I definitely wasn’t supposed to be backstage in a smoke-scented hallway, wearing nothing but my best bra, a black thong, and the same knee-high boots that made Grumpzillatwitch earlier. I smile at the memory.
“You can’t go on like that,” hisses Roxy, her eyes wide.
“I didn’t come prepared.”
“Have you ever even danced?” she asks, sounding exasperated.
“Well, no, but it can’t be that hard.” She arches a brow, so I add, “No offence.”
I met her two nights ago in a café just around the corner from here. I’d arrived on a coach and needed somewhere to warm up. Roxy was with a group of women, all counting notes as they drank coffee and hummed along to the radio. I think she took pity on me when she spotted me eyeing her coffee, and shebought me one. That led to a conversation where she offered me a few nights on her couch. And that’s led me to here, the club where she’s been dancing for the last year. And for one night only, they’re auditioning new dancers.
Forty-eight hours ago, I was figuring out where to crash next. My savings are down to scraps, and I need the type of job that doesn’t ask too many questions and will pay me cash in hand.
“I can fake confidence. I can move. I’ve danced in clubs, even on tables on a night out. Never professionally, but . . .”
“How hard can it be?” she mimics with an eyeroll. “Let me grab you an outfit from back,” she adds, turning on her heel and dashing off.
I twist my hands together nervously.What the hell am I doing?But before I can talk myself down, a voice calls, “Next!”
Fuck.
My stomach flips and I glance in the direction Roxy just went. I can’t keep them waiting, I might miss my chance, so I square my shoulders and stride out, forcing a bright smile.
The lights blind me for a second, until I see the shadowed booth at the back of the room.
Two men.
One watching with a curious smile.
The other?
Stone-faced.
Leaning back like the chair’s offended him just by existing. Arms folded across his cut. Jaw like carved granite.
Of course, it’s him.
Grumpzilla.
No smile. No change in expression. But I swear to God, his fingers twitch as his eyes land on my boots.Good.
I turn toward the pole––the only prop in the whole room—and let the music start. It’s slow, dark, and bass-heavy.
I move like I mean it.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I let my body take over. I pretend I’m not being watched, like I’m drunk on adrenaline and not fear or desperation.
Spin. Drop. Arch. Slide.
There’s a rhythm to it, something primal, a way to hold their gaze without letting them own it. I feel powerful. Wild.Free.
And when I finally stop and stand tall, breathing hard, I feel his stare more than anyone else’s.
Not hungry. Not impressed. Just . . . furious.
My smile falters, trying to think if I did something wrong, something that would make him mad. Then I give my head a shake. I don’t even know this fucker and I’m reacting like the old me. The woman who over-analysed everything. The woman who was too scared to breathe wrong.
Luckily, I’m not her anymore. Or at least, I pretend not to be. So, I square my shoulders and saunter off stage with my chin tipped up slightly.
