Chapter 17 Nelly
NELLY
Four days ago…
[Almost present day]
Club Midnight, Seattle's Central District
Swiping my access card, I pushed through the back entrance of Club Midnight, the heavy door giving way to familiar darkness that smelled of cleaning solution and lingering perfume.
My fingers immediately found the beaded bracelet at my wrist, a habit I couldn't shake.
The skin beneath it was still slightly damp, which was good.
The blocker needed to stay to work effectively, and I couldn't risk anyone discovering what lay beneath my carefully constructed facade.
Not when Crystal had stuck her neck out to get it for me, and certainly not when this place represented the only dancing I might ever do again.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in an unflattering fluorescent glow that made the walls look sickly.
I nodded to the back door bouncer, a mountain of a man whose name I'd never learned, as I clocked in. He barely acknowledged me; his eyes were fixed on his phone. That was fine. I’d rather be ignored than force small talk.
I moved through the employee area of the club, heading towards the dressing area.
The club always felt alive, though in daytime it was sleepier.
It seemed to cloak around me each time I entered, and that feeling contrasted strangely with my final memory of Imperial.
I could still close my eyes and hear the echoing hollowness as I walked out after getting my severance.
"Cutting it close tonight, Lucky," said the bartender as I passed the back service area. He was stacking glasses, his movements precise and economical. Lines of liquor were loaded onto a rolling cart, preparing for the night.
"Still fifteen minutes early," I replied, not breaking stride. The stage name still felt strange sometimes. Like I was being ironic, using it only because my life was anything but lucky.
“Fifteen minutes is cutting it close for you,” he observed.
“That’s because I’m pathologically punctual."
He laughed, the sound echoing off the empty glasses and bottles.
Arriving far earlier to work than necessary on most day was an old habit, just like the way I ate and the early hour I woke. Imperial always demanded perfection in everything, including timekeeping. Being fifteen minutes early there would have been considered late.
I moved into the changing area, the hum of music through speakers changing into the buzz of getting ready for business.
Six women occupied the room, all in various stages of undress.
The air was thick with hairspray, perfume, and nervous energy.
Unlike the disciplined silence of ballet dressing rooms, this space absolutely shook with raucous laughter, shouted advice about makeup techniques, and music from several different phones creating a jumble of competing beats.
"There she is!" Crystal called out from her vanity. Her platinum blonde hair was piled high on her head; her eyes already lined in dramatic black. "I was beginning to think you'd finally figured out you’re too good to strip. Maybe even got a better job offer.”
"From who? The Seattle Ballet?" I snorted, dropping my bag onto my chair. "I think that ship has sailed, crashed, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean."
A mixed-up pang of regret and grief shot through me. I pushed it away with practiced ease.
"The ballet world doesn’t know what it’s missing," Crystal said, her voice softening. She was the only one who knew the whole truth. The only one I fully trusted here. "Everything good?" She asked next, the question loaded as her eyes dropped to my wrist.
I nodded. "Yep, everything’s great."
She smiled, then turned back to the task at hand: layering on stage makeup that seemed garish under normal lighting.
I went to my own vanity, sitting down to face the three-paned mirror which reflected my face from different angles.
I stared at myself, searching for changes that might signal who I was becoming.
My hair was the same ginger, though looser now, freed from the severe bun I'd worn for years.
My hazel eyes were perhaps a bit sharper, more aware of the world's harsh realities.
The freckles dotting my nose and cheeks hadn't faded, though they were currently hidden beneath thick foundation.
I usually did my first makeup steps at home, finishing the job at work.
I leaned closer to my mirror self, examining the face that used to appear in arts sections of newspapers and on Imperial’s website.
"Rising star of the ballet world," articles once called me.
Before my body failed me. Before surgeries.
Before two years of rehabilitation had ended with rejection from the company that had promised to welcome me back with open arms.
"You're doing it again," said a voice beside me. Jade, one of the newer dancers, slid into the next seat. "Staring like you're trying to solve a mystery."
