Chapter 3
Camila
“Shit,” I mumble as I drop my silver hoop earring in the pile of sparkly outfits under my desk.
Kneeling down on the soft carpet, I frantically flip through the various pieces of clothing, throwing them to the side and behind me, looking for the stupid piece of metal.
The green glitter on my suspender belt scratches uncomfortably at my waist as I bend.
Quiet chatter and giggling from the dressing room next to ours mixes with the low rumble of music floating in from the main room of the club.
Found it.
I pull myself back up into my white swivel chair, aiming the earring into my ear.
The mirror’s LED lights shine brightly into my face, giving my light, honey-blonde hair a healthy glow.
Which is a stark difference to those dark circles under my eyes still poking through the makeup.
I normally opt for a more natural look—no one ever stares at your face when you’re up on that stage; they’re only interested in your cleavage or the jiggle of your bum when you move—but I desperately needed to cover the tiredness on my face.
It’s only been getting worse since the radio silence from my past life.
I flip my phone over on the make-up-stained white desk, lighting up the screen.
No new texts. No new threats.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, I flip it face down again and lower my head into my hands, elbows resting on the desk. “Stay gone,” I mutter as I run my fingers through my hair.
“It is heaving out there tonight,” Corrine wheezes as she enters.
I jolt upright in my seat.
That would explain the unusually empty dressing room.
I busy myself with my hair as Corrine dramatically slumps into the chair next to me, blowing a stray strand of black hair from her face. “Your hair is a mess. Let me.” She moves to stand behind me, grabbing the blonde locks into her hands and separating them into sections.
I tap my finger anxiously on the desk and catch Corrine’s chocolate eyes in the mirror, one perfectly waxed eyebrow cocked as tanned hands work to tame my waves back down.
“What?” I question, trying to sound nonchalant, but I probably don’t at all. I’m constantly just waiting for another threatening text to come through. Or for him to jump out at me at any given moment.
“You’re doing that nervous finger tap you always do.”
“It’s not a nervous finger tap. It’s a… habit.” I shrug. “And I had a super busy day. I’d love nothing more than to just get into bed.”
“Busy cuddling Obsidian in bed, recovering from last night’s shift?” she asks, doubt present in her voice.
“Precisely.” I nod, giving her an unconvincing giggle.
She rolls her eyes, a small smile appearing on her face.
Conversation diverted.
I reluctantly pick my phone up again to check the time. I’m due on stage in two minutes. I’ve checked my phone so many times yet forgot to check the clock each time.
I curse and rush out of the chair, bolting towards the door where the corridors glow red.
“Vix!” Corrine calls, and I pause in the doorway, turning to look at the mirror behind her, inspecting my green lace corset bralette and making sure my stockings are in place.
Every dancer has a nickname—we never refer to each other by our real names in the club for privacy.
You never know if there’s a stalker watching you.
Corrine’s right hip is cocked with arms folded across her purple robe—her post-performance cover-up. Over the last year, since we’ve been friends, I’ve learnt to recognise that as her ‘I know you’re bullshitting’ face.
I hate lying to people, especially since Corrine has been my only friend in years since that cursed day on my eighteenth birthday.
She took me under her wing when I first started here.
The girls were friendly, but it was obvious they’d already formed their own cliques.
Corrine has been here the longest, so she’s been appointed a manager of sorts, always fluttering between friendship groups.
I don’t fit in any of their groups. I’m not like them.
I’m broken with a fucked-up past. A past that won’t stop catching up to me.
Dragging her—or anyone—into my life’s problems is just not on the table.
As much as I’ve needed a shoulder to cry on recently, I won’t allow myself to taint her life with my psychopathic ex-boyfriend.
He’s the reason I haven’t allowed her to get too close.
I only share what I feel comfortable sharing, which, honestly, isn’t much.
She has a loving family and a degree she needs to focus on.
I wasn’t so blessed in the family department—nor do I have anything of value to tell her about myself.
I mimic her stance. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’ll see you on the floor.” I blow her a kiss and run towards the stage through the glowing, smooth brick corridors, my black platform heels banging against each other in my hand.
