I've done this a hundred times.Sat in rooms like this, played the part, watched worse than this without flinching.It's the job—background noise, necessary camouflage to blend into Marquez's world.
But tonight every laugh feels forced.Every glance at the stage makes my stomach turn, like I'm seeing it for the first time—really seeing it: the women reduced to body parts, the men consuming them with their eyes like it's their right, the whole grotesque performance wrapped in expensive velvet and called entertainment.
Adena's words won't leave me alone.They've lodged somewhere behind my ribs, sharp and uncomfortable, making everything else feel wrong by comparison.
The performer reaches behind her back, does something with her hands that makes the corset loosen.The crowd hoots.Marquez grins and elbows me.
"Beautiful, no?"he says, loud enough to be heard over the music.
I raise my glass."Incredible."
I'm choking on the lies.I need air, so I lean toward Marquez."I know a guy.Want me to see what I can get?"
His eyes light up.He knows what I'm offering."Go.Make it worth the trip."
Ortega barely glances at me, already absorbed in the show.I push through the back exit into the alley behind the theater.
The desert air hits me—dry, still warm despite the hour.The bass from inside is muffled out here, reduced to a distant thump that barely registers.
A loading dock sits dark and empty across from me.Overhead, the neon from the Strip bleeds into the sky, turning everything a sickly orange.
I lean against the brick wall, close my eyes, just breathe.
It's the Bible.I never should have bought it for her, never should have let her leave it in my apartment.
The words are burning holes in my brain: Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.
I walk away from the burlesque theater and head toward the 7-Eleven so I can make the call to Silas for Adena.
He needs to know Adena's about to make a big mistake.
I think as I walk along Fremont Street, past pawn shops with barred windows and tourists stumbling between casinos.
I've lied, I've taken, I've hurt people who never deserved it.And the truth is, I can't fix any of it.No matter how many good things I try to pile on top, the rot underneath remains.
If God isn't just real, but also holy—really holy—then I'm in trouble, because holiness doesn't bend the rules.Justice doesn't just look the other way.
The 7-Eleven sign glows three blocks ahead.I should be moving toward it, not away.
But there's a jeweler on the corner, and I detour there first.If it's custom to get a bride a gift, I should probably get Adena something.
The window display is all flash—gold chains tangled with rhinestone rings, everything catching the neon and throwing it back at the street.It's exactly what I'd expect: gaudy, expensive, designed to catch the eye of men with money and no taste.
Nothing that I’d want to give Adena.My feet angle, ready to cross the street, but my eyes snag on something ordinary amongst the glitter.
Among the gold chains and rhinestone-studded rings, there's a plain gold cross on black velvet.
I turn away.Walk three steps and stop.My feet won't go further.
I clench my fists, look back at the window, and can’t for the life of me understand why I start moving toward the door.
Adena
Valentina gasped and clapped through the first act of Cirque du Soleil, then spent the second half whispering about which after-parties were worth attending, ruining it entirely.
My head is still pounding from perfume, champagne, and the weight of smiling while she cataloged every reaction I had to everything on stage—filing it away, assessing, calculating.
All I want to do is scrub the whole night away and slip into bed so I can quietly pray.
