Chapter 17 Claws Out
Claws Out
Most people think the worst part of performing in a strip club is taking your clothes off in front of strangers.
They’re wrong. It’s the twenty minutes in the greenroom before the set, when your entire future is a twitchy animal pacing inside your ribcage, and all you have is a cracked mirror, a playlist, and the certainty that any mistake, real or imagined, will live forever in the minds of the drunk and the damned.
Tonight, the thing pacing behind my ribs was a jungle cat, angry and restless, with an unnamed hunger.
The day passed in a haze, carried by the relentless current of single motherhood and the languid rhythm of late July. After dropping Mateo off for a playdate at Liam’s house, I found myself at the farmers market, my bag heavy with fresh produce.
At home, chores awaited: laundry to fold, dishes in the sink, Mateo’s soccer cleats abandoned in the hallway like a warning.
When he got back from Liam’s, it was dinner, a debate about screen time, and whatever YouTube rabbit hole he swore was educational.
He stayed up reading longer than he thought I knew.
But when eight p.m. struck, as I stepped through Neon’s back entrance, everything else faded into insignificance. My focus narrowed to my set, my skin, my dominion over a space merely borrowed by others.
The club was already packed. On weekends, every seat in Neon was filled by the lonely or the wasted. The lighting crew had gone full Mad Max on the stage: colored gels, strobe effects, a haze machine that billowed out so thick you could write your name in it.
Backstage, the dancers were in varying stages of readiness, some stretching, some gluing on rhinestones, some hiding in the bathroom with their phones. Michelle gave me a curt nod as I walked past.
Rita was at the bar, replenishing the glassware. She saw me, winked, then flicked her lighter. I caught the spark from across the room. It should have been comforting, but instead, it made my nerves spike.
Tonight, I’d asked for the opening set. I wanted the energy. The challenge. Mostly, I wanted to get the hardest thing over with before I lost my nerve.
In the dressing room, I went through my usual routine. Bra, panties, heels, mask. I’d chosen my favorite: black mesh, a scatter of fake gemstones, feathers on one side that looked a little like a crow’s wing. It made me feel like an assassin, a shadow with intentions.
I had just enough time to take one last look at myself in the mirror before the DJ announced my name. “Give it up for Magenta!”
The house lights dimmed. As the first notes of “Feeling Good” by Avicii pulsed through the speakers, a slow, predatory synth line, the strobes ignited, slicing through the darkness and draping me in stripes of electric blue and violet. The wild cat within me stretched, claws unsheathed.
I walked to the center stage, hips rolling in rhythm, feeling the eyes on me, letting them stare. I could feel the cold in the air, and I made myself bigger with every step, daring anyone to look away.
At first, it was the usual: cheers, whistles, and bills waved like surrender flags.
I did my tricks: floorwork, a backward roll, and a long, lazy split.
I shed the mask with a flourish and let it drop behind me.
It hit the stage with a tiny clatter, barely audible over the music.
But in that instant, the air shifted. I felt the brush of breath at my neck, the kind that comes just before teeth.
That’s when I saw him.
Not in the way a girl expects to spot her stalker in a crowd, but in the slow, glacial certainty of a dream turning to nightmare. He stood at the far end of the main bar, his posture relaxed.
Ulysses.
I’d seen him a dozen times in memory, but never like this. He’d leveled up for the occasion. His icy gaze reflected the neon in a way human eyes never could, glassy and unyielding.
He’d brought friends.
Correction: he’d brought an entourage.
They didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to breathe, just hovered around him in a loose, four-man squad. I spotted Aleksey, his face carved from marble, tattoos peeking from the edge of his collar, the faintest glint of a sharp canine when he smirked at the antics from the patrons.
The others were cut from the same cloth: tall, built, eyes like gun barrels. They surveyed the room over their boss’s shoulder, scanning for threats or perhaps just cataloging the slow decay of humanity.
In that moment, I became a performer onstage and a hunted animal.
I let my eyes cut away from them, let my body finish its arc across the stage, let my hands trail over my midsection like I could smooth away the panic beneath.
But this wasn’t stage fright. This was the cold certainty of being marked.
Ulysses didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He just watched, arms folded, letting the chaos of the club swirl around him. I could feel his intent from across the room: not hunger, not desire, but the icy logic of a chess player watching pieces fall.
I adjusted my choreography, spinning the performance out longer, using every second of stage time as a delaying tactic. Maybe if I danced hard enough, fast enough, the night would end before I had to face him.
I told myself I’d be fine after the set. That I’d slip through the locker room and out the alley before Ulysses could corner me, that I’d text Rita and she’d have a getaway plan. But deep down, I knew if he wanted me, he’d find me.
And then I noticed the ripple. Even the biggest regulars, the ones who heckled and made it rain twenties, had their voices dropping to whispers. The whole room knew: someone important had arrived.
As the song slid into its chorus, my vision blurred, and I spotted Aiden. He was at the opposite end of the floor, arms folded, every muscle locked. He didn’t bring backup. He didn’t need it. His presence was enough to clear a two-foot perimeter in the crowd.
It wasn’t a show anymore; it was a territory dispute.