I smiled, caught. "Just checking if I've grown horns yet."
"From working here?" She laughed while applying false eyelashes with surgical precision. "Honey, if anything, this place has been good for you. You look healthier than when you started."
She wasn't wrong. I'd gained a little weight since moving to Seattle.
Not much, but enough that my collarbones didn't jut out quite so sharply. My muscles had changed too, developing differently from working the pole. Stronger thighs, more defined arms. A dancer's body still, but built for different movement, different expression. Still though, when the scale moved up five pounds, then six, I’d cracked down. The worries had flooded into my brain, almost drowning me. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the harsh reminders from my teachers over the years.
A heavy ballerina makes a bad partner.
Lifting a whale’s bad for the back.
Primas should be dainty, light on their feet.
"Tonight's going to be busy," Jade continued. "A bachelor party and a frat house."
"Good," I said, beginning my makeup routine. "I could use the money."
"Couldn't we all," she replied, standing to adjust her bedazzled bodysuit.
I watched her move, noting the confidence in her stride. We were all performers here, just as I'd been on stage. Different audience, different choreography, but the essence remained the same: tell a story with your body, create a fantasy, get paid.
Shifting focus back to readying myself, I rifled through my belongs for the pitch-black liner. As I slipped the dark point over my lids, I wondered, not for the first time, if I'd want to return to ballet if given the chance. The answer used to be simple without hesitation.
Yes, in a heartbeat, without question. But now...
Now I knew what it felt like to dance without the constant fear of not being perfect. I knew the wild freedom of improvisation, of feeding off an audience's immediate reaction. I'd discovered muscles I never knew existed, strengths I hadn't recognized in myself.
Ballet had been my religion, my identity, my past and future. Its loss had nearly destroyed me. But in the darkness of Club Midnight, dancing for hungry Alphas, existed a version of myself that I was beginning to appreciate.
"Five minutes, ladies!" The floor manager's voice cut through the chatter.
I stood, unzipping my hoodie and pulling off the loose sweatpants to reveal the deep blue corset and thong beneath. The outfit had silver accents that would catch the light when I moved. I stepped out of my comfortable shoes and traded them for mile high heels.
Crystal appeared beside me, adjusting my shoulder strap. "Ready to make them fall in lust, Lucky? I’m feeling a thousand-dollar night brewing.”
I smiled, feeling the familiar pre-performance flutter in my stomach. Some things never changed. "I’m always ready."
With a final glance at my reflection—not searching for changes this time but meeting my own eyes with determination—I turned from the mirror and followed Crystal out of the changing room.
The drowsy club was full awake now, music pulsing through the walls.
I was on first tonight, not ideal. I preferred having time to work the floor before taking the stage.
It helped me check out my options and home in on a target.
Private dances were where the real money was at.
Standing behind velvet curtains, waiting for my cue, I flexed my feet inside the cage of the impossibly tall stilettos. Maybe this wasn't the dream I'd had as a kid donning her first tutu. But I had to admit, there was a wild sort of freedom in this new life.
A freedom that made me feel like I could fly.
When the strains of the music rose and fell.
When all eyes were locked on my body.
When I felt admired without having to be flawless.
When the song shifted, I pushed through the curtains and stepped onto the stage, my heels striking the polished floor with deliberate, exaggerated steps that showed off the length of my legs.
The corset hugged my body like a second skin, silver accents instantly snagging the overhead spotlights.
I'd learned quickly that in this world, entrance was everything.
The first impression set the tone for what would follow.
Who would watch. Who would want. Who would toss money at me. So, I made each step count.
I tossed my hair, making the sterling star earrings peek out from my coppery curls.
They were a nod to my stage name.
Lucky.
Lucky to be here.
Lucky to dance.
Lucky to still be alive, despite the numerous times I felt like dying.
The body glitter I’d slathered on made me shimmer.
The skin of a ballerina gone rogue.