I reach the backstage area—all cables and a plethora of machines to control the lighting, music, and stage screen.
Sam—the lighting and stage technician—widens his eyes at me when he sees me scrambling to get my heels on my feet.
“Vixen, you’re on in ten, nine, eight…” Sam’s voice trails off as the outside world fades away, and I mentally put myself in the role of Vixen.
Hearing the roar of the crowd behind this screen every night sends a rush of energy through me that I only feel when I’m on this stage.
When I can shut my brain off and lose myself to the music. Be someone else for a while.
I take in a deep breath and exhale as the screen lifts up with a quiet buzz, revealing the pole at the end of the stage.
It’s a square stage with a short catwalk extending out into the crowd that ends in a circular shape.
I catch a glimpse of the men in suits already both seated and standing around the stage, ready for my show, before I fully give myself over to the music.
The deep voice of Austin Giorgio floods through the speakers and into my eardrums with ‘You Put A Spell On Me’. I let the sensual pace of the song course through my veins, allowing it to guide my movements.
Seductively strolling towards the pole, I begin my routine. It’s one that I do often, because it gets the men watching every time. Most nights, I come out with two duffel bags of cash after just one performance.
Don’t fix something that isn’t broken.
My set is when the customers throw the majority of their money on the stage. Unlike most dancers, I only come out for one set a night, and I don’t offer private services. They take what they can get off me, and they spoil me to keep me coming back every night.
Here is when I can really feel in control of my body.
It’s empowering being in a place that’s brimming with predominantly men—where they can look but not touch.
Where they, as much as their instincts tell them to, can’t do anything but watch.
There’s power in being able to control them, and I like it that way.
This is me taking back what was once stolen from me and doing it my way.
Throwing my head backwards, I grab onto the pole and let it spin me.
My gaze catches on something—or someone—in a booth at the back of the room, throwing me off course. On the final spin, I slide myself down to the floor and lock onto the stranger’s icy blue eyes.
A fervent feeling washes over me, and I momentarily slip back into myself, completely stunned at his attention. His eyes burn into my skin so intensely that I can feel him tracking every single movement I make. It makes the hair on my nape stand up, the beat of my heart to pick up.
Something flashes across his face, and the tension in his eyes dissipates, thick, dark eyebrows softening. It’s something akin to finding your favourite comfort blanket. In a blink, that look disappears, and his eyes darken as he leans back into the cushioned backrest.
I flow into my next move—albeit shakily—and wrap my thighs around the pole, arching back so I’m hanging upside down, my legs opening into a V.
He’s still staring at me when I turn in his direction after the next few moves.
We’re a good distance away from each other, but his face looks like it was carved by the gods.
All sharp angles and a thick stubble coating his jawline.
It feels like I’m dancing in slow motion, unable to shake the weight of his gaze in that darkened booth.
My heart races as I finish my set, but it’s not from the dancing.
No.
It’s from the stranger who's looking at me as if I'm the only person in the room.
Cheers and whistles fill my senses once more, banknotes flying in the air and landing in front of me, but all I can focus on is him through the rain of money, breaths rapid.
That’s when I notice he’s sitting with two other men, the three enclosed by two security men standing guard to the sides of the onyx booth.
My eyes widen momentarily as I realise who exactly is watching me.
Xander fucking Warren.
My boss.
The owner.
Blood pumps through my veins. Did I do something wrong? Am I about to get fired?
Fucking shit. I can’t afford to get fired. The money I make from here is the only way I’ll be able to save a large amount quickly.
I’ve never met Xander or Jacques Warren, but there are pictures of them outside the main office.
They’re always the talk of the town among the tycoons that attend here.
All in variations of ‘they’re dangerous’ and ‘I heard they’ve been growing their network’.
None of the employees here—including me—are under the impression that everything the men here dabble in is ethical.
Not when this is a high-class club that only the richest of the rich can afford.
I slowly make my way back towards the stage exit, making a show of leisurely flipping my hair.