3. PAIGE
THREE
PAIGE
There isn’t enough glitter in the world to give me the strength I need to get through this night.
Having spent the day in heavy emotional ruin—I’m realizing now, I’ve made a mistake. Surprise, surprise.
I shouldn’t have come in tonight, and I knew it. I knew it was a mistake, and I did it anyway.
Why?
It seems to be a sweet little habit I’ve adopted —challenging my own intuition. Maybe when you’ve experienced the scummy bottom of humanity’s floor, there’s just this reckless seed that plants in the cracks of your brain.
Though, I think part of me just wonders if the predictable thing will happen. And usually it does.
Like now. I’m working in the Saloon, and there are only three poles built into the bar—which means I should be making a shit ton of money.
But since my head is not here, I’m flailing through my tricks. My body isn’t stretched or warmed for the way I need to bend and climb —to entertain.
My arms physically shake as I work to lower myself back to the bar counter, with what should be an easy corkscrew spin— but with the back of my calves hooked around the pole, my knees land with an uneven thud, and my face scrunches.
“You okay, sweetheart?” I hear a man’s voice that I don’t recognize lift over the music, and my teeth clench.
Great.
I take a second, continuing to sit on my knees. My chin stays tilted down toward the bar, curtaining my eyes behind the blue strands of my hair, while my hand still holds the pole at my side.
I imagine the sight as a contrasting art piece—instead of a happy boy hugging his arm around his best friend, it’s a sad stripper hugging her pole. Light and warm meets shadowy and dark.
Sounds like something he would think of . . . the thought slips into my brain so unexpectedly, I gasp.
Oh, fuck no. I cannot deal with both of my life’s tragedies swirling and twirling together like spaghetti fucking hellfire.
No.
Finally, my eyes peer up, surprised to see a man looking at me, curiously. Right, someone asked if I was okay.
I put all my energy into tilting my lips in a smirk, but it still might look like a scowl because he shuffles off.
Wait! No. Money . . .
Dammit.
I pop up to my feet, but even now I can feel the soreness setting into my tightened muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackson weaving through the crowd.
The guy may be pushing fifty, but he’s built like a mountain. His biceps are the size of my thighs and then some, and his buzzed salt and pepper head towers over the enthusiastic men that decided to wear top hats tonight.
The Window is . . . theatrical if nothing else. And as it turns out, rich people get bored easily, so they’ve started promoting different themed nights.
Tonight is Gentleman’s Night. My eyes suppress the urge to roll at my own reminder.
I start to move, but it’s jagged and I wince.
You came here. Make some fucking money.
I grab onto the pole and start walking around it slowly, building some momentum, but I attempt to keep my focus by watching Jackson as he heads toward a guy in a dark jacket and jeans.
Ooo. I bet he’s getting kicked out for not adhering to the dress code.
Honestly, I’m surprised the guy made it past the door. All the guards wear black T-shirts and black jeans—but that’s as casual as it gets here.
Stacking my hands, one on top of the other, over my head, I grab the pole and do a quick fan kick, earning me whistles as some bills are thrown at my feet. I drop my lower half over, kicking my leg out into an allusion to scoop them up, flinching when my inner thigh pulls.
Ow! I might as well have just done a full fucking split, cold turkey.
But I manage to hide it and keep moving. If I stop now, it’ll hurt worse when I try to move again. I tighten my thighs and start to walk around the pole once more. Building momentum. Watching.
If I was the kind of girl who still noticed things about men, I’d say the guy Jackson is in fact kicking out is pretty cute. His hair is too light though. It needs to be darker, closer to black. The brown eyes need some green, a little gold . . .
Focus.
Jackson and another guard move the guy along, and I let my eyes fall to the men surrounding the bar area, ordering drinks, and I take a breath.
My legs are already aching, my shoulders sore. My head is caught somewhere between this room and the moon.
Closing my eyes, I do some cheap moves, swaying my hips, rolling my neck, and rustling my hair.
Summon the energy of desire. Want.
“Fucking gorgeous,” I hear some guy call out below me and my eyebrows flinch.
Just make some money.
My mind starts to manipulate the empty words from below to a raspier voice. Heady, even.
Keeping my eyes closed, I let the noise in the room fall away, even the music, and it’s enough to find . . . him.
In my mind, anyway.
A bad idea, but I think that’s my thing today.
And . . . I need him.
Imagining his eyes on me, my chest lifts.
The hazel pools of his gaze would glisten as they watched me from below the bar. Just him.
His eyebrow would lift in that quietly confident way that made my heart skip a beat.
My heart stutters and I gain energy with my movement. I use it to start climbing the pole, fighting through the pain in my shoulders as I reach halfway up.
I lock my thighs around the cool steel, then let my upper half drop backward, hanging upside down.
It’s sloppy—and I can feel it as the pole smashes between my shoulder blades. A whimper threatens to escape, but I bite my bottom lip and screw my eyes shut.
Breathe. Focus.
