Chapter 30
Hannah
Talk about desperate.
Postcoital dysphoria. Fancy term for crying after sex.
Yup, now I’ve looked it up too.
Turns out, about a third to nearly half of women experience PCD at some point in their lives.
Google says: The emotional intensity of sex, especially in a trusting, intimate context, can create a space where pent-up emotions such as stress, joy, or even relief can surface and be released.
This vulnerability can feel like a safe surrender, leading to tears as a natural response to emotional overflow, not always sadness.
It also mentions hormones, like oxytocin, surging and triggering a cathartic release rather than distress.
Yay me.
So, does that mean that if I feel safe with Sarge, this’ll happen every time? Fuck, I hope not.
It’s been five days since I’ve seen him. Not that I’m counting.
We’ve been texting nonstop, and I want to see him so badly it aches.
He says he’s swamped with work and club business, and our schedules—him on days, me on nights—don’t help.
It’s believable, but a small part of me wonders if he’s avoiding me.
I wouldn’t blame him, not after I nearly drowned him in tears while he was still inside me.
Every time my phone buzzes with his name, my face lights up, and my stomach does this stupid flip, like I’m sixteen again. It’s terrifying how much I love talking to him.
But as I pull into the parking lot at work, the excitement fades, and the anxiety sets in.
I need to tell him what I do for a living.
The thought makes me nauseated. I actually like him, which means his stupid opinion matters to me.
I grip the steering wheel, staring at the glowing Velvet sign like it might rearrange itself into Go Back Home.
This whole thing with him is new and fragile, and I have no idea how he’ll take it.
I haven’t dated since before I started here.
I’ve never had to explain this part of my life to someone who might actually matter.
It shouldn’t be a big deal, considering what he does for “work”.
It’s not like I work here to be what people might call a whore or a hooker. I work here because I like the freedom. The control. The rush of a good night and the thick stack of cash that comes with it.
On this stage, in these heels, I decide who touches me, who gets my time, and who gets told to fuck off.
After years of my mother picking me apart—my body, my clothes, my face—and Collin finishing the job by convincing me I was lucky he even wanted me, I needed something that was truly mine.
Velvet is messy and loud and not exactly socially acceptable.
.. but it’s where I began putting myself back together.
Do I deal with sleazy customers? Sure. But the bouncers keep us safe, and I walk out each night with cash in my hand and my dignity intact. That’s more than I could say I had with my ex.
Every time some guy slips me a bill instead of an insult, every time I go home with more money than said man makes in a week, every time I feel desirable on my own terms, it glues another little piece of me back in place.
I’m not ashamed of my job. Not even a little.
But I can’t shake the fear that he might be.
Bikers like strip clubs. We get plenty of them in here. But I can tell Sarge, or Gavin, isn’t the typical biker. He’s not sitting around sexualizing women, trying to prove he’s the toughest guy in the room.
I don’t know how he will view it. Will he accept it, and accept me for what I do? Or will he throw me aside because I work in sex work?
The sun is just starting to sink as I pull open Velvet’s side door.
The air inside hits me like always—hairspray, perfume, and desperation. Extra thick on the desperation tonight, though. Fridays bring it out.
I head straight for the dressing room, slipping into routine. Hair down, lips glossed, smile in place. I actually don’t mind Fridays; the guys who come in are usually just worn down from another week of breaking their backs. They want to drink, laugh, and forget, and I can offer that—for a price.
The hours blur together under the bright stage lights and bass-heavy music.
By the end of my six-hour shift, my feet ache, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I’m grateful the night passed without drama.
A rare miracle for a Friday. Usually, someone drinks too much and decides that tipping me lets them grab whatever they want.
Some guys can’t help themselves. Seeing my tits isn’t enough; they want to see it all.
Talk about desperate.
I made plenty tonight to justify cutting out of here a little early. The DJ’s latest track thrums through the room, bass pulsing in the air, vibrating up through the floor as I hand over a cut of my tips to the bartender.
She pushes a shot my way. “You deserve it, you’ve been here through both of the rushes tonight.”
