Sure, he likes his women, but he’s the type who thinks the mafia ended in the ‘80s or only exists in mob movies.
“Wow,” he says now, looking around the club like he’s just walked into a cathedral. His awe is genuine, his voice low and reverent. “This place is really nice. Clean, you know? I’ve been to some titty bars before, but none of them were like this. You said you know the owner?”
“Very well,” I say drily.
He nods, impressed. “Well, whoever he is, he runs a tight ship.”
I glance around, “He takes pride in it. The dancers are well-paid and well-protected. They’re clean. Talented. Beautiful.”
“I can see that,” Conor mutters, eyes wide as he takes in Sphinx, one of our most celebrated public dancers.
Sphinx is a trained, professional dancer. She toured with a major contemporary company for years before returning to the city to care for her aging mother. She doesn’t want the private work, but she finds empowerment in dancing on the main stage.
We toss back a drink.
Just as Conor’s starting to settle into the scene, I shift to stand. He blinks. “Wait, where are you going?”
Dominic answers for me, casual and amused. “He has a private dancer.”
“Oh,” Conor breathes. “Well, fuck.”
I nod and head to the east wing of the private rooms.
Mine is always reserved, untouched by anyone else.
The moment I step inside, the familiar chill settles over me. It’s instant relaxation as I remove my belt and shoes, sit in the velvet chair, and pull on the custom mask that fully shields my vision and identity.
And then I wait.
For her.
Seconds drag into minutes.
Minutes into like forever.
I become annoyed and restless, but more than that, I am distressed and anxious.
What if she doesn’t come back?
What if she really was just a silly, impulsive girl, dared to do something reckless and thrilling, never intending to return?
I grit my teeth so hard that they might break. Patience is not one of my finest characteristics, and I am angry enough to break something.
But then a soft, hesitant knock at the door.
A turn of the knob. A quiet click as the door closes again.
I don’t move. I hold my breath.
My first instinct is doubt.
They must’ve sent Sarah again. Ana didn’t show. They went for the fallback. And Sarah is who I don’t want right now.
But my anxiety lightens when I smell her perfume, that soft, sweet scent that calms me.
The tension in my shoulders releases. My stomach unknots. My pulse, which had been hammering, falls into rhythm again.
She says, “Hello,” and her voice trembles a bit.
