I face the mirror and start layering on makeup, watching my reflection shift with every stroke. Eyeliner and mascara bringing out the chocolate hues in my hazel eyes. I tease my curls for volume, shaped into something controlled enough to pass for effortless.
I slide into a hot-pink lingerie set, lace hugging my curves perfectly. Over it, I pull on a white, skin-tight dress that clings in all the right places—revealing without being too careless.
My sandals click softly on the floor, but it’s the clear five-inch heels tucked into my bag that feel like the real power move. I rarely ever wear them, but there perfect for tonight.
I toss in the rest of the things I’ll need without a second thought. I’m done overthinking. Done second-guessing.
Ready or not, I’m doing this.
Grabbing my keys, I sling the bag over my shoulder and step out the door, leaving behind the weight of Cairo’s arms and Saint’s stare—for now.
? ? ?
The club feels the same as it did a few weeks ago—dim lights even in the middle of the afternoon, neon signs flickering, with the faint smell of liquor and sex clinging to the air despite the hour.
Only this time, I’m not just here to watch—I’m here to see if I can actually do this. To see if I can be the girl on stage instead of the one hiding in the crowd.
To my luck the stage is empty, but the mirrors and poles still gleam under the low light, waiting, to see what I’m really made of—even though my legs won’t stop trembling.
I glance around, relieved it’s not packed like it would be at night. Maybe ten people total—some at the bar, others slouched in booths, half-watching muted TVs or their drinks instead of each other. The music thumps low from the speakers, steady enough to fill the silence but not enough to drown out the hum of voices.
Pulling my bag tighter on my shoulder, I force myself to walk farther in. My sandals click lightly against the sticky floor as I scan the room. My stomach churns, but my chinstays lifted, the illusion of confidence locked firmly in place. I spot a woman behind the bar tossing a towel over her shoulder. She looks like she’s in charge—or at least knows who is.
“Excuse me,” I say, steadying my voice as I approach. “Can I speak to a manager?”
Her eyes flick over me quickly, assessing, before she jerks her chin toward a door off to the side of the bar. “Office. He’s in there.”
My palms grow damp against the strap of my bag, but I nod and make my way over, each step heavier than the last as the reality of everything settles in.
Before I knock on the office door, I crouch beside the bar and swap my sandals for my heels. The moment I stand, my energy shifts—the heels soothing more nerves than I thought possible.
I’ll take all the confidence I can get right now, if I’m doing this, they need to see my potential the moment I walk in.
I knock before pushing the office door open slowly and step inside. The room smells faintly of cologne and cigarettes, the low hum of music from outside muffled by the heavy door.
Behind a worn wooden desk sits a man in his late thirties. Smooth caramel skin, sturdy build, with short black hair tapered clean on the sides. He leans back in his chair as soon as his eyes land on me, gaze sliding from the top of my curls down to my heels and back again.
“So,” he says, his voice even—not unfriendly, but nowhere near soft. “You’re here about a spot?”
I nod, clutching my bag against my side. “Yes. I wanted to see about auditioning.”
With a flick of his wrist, he opens a drawer and slides a clipboard across the desk. “Fill this out.” His tone makes itsound more like an order than a request. As I scribble my information, I can feel his eyes still on me—assessing, calculating. When I finish, he stands and motions toward the open space next to the desk.
“Stand up straight,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “Turn around for me.”
My pulse quickens, but I straighten anyway, the click of my heels punctuating every step as I turn. The dress hugs every inch of me, the bright color beneath it whispering power even through the nerves. I know exactly what he’s seeing—and that’s the point.
“Good,” he murmurs. When I face him again, his expression is unreadable. “We’ll see what you can do. I’ll have a couple of the girls come in, make you feel comfortable, show you around. You’ll be up after the next dancer.”
My stomach drops. On stage? Oh, perfect. Because nothing says ease into this slowly like performing on the spot. I grip my bag tighter, pretending I’m not silently calculating how fast I can fake a sudden emergency. I mean, I knew I’d be preforming—that’s kind of the whole point—but standing here now, actually inside the club, feels surreal.
Like I’ve crossed some invisible line, and there’s no going back.
The door opens a moment later and two girls step in. The woman outside probably gave them a heads-up, because he never touched his phone. The first girl has pale skin and long auburn hair that spills over her shoulders. She’s already dressed for the floor, rhinestones flashing like a human disco ball every time she moves. Her silver heels tap against the tile as she smiles, extending a hand.
“Hey, girl. I’m Lexi.”
Of course she is. She looks like someone who’s already figured out how to own a room—angles and all.
