mean, it’s no heavy-weight champ bicep, but there’s some faint lines of muscle.
And now it’s become a preshow ritual.
Outlining my strength.
And Buffy knows, I’ll need it tonight.
I pick up the tube of my darker lipstick, almost a cabernet color, and paint my lips real quick, then step back.
Bam.
Got it done.
I rub my lips together, like I’m mentally rubbing my snark into Jackson—who is nowhere to be seen—but that’s to be expected.
I give him a lot of shit, but the guy works like a machine. I think he’s ex-military or something, and it shows.
After one more look in the mirror, I pull down my corset, only to shove it back up, pushing my tits into little half-moon mounds on my chest, and then lace it up the rest of the way.
Checking the clock on the wall, I see that I have exactly negative minutes to warm up, and I groan, doing what minimal stretching I’m able to do as I start out the doorway and head out into the back hallway.
Performers use the smaller, back hallways during operating hours. It lends itself to the guest experience to not see us unless we’re in place and ready to provide the escapism The Window promises.
My heart ticks up as I pass a few other performers, but I keep my head down and breathe through it.
For someone who is perpetually late, I cling hard to my habits. Getting ready, warm ups, driving routes. The small rituals that help me to keep track—to not forget shit.
Not warming up is going to cost me. Literally.
As I reach the door, I hear Simon making the announcement through the walls.
“Greetings, Eager Spectators,” he teases through the sound system, and a loud applause roars. “Welcome to The Window—whether you’re looking out or looking in, there’s always a view.”
Fuck. This is going to suck. But today was always going to suck.