Chapter 1: Rosie
“Stop being weird,” Amelia hisses at me, her voice sharp but laced with amusement.
“Sorry. I’m not trying to be,” I mumble, dragging my eyes away from the absolute goddess that’s standing across the room.
“You’re staring. Openly. AtAngel.”
“Can you blame me? Her tits are amazing.”
Amelia smirks, glancing over at the woman I was looking at.
“They really are. Hey, Angel!” she shouts, waving at the stunning redhead who’s adjusting her fiery colored, barely there costume. Tassels swing from her nipples, and sheer fabric with delicate flame designs clings to her hips like they’re painted on.
Angel catches sight of us, flashes a smile, and saunters over, her fire engine-red hair glowing under the lights like a halo.
“Angel, this is my friend, Rosie,” Amelia says, gesturing to me with a sly grin. “It’s her first night.”
“My stage name is Rose,” I blurt out, a little too eagerly as I extend my hand. Angel takes it with a polite smile, her grip firmer than I expected.
Up close, I realize she’s probably about our age—late twenties, early thirties—but there’s a weathered quality to her beauty, like life’s taken a few extra swings at her yet she keeps getting back up.
Still, she’s magnetic.
I've met thousands of celebrities in my career, worked with countless stars, but somehow, I'm fan-girling over this professional dancer in the middle of a New Jersey club. A woman who is unashamedly herself each night when she gets on the stage, ready to perform. Probably because she isn't acting right now like the artists and influencers that I work with who won't hesitate to lie straight to my face just how about how important they really are.
“Nice to meet you, Rose. Good name choice. You look just as beautiful as a rose.” Her voice is smooth, and the compliment sends a hot flush of embarrassment up my neck.
I’m not used to receiving compliments about my looks. Tell me I made a good argument, praise my brain, I can handle that. But my appearance? That’s always been the soft spot, the thing I’ve been insecure about for as long as I can remember.
It’s extra difficult to accept a compliment in this setting where women are walking around either naked or close to it.
I didn’t think I’d be this flustered tonight, considering this wholesituationwas my idea. But here I am, pink-faced and fumbling like I’ve never seen a naked woman before. It doesn’t help that I’m wearing next to nothing underneath my sheer robe that I've cinched nice and tight around my waist as if that can cover up my body.
“Rose was just admiring your boobs,” Amelia announces, pointing directly at Angel’s very bare, perfectly proportioned chest.
Angel laughs and arches her back slightly, putting them on full display. They’re so close I could probably feel their warmth if I leaned in another inch.
“Why, thank you. All-natural. They got this big after my second baby. Go ahead. Take a good look.”
I shake my head with mock disbelief. “I feel like I should snap a photo of them for my plastic surgeon.”
She winks at me, her grin playful. “Maybe after the show. Good luck out there tonight.”
With that, she gives a small wave and turns back to finish her preparations, her hips swaying as she walks away.
“Um… seriously, though. She’s perfect. How am I supposed to compare tothat?” I ask, gesturing to Angel like she’s a freaking mythical creature.
Amelia waves me off. “It’s not about comparing. Everyone brings something different to the stage. Besides, you’re new. Peoplelikenew. You’ll make a few mistakes, but it’ll be fine. Mistakes can be cute. Just don’t freeze up. Also, you have incredible tits too. They just aren't big like Angel’s. Yours are nice and perky, though. Pinch your nipples a few times before you go out there and the men will be drooling over them.”
I laugh but my mind is still hung up on ‘mistakes.’That word grates against my nerves.
Mistakes aren’t something I tolerate, or something I've ever been allowed to make. Not in my career, not in my carefully curated life outside this strange, glitter-dusted world I’ve decided to step into for just tonight. Raised as the only daughter of an overbearing, bulldog of a father and an equally perceptive older brother, perfection isn’t just a goal. It’s the standard.
Mistakes aren’t allowed in the Prescott family full of three generations of lawyers. Not for me, anyway.
“And what do I bring, exactly, other than nice perky tits?” I ask her.
I'm a twenty-nine year old woman who is wholly uncomfortable in her sexuality, rocking size-A breasts most of the time—occasionally size-B when I’m ovulating or on my period—and what I’d call an above-average pretty face with hair so thick it feels like both a blessing and a curse. It’s one of the few nice things I got from my mom, who skipped out on me and my brother Cain, leaving us with Dad when she ran off to Europe with her new husband.