I take it in my hand, raising my glass to her. “You’re a saint.” You wouldn’t think everyone in a strip club would be as kind as my co-workers are, but I’m lucky here. It feels like a big, dysfunctional family, which, to me, feels like home.
I throw my head back, feeling the burn in my throat, and pass the glass back to her with a grateful smile.
Next, the DJ. I head across the room to his stand. He’s raised off the floor about two feet, in his own little “box,” if you will—his own area.
“Thanks for playing all my favorites,” I yell over the music and hand over his portion of my tips from the night.
Both he and the bartender get ten percent, per club policy.
I don’t mind it unless it’s a night I didn’t make much.
But he’s always been good to me, and tipping him feels right.
Looking down at me, with headphones around his neck, he offers a quick chin jerk before grabbing the mic to announce the next girl.
Back in the dressing room, the other girls are peeling off their costumes, swapping gossip and laughter over the night’s chaos. I kick off my heels and lean against the counter. “Crazy crowd tonight,” I say, tugging my hair into a loose ponytail. “You guys survive okay?”
“Barely,” one of them groans. “Some dude kept begging me to blow him. I told him I don’t do that. He didn’t want to listen.”
“Should’ve sent him my way,” another offers. She’s been here the longest, hardened by the job and numbing what feelings she can. She’s down for most anything if the pay is right.
We change into comfy clothes and decompress, trading stories for the next half hour until that familiar camaraderie settles over me like a warm blanket.
For a while, I’d go straight home after work, but I learned quickly that it didn’t work for me.
I’d lie there buzzing from my shift, restless and unable to turn my brain off.
Staying after and unwinding with the girls helps. It settles me, brings me down enough that sleep actually feels possible.
A lot of people think exotic dancers are all the same, but we’re not. I’ve learned so much about these women in the eight months I’ve worked alongside them.
Sam’s a single mom who was able to escape an abusive relationship thanks to this job.
Once she’s back on her feet, she’ll move on.
Amber’s a full-time student scraping by because her filthy rich sperm donor likes to act like he doesn’t have an affair baby who needs his help.
So, she works nights and goes to class by day. Superwoman, really.
Then there’s me. I used to do medical billing, stuck at a desk in a stuffy, fluorescent office.
I couldn’t stand sitting in a cubicle for hours on end.
This is better. I feel more alive and less bored.
And hey, I get exercise. Dancing burns a hell of a lot more calories than staring at a computer screen.
By the time I gather my things to leave, the club’s less busy inside and therefore quieter. Blue, my usual guardian, has been pulled to an incident over on the floor, leaving the parking lot unguarded.
The front door bouncer is still there, but that door is on the other side of the building from me. I stand and watch the commotion for a moment, trying to decipher how long Blue will be tied up.
Looks like some wanna-be badass bikers decided it was a good idea to touch a dancer. The staff here doesn’t take that lightly. One guy’s being tossed out; the others are arguing with that decision. Great.
I glance at the exit, weighing my options. It’s late, and the trip to my car is short. One I’ve made many times without trouble. Still, my mind wanders to the what-ifs. Worst case, I’ve got my pink pepper spray keychain, dangling like some flimsy badge of bravery.
I wave goodbye to the girls and head for the side door that opens into the area of the parking lot where I’m parked. Cool night air kisses my skin, and the city hums in the blackness beyond.
They honestly need more lights back here. I guess I’ve never really taken notice before.
With Blue usually next to me, I’ve never cared how little light there is. I’d be lying if I said I feel completely at ease right now, going to my car without him. I’ve grown to enjoy our nightly walks, even if they’re short.
He’s always respectful, never overstepping, and it’s clear from his easy, steady temperament that he sees all of us girls as family, not just eye candy.
My ears ring in the silence. The lot is quieter than usual. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t have my parking lot companion to make small talk with. Whatever it is, my footsteps sound loud on the cracked asphalt.
I keep an even speed, trying to ignore the ball of nerves in my chest. The hum of the scant streetlights is steady, and shadows stretch across the lot, making familiar objects look alien.
