Back in the dressing room, I peeled off the glittery pink getup and tossed it onto my garment rack, swapping it out for the second costume of the night—same skimpy design, this one black with silver trim. I blotted sweat off my chest and collarbone, reapplied highlighter, reshaped my brows with a swipe of tinted gel, and redid my lips.
The downtime between sets wasn’t that much, but it was mine. I didn’t do private dances or circulate around the floor. Occasionally, I was required to sit with some VIP, have a drink, and play nice. It was gross—rich men trying to grope me while I dodged their hands and fed them whatever sweet nothings they wanted to hear.
But today, I stretched out on the couch with my phone, scrolled through my rather pathetic social media accounts, checked audition boards, watched a couple of reels for inspiration, and skimmed a rejection email. On a brighter note, I’d received a callback for a show I’d auditioned for a while ago—next Thursday at noon. I flagged it and set a reminder. Another day, another shot.
A few of the other girls filtered in and out. Some prepped. Some chatted about the Champagne Room, which they’d been invited to dance in. One was sobbing into a makeup wipe over something her boyfriend had texted. I stayed in my corner, sipping water. Twenty minutes before I had to go on stage again, I stretched and warmed up, ready for this day to be over.
My second performance passed in a blur.
Finally, a little before two in the morning, I was finished. I changed into the oversized hoodie and baggy joggers I always brought with me to hide my curves as I walked home. I shovedeverything else into my backpack and crept out the back door, dragging the hood up over my head.
The alley was quiet. The familiar stench of the dumpster hit me as I scanned the graffiti-covered walls. I noticed a fresh mural right next to the door—black and blue skulls wrapped in barbed wire with a gang signature.
A shiver ran down my spine. I’d never seen any gangs firsthand, but every city had its share of thieves and thugs. And after the morning I’d had, facing off with that rude man in black, my nerves were more than on edge. The fact that Carmine had been so intimidated by the guy spoke volumes. And Trina’s warning about mafia men rearranging my face was the kind of thing I couldn’t let myself think about while walking home alone.
So, I clutched my pepper spray tight and walked fast.
I was just a nobody in dark clothing, hugging the shadows.
And I had only two and a half hours until my next shift at Cipher.
The street was mostly empty when I arrived on West 47th, the cold air slicing through my hoodie as I jogged the last block. Hell’s Kitchen didn’t sleep, but at this hour it felt like everything was running on fumes—like the whole neighborhood was caught in that floaty moment before the alarm goes off and reality slaps you awake. The glowing twenty-four-hour bodega sign flickered near the corner.
Wedged between a Dominican bakery and a shuttered pawn shop sat my apartment building, its crooked stoop sagging from decades of Manhattan winters. I dragged my feet up the steps and released a sigh of relief to have made it home safely. Rust stained the old intercom box, but the main lock still clicked openwhen I punched in the code. I slipped inside, grateful for the warm glow of the hallway light.
Three flights of stairs. No elevator.
I took the steps two at a time. My thighs were already aching from my performances and the audition earlier, but my stomach led the charge now. The scent of garlic and cheese hit me as I neared the top.
Home.
The door to 4B had gotten cracked open, just barely, like it always did when the latch caught wrong. Inside, the apartment was warm, the overhead light in the living room casting a yellow haze over the small space. Jae sat cross-legged on our navy blue futon in gray joggers, his black spiky hair damp from a shower. Nat leaned against the kitchenette counter in black yoga pants and a T-shirt that read: “Audition. Callback. Repeat.”
“Oh thank God,” I groaned as I stepped inside, dropping my backpack by the door. “Tell me that smell means you didn’t eat all of it.”
Nat raised an eyebrow and gestured to the pizza box on the coffee table. “Two slices of pepperoni left. But you gotta fight Jae for them.”
“I already had four,” Jae said unapologetically, his mouth full. “You’re safe.”
I kicked off my shoes. Every bone in my body was begging for bed, but that could wait. “I’d sell my soul for carbs.”
“You already sold your soul to that hell-club with the poles and creeps,” Nat muttered, flicking her cigarette ash into an empty soda can before tossing me a napkin.
I grabbed a paper plate off the table and slid a slice of pizza onto it. “Thathell-clubpays my rent. What can I say?” I shrugged.
Grease dripped down my chin as I lifted the pizza to my lips and devoured it without shame. “God bless crust.”
I reached for the last slice in the box, then flopped down on the futon next to Jae.
“So?” he asked, nudging my knee with his. “How’d the audition go?”
I took another bite, chewed, then sighed. “I didn’t fall. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t cry.” I licked sauce from my fingers. “So…a win.”
Nat blew smoke out the cracked window above the sink. “That’s Broadway math, baby.”
We laughed, tired and worn but still buzzing with that survival energy.
Between swigs of her drink, Nat launched into a story about some drunk who’d grabbed her ass at the bar she worked at. “I was one second away from jabbing him in the eye with a straw.”
