I nod before remembering I can’t turn on my phone if I don’t want it tracked. “I can work with whatever you’ve got.”
She smiles as sleazily as her guests, then leaves me to get ready.
After putting on a chