chapter 18
Remi
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, AND CLUB Caliber is packed with bodies. Tonight, it’s full of men in boots and cowboy hats, so I assume there’s some country-music star in town.
I finish my set, collect my top and the bills from the stage, then head backstage. On my way, I glance through the crush of bodies to the VIP booths in the back, but I don’t see James. Not yet, at least. He’s usually here by now.
Five-inch heels clacking on the floor, I walk down the hallway and into the dancers’ dressing room. And as soon as I open the door, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of . . .
“Is that pizza?” I ask as I step into the room, still clinging to my top and dollar bills.
A few of the girls look up at me. They’ve all got paper plates of pizza held in front of them, and open pizza boxes litter every flat surface in our dressing room. There must be ten of them.
What the fuck?
“Mirage!” Fantasique calls from where she’s sitting at the table, wearing a skimpy yellow bodystocking while wiping a smudge of pizza sauce from her chin. “This is for you.” She grabs something off the table and holds it up to me, her glittery inch-long nails catching the overhead light.
Crossing the room, I tip my head at the folded paper she holds out to me. “What is it?”
Fantasique rolls her eyes, false lashes fluttering. “Just read it.” She holds it out to me, waving the note back and forth while taking another bite of pineapple pizza with the other hand.
Brow furrowing, I take the note, then carry it back to my locker. I put my money into my zipper bag, change into one of the lingerie sets James likes, then finally grab the note and unfold it. A typed message stares back at me.
I can’t stop thinking about this pizza.
Or you.
See you soon, Tiny Dancer.
—S
My breath catches in my chest.
“So, who’s S?” Shania asks, and I glance over my shoulder at her as she scoops another piece of pizza onto her plate.
“Whoever he is,” Fantasique says, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “he’s in love with her.”
My eyes flash to her. “No, he’s definitely not.”
She arches a thin brow, full lips pressing into a smirk as she gestures to the numerous pizza boxes littering the room. “Then what do you call this?”
Some of the other girls in the room murmur their agreement.
I look at the note again. Looks like it was printed at the pizza place and delivered along with the food.
See you soon, Tiny Dancer.
—S
It’s been almost two weeks since Sebastian was last here, but it feels like so much longer than that.
I’ve been trying—and failing—not to count the days until I see him again.
LGC was in the studio this week working on their new album, so Sebastian couldn’t leave Cali.
But he’s coming to visit me again on Monday.
Just thinking about it, about seeing him, makes my stomach twirl like it’s the one on the pole.
Behind me, the door to the dressing room opens, and Dolly leans in to say, “Hey, Mirage, your regular is here.”
Her words snap me out of my daze.
James.
I turn and lift a hand to her. “Got it. Thanks.”
She nods once, then heads back out onto the floor.
“Don’t let him see you looking like that,” Fantasique says.
I slide the note into my locker before going to one of the mirrors to touch up my hair and makeup. “Like what?” I ask while wiping a smudge of mascara from beneath my eye.
“Like that.” She waves a hand at me. “You look lovestruck, honey.”
A zing goes through me, straightening my spine. I meet my own eyes in the big mirror. Do they look more twinkly than usual?
With a quick shake of my head, I grab the straightener that’s lying on the vanity and pull it through my hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say to Fantasique.
She just clucks her tongue at me.
Hair and makeup now touched up, I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then draw a breath and head back out onto the floor.
It’s hot and stuffy in here despite the AC pumping, and Bunny is onstage dancing to one of Beyonce’s country songs, making the wannabe cowboys holler as she takes her top off. I move through the crowd, searching the VIP booths for James.
When I find him, he’s already looking at me, watching me weave through the crush of people, and I immediately go into Mirage mode: small detached smile, air of caring just a little less than he’d like me to.
I step up to his booth, where he’s sipping at a half-empty glass of gin, though he can’t have been here for more than ten or fifteen minutes. He already looks ready for a refill.
“I wondered if you were coming to see me tonight,” I say as I lean a hip against his table.
His pale hair and the flecks of gray in his trimmed beard catch the light. He’s wearing a tie, but he’s already loosened it, even though that’s something I usually do for him once we’re in a private room together.
Shrugging one shoulder, he takes another drink from his glass before saying, “Long day. Work kept me.”
He told me once that he’s in private equity, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. All I know is that he’s here every Friday night, in this booth, nursing a gin while he waits for me. And that’s all I need to know.
Absently, he rubs at the ring on his left hand with his thumb, though I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
And suddenly, without meaning to, I’m thinking of Sebastian again.
Would he ever be like this? Go to strip clubs on Friday nights while his wife is at home?
I see a lot of married men in here; some aren’t even ashamed of it.
Sure, sometimes couples come in together, and there are plenty of female customers in Caliber as well.
But I’ve always felt disenchanted by it all.
A small voice in my head says, Sebastian would never do this.
But maybe that’s just the part of me that likes the idea of a fairy tale—even if fairy tales aren’t real. I’m living, breathing proof of that.
James swallows more gin, then gestures at me with a lazy hand. “Let’s go.”
I try to push Sebastian from my mind, giving James a small smile as I grab his bottle of gin and his free hand and lead him down the dimly lit hallway to a private room.
Usually, I take him into my favorite one, but that’s the one I took Sebastian to, and tonight, I don’t want James in it, don’t want him sitting where Sebastian sat.