A stray car idles on the far side of the parking lot near the front doors.
A distant dog barks. Nothing that screams danger—but my pulse quickens anyway.
The club is in a seedier part of town, but people tend to keep to themselves.
It’s made up mostly of hardworking people who can never seem to get ahead, living paycheck to paycheck.
Unfortunately, that kind of life leads to burnout, depression, and indulging in whatever vice helps them get through the day.
I think, unfortunately, crime follows poverty, and this area is very poverty-stricken. I’ve been watching Murder Mystery and Makeup with Bailey Serian lately. Something about both true crime and the way she tells a story makes me can’t seem to get enough.
I find it fascinating to learn what some people do and why they do it. While interesting, it’s not helping my nerves right now.
All I can think about is how I’ll end up on her show one day. I can picture it now: “stripper murdered in parking lot after being too impatient to wait to be escorted out.”
I make it over to my car and stick the key in the lock. I had a newer car when I was with Collin—remote start, keyless entry, heated seats, navigation. All the things.
He had helped me get the loan, so naturally, he kept it when we split. The fact that he didn’t need another car was irrelevant. He just wanted to “get back at me,” because how dare I leave him?
So now I rock a 1998 champagne Honda Civic. She’s not fancy, but I bought her with my own money, and I take a lot of pride in that. Starting over isn’t easy, but when you’re on the other side of it, it’s so rewarding.
I think that’s a big reason why I have a hard time letting another man into my life. All I imagine is the crash-and-burn at the end, and me having to rebuild myself. Again.
I turn the lock and open the door, beginning to place my things in the passenger seat before I climb inside and start the engine.
I hear tires crunching over the poorly paved asphalt lot and tell myself not to freak out.
Cars use parking lots; it’s normal. It’s okay.
I can make it to my car without Blue. He doesn’t always need to babysit me.
Even after my short pep talk, I find myself rushing through my normal end-of-shift routine. I want to get in my car and lock the doors, just as a feel-good security measure.
Thankfully, I’m no longer clad in threads disguised as clothing, so I don’t stand out as one of the club’s dancers.
But I’m still a girl alone at one in the morning in a dimly lit parking lot.
I think it’s fair to say this is the last time I come out here without Blue.
I may be a strong, independent woman, but the sounds of the night are creeping me out.
And the hum of a car engine sounds far too close for my liking.
Finally angling myself to plop into the driver’s seat, I’m stopped cold—hands clamp over my mouth and nose from behind.
Before I can scream, I’m lifted and dragged backward. My keys slip from my fingers, clattering to the ground. The heels of my Converse scrape uselessly against the pavement as my arms fly out, desperate to grab hold of something. Panic claws up my throat, icy and constricting.
The world tilts and spins, and hands push and pull at my body from all angles. Those hands then shove me into the dark interior of a waiting vehicle. The door slams behind me with a bone-jarring finality.
Loaded like cargo, I struggle to steady myself as I’m dumped into an empty seat. Before I can even think, the car jerks forward, nearly yanking me out of my seat.
What. The. Fuck.
There is no way this is happening to me. I hear stories like this all the time—hell, I’m entertained by them. But now it’s me?
I’m the one taken in the middle of the night and shoved into a car. Great. Based on what I’ve learned from YouTuber Bailey Sarian, this doesn’t often end well.
I force my shaking hands into my lap, trying to steady my breathing as I take in my surroundings. It’s a huge SUV, styled out like a limo with bench seating wrapping around the back. But that’s all I manage to see before something is yanked tightly over my eyes, and my arms are wrenched behind me.
A scream rips up my throat as I twist and thrash, trying to get free. Hands—too many of them—grab and restrain me. At least two people. They’re fast and forceful.
I slam my back into the seat once I realize I’m bound. No chance of breaking out anytime soon.
“Now, about that introduction,” a man’s voice drawls from the far corner of the vehicle—smooth, smug, cocky. I can’t see him, but I know that voice.