And I was the line they wanted to redraw.
My body kept moving, but my brain was suddenly two beats behind. Every time I looked at Ulysses, my blood cooled. Every time I caught Aiden’s gaze, my body burned. I felt like a wire, stretched taut and humming with a current I couldn’t control.
I let the tension drive the set. I pushed into every movement, making it sharper, more precise. I worked the pole like it was the only thing keeping me vertical, and in some ways, it was. On the bridge, I climbed high and hung upside down. From up there, I could see them both.
They watched each other, too, never breaking eye contact for more than a second.
This was not a courtship.
This was a stand-off.
I slid down the pole, slow, drawing out every inch of the descent. My feet hit the floor, and the song hit its climax. I spun once, twice, then dropped to the stage on my knees, arms flung wide, head thrown back. The noise of the crowd washed over me, but I barely heard it.
All I heard was the double thud of my heart, one for each predator in the room.
The lights went out. For a split second, I was alone on the stage, in the dark, the sweat evaporating from my skin, everything inside me perfectly, dangerously still.
Then the lights came up, and the crowd erupted. The tips rained down. I gathered them automatically, tucking them into the waistband of my G-string, feeling the paper dampen with sweat.
The DJ called my name again. I bowed, grabbed my mask, and backed offstage, hands starting to shake.
I braced myself against the wall, tried to get my bearings. Michelle passed by, gave me a thumbs-up. I managed a nod in acknowledgment.
I knew something had changed. I hadn’t meant to send a message.
But I had.
That’s when the lights flickered, a real flicker, not the programmed kind, and I felt a presence behind my left shoulder. My nerves twitched. I risked a glance.
Ulysses stood in the narrow corridor, arms folded.
“Nice set,” he said, voice low, just for me.
I could still hear the crowd outside, but here, the world shrank. Ulysses had a way of sucking all the oxygen out of a room and filling the void with himself. I dug my fingernails into the seam of my palm, forcing calm.
“Did you come to critique my choreography?” I asked, not moving.
He smiled, but it didn’t touch those eyes. “You always had a knack for precision under pressure. It’s admirable.” Then, softer, he added, “You know what happens next, Josie.”
I thought about bluffing, about telling him to take his threats and file them under ‘unsolicited feedback.’ Instead, I said, “You’re not going to get what you want, and you know it.”
He didn’t step any closer, but the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. He considered me for a second, eyes flicking down as if cataloging every tremble, every defiant set to my jaw.
“What you think I want and what I actually want are rarely the same thing,” he said, the words slow, careful.
“Tonight, you reminded a lot of people that some problems can’t be buried with threats or incentives.
You also reminded them you can’t be ignored, even when it would be safer for everyone if you vanished. ”
He let that hang in the air. I waited, not because I expected him to leave, but because I knew that men like Ulysses only spoke when it cost someone something. If you stayed silent long enough, they ran out of currency.
He smiled, reading the calculation on my face. “You should be careful who you let see you at your most vulnerable,” he said. “Some find it endearing. Others…” His words hung in the air.
Without another glance, he pivoted on his heel and melted back into the chaos of the main floor.
I stumbled into the dressing room, my stomach twisting in knots. Just as I braced myself against the cool metal of the vanity, the floor manager’s voice crackled through the PA system. “Magenta, you’ve got company backstage.”
I considered running, but there was nowhere to go. This was my stage now.
I wiped my face, reapplied lipstick, and headed for the greenroom.
Aiden was waiting, arms folded, face unreadable.
“You saw him?” he asked, not bothering to clarify which him.
I nodded. “He brought friends.”
Aiden looked away, jaw ticking. “I figured he would.”
There was a silence.
“So what now?” I said. “You going to kill him? Or is this a daily stare-down while I work the pole in the middle?”
Aiden’s gaze dragged over me, slow, assessing, not entirely professional. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Most people would’ve cracked.”
“Cracked how? I’m dancing through a territorial dispute.”
“You weren’t just dancing.” His voice dipped, rougher now. “You were precise.”
I folded my arms. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It should,” he said quietly. “Predators respect control. And you never lost yours.” His eyes held mine a beat too long. “And that,” he added, softer, “isn’t easy to look away from.”
I exhaled and leaned against the wall. “I’m so damn tired of being the shiny object everyone wants to fight over. I’m not whatever fantasy title you people keep tossing around. I’m just a woman trying to make ends meet and not die in the process.”
Aiden stepped closer, gaze heavy with something I didn’t want to name. “You’re not just anything, Josie. That’s the problem.”
I wanted to be angry, but what I felt was worse. It was hope. “If you really care, you’ll help me, not own me.”
He reached for my hand, hesitated, then let it fall. “I’ll try.”
We stood there, neither of us moving, until the house lights blinked and the floor manager’s voice rang out again. “Magenta, back on in ten.”
Aiden squeezed my shoulder, gently and briefly. “I’ll be here.”
I nodded, already pulling the mask back on, already planning my next move.
Out on the floor, Ulysses had repositioned himself closer to the stage. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just watched.
I stepped into the light, and whatever lived under my skin stretched awake. This time, it wasn’t afraid.
I owned the stage.
Let the monsters come.