Him. I imagine him right at eye-level with me. His face right in front of mine. A dark lock of his wavy hair would fall over his brow as he chuckled, his chin tilting at my upside-down state.
The imaginary sound tickles through me as I think about the sexy smirk he would give me.
I hear his voice, rumble, “ Fucking gorgeous ,” and a warmth spreads through me, my core tightening.
I use every bit of strength I have to move.
“ Keep going, Pip. ”
Using the momentum from lifting my upper-half, I quickly grab the pole with both hands and hook my ankle around it, twisting to give myself some power before I kick both of my legs out and sustain it.
It earns me a roar from the crowd below. I’m using the right muscles, but they’re not ready and I feel a sharp pinch somewhere in my back.
Still, I don’t stop.
I use his eyes. Him.
The sad stripper and her pole. Dancing for her other ghost.
As soon as I push through the door to the staff hallway, my Bambi legs wobble into full effect.
I lean — well, fall— into the wall just outside the door, then twist, so that my back presses up against it, helping to keep me upright.
The cool surface of the smoothed concrete practically sizzles on my hot skin, my muscles still pulsing.
I tilt my neck back and forth. God, ow. My shoulders feel like they’ve permanently merged with my fucking neck.
Ugh. My chin drops. I want to slide down to the floor, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get back up.
Suddenly, a pair of slender, dark feet are in front of me. I can tell by the black ballet flats that they belong to Rio and my eyes flinch.
I peer up. Even with my heels on, she’s a few inches taller than me. Her caramel color eyes are lit with admonishment, making the fine lines in her dark brown skin just slightly more visible.
My eyes blink, taking in the variety of bright colors she’s wearing. A sage colored kimono with big fuschia hoop earrings and intricate purple and black braids woven through her hair tied up in a bun.
She stares at me, not angry but expectant, and I sigh.
“Sorry,” I sign, genuinely. A sign I know well.
Rio is deaf, but she was also the prima ballerina of some ballet company in San Francisco until they made her retire at the ripe old age of twenty-six.
I’ve watched some videos of her performances online. She’s fucking incredible. Her inability to hear gives her such a unique connection to music and movement—it’s beautiful. Even when she’s just walking around, you can see that she moves to this internal rhythm. A commanding presence.
I don’t know how old she is—midforties maybe? Not that it matters. She can still dance circles around any one of us. But her standards are also incredibly high.
She sighs, signing, “That was dangerous. You could have really hurt yourself.”
Damn her. I didn’t even see her out there.
I don’t even have time to sign my case before she’s invading my space—twisting me around, and I yelp as she uses her voice to tell me, “Stand up straight.”
I listen without a second thought. Never have I ever met someone with such an even display of drill sergeant and momma bear energy.
She presses between my shoulder blades, and I wince.
“Mhm,” she drawls, and I feel her sass slither between my ears as she holds the front of my shoulder and gently pulls my arm back, forcing another flinch from me. Dammit.
My knees continue to shake, and she turns me back toward her. She signs something, but I’m too busy trying not to fall to the ground to catch it.
I bend my right hand and tap my fingertips to my left palm, signing, “Again,” asking her to repeat the signs.
As with everything in my life, I‘m a work-in-progress with my ASL skills. Gram taught us some when we were little—she’d trace letters on our backs, and we’d spell them back to her using the ASL alphabet. Gram and I even picked it back up after she had her stroke six years ago.
But signing conversationally is a whole other ballgame. Luckily, Rio’s a good teacher, and she’s patient with my spacey ass.
I watch carefully as she signs again, slower.
Rio can and does use her voice, but I know she prefers signing. The only other person I’ve seen her do it with is Jackson, and it makes me feel . . . something resembling the idea of special. So I really try.
And I gather she’s telling me she wants me to come in early tomorrow to test the injuries.
Fuck. She’s going to pull me.
“I’ll be fine,” I sign quickly, pinching the imaginary penny between my shoulder blades, straightening my back. But really, it just feels like I’m being stabbed in the back.
Rio grimaces, signing, “We’ll see. Be here at five, sharp.” It’s an order, but her eyes hold a warmth that soothes some of the ache in every part of my body. With a parting pat on my shoulder, she continues past me, gliding away like a goddamn angel as she walks down to one of the rehearsal studios at the end of the hallway.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I let my body slump, but a muscle between my shoulders spasms, and I hiss through my teeth.
Fuck. I can’t afford to lose more money. Tonight was a bust. And tomorrow night I’m in the Drawing Room—the highest roller room aside from the Veranda.
After a few breaths, I start to hobble my way back in the direction of the dressing room. Halfway down the hallway, I have enough sense to take off the heels.
Dumbass.
My arches scream as I walk—the thin material of my thigh-high stockings my only barrier between my feet and the floor.
Which does look pretty clean, for such heavy foot traffic through show hours.
But I don’t care. Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
Just get back to the apartment. Go to sleep. At least tomorrow won’t be today.