So, at the last moment, I swerve and lead James into a different room instead.
He arches a brow as he steps inside. “This is different,” he says.
I close the door and toss a smile at him over my bare shoulder. “It’s good to change things up. Don’t you think?”
Slowly, he sinks onto the couch, then puts his glass of gin on the low table beside him. With a long sigh, he says, “I like routine.” Then he worries at his wedding band again, spinning it once around his finger.
“Well, I think a little excitement would be good for you.” I give him a playful smile.
Finally, this draws a small breath of low laughter from him. Maybe he really did have a long day at work; he feels uptight tonight, more on edge than he usually is.
I move to the panel on the wall and select a song, then put the bottle of gin down before easing myself onto the small platform in the corner. There’s no pole, just an elevated stage area, big enough for one dancer.
James watches me through narrowed eyes as I start to dance. He likes slow movements, lots of teasing, with a long buildup. And that’s fine with me; for some reason, I’ve felt a bit off the last couple nights, not totally in my body, stuck in my head.
And that reason has brown eyes and a dimpled smile.
I run my hands down my body, trying to ground myself in this moment as James watches me dance. But no matter what I do, Sebastian keeps creeping back into my head.
Tonight’s Friday, which means three nights from now, I’ll see him again. Part of me is nervous, which is unusual, but the other part of me is giddy with excitement, like I’m a little girl again, counting down to Christmas morning with Riley, begging our parents to please let us open presents early.
“Come here.” James lifts a hand, beckoning to me. I’ve barely finished one dance, but his impatience is clear on his face, and he keeps curling and uncurling his fingers where they rest on his thigh.
I step slowly down from the platform, then grab the bottle of gin before striding across the room to him, letting him watch me as I walk. His glass is empty, so I add another two fingers from the bottle, then set it aside and ease into his lap.
I’ve been giving lap dances for years, and I’ve given more to James than I can count. But tonight, when one of his hands finds my waist, it makes a brief sensation of wrongness flutter through me.
I flinch away from his touch without meaning to, and his brow furrows just a fraction.
“Your hand is cold,” I say, trying to disguise my reaction with a smile and a small laugh.
But it isn’t, and given the way his eyes narrow just a bit, I think he knows it.
Trying to make up for my moment of vulnerability, I take both his hands and place them on the dip of my waist, then try to lose myself in the moment: my body moving, the low red light glowing down over me, the music drifting from the speakers.
Usually, I don’t need to lose myself when I’m working. But things feel different this week, and I’m still desperately trying to convince myself that it has nothing to do with him.
We’re halfway through our first hour together, and my top is already off, when James sighs and says, “You’re distracted tonight.”
I’m perched on his knees, facing away from him, grinding my ass against his lap, so thankfully, he doesn’t see the expression that crosses my face. Whatever it is, I’m sure it would’ve just given me away, confirmed that his suspicions are right.
“You’re right,” I say, tossing my hair, then twisting around, letting him watch as I run my fingertips across my nipple piercings. I crawl into his lap again, then whisper into his ear, “There’s pizza backstage, and I’m starving.”
He makes a small sound, kind of like a laugh, and when I pull back to look into his eyes, they seem softer.
It’s the truth: There is pizza waiting, and I really am hungry. But that’s not what has me distracted. And I really can’t let my clients see me like this.
I have to get it together. Now.
“I haven’t had pizza in . . . a long time,” he says, and his tiny confession surprises me. When he does speak during our time together, it’s never to reveal anything about himself.
“Why not?” I ask, running my hands up his chest to his already-loose tie and loosening it just a bit more. “You private equity guys too good for a slice?”
That warrants another small laugh, but he averts his eyes, quietly saying, “Yeah, something like that.”
But he doesn’t explain further, and I don’t press.
For the rest of our time together, I stay focused, not allowing my mind to drift.
I speak to James when I can tell he wants to talk and stay silent when he just wants to watch me dance.
And when our two hours are up and he leaves after putting two hundred dollars in my hand, I let out a tight sigh, partially relieved and partially frustrated.
I make good money off of my private dances, and if any of my clients start to feel like I’m distracted and not totally engaged with them, they’re likely to hire someone else. And I can’t let that happen—not with Riley’s tuition, and my bills, and my retirement account, and—
Stop. Everything’s fine.
I draw in a steadying breath, trying to calm myself.
I’ve had a weird week, that’s all. This happens sometimes. Next week, when James comes back in, I’ll make sure not to give him any reason to doubt my attention.
Things are slowing down in the club, and my shift is over. So I return to the dressing room backstage, and by some miracle, there’s still some pizza left. I grab myself two slices, get my cell from my locker, and then sink into a chair at the table just as my stomach growls.
I haven’t texted Sebastian back since earlier today, when we were debating the worst horror-movie clichés, and I decide to snap a quick selfie: my hair a bit of a mess, mascara smudged again, and a slice of pizza held up to my lips.
Without overthinking it, I send it to him, along with a text.
Thanks for thinking of me. Really needed this tonight.
It’s more vulnerable than I’m used to, but I think I’m too tired to care. And as I sit back and take my first bite of lukewarm pizza, my phone rings.
When I look down, it’s a FaceTime call. And it’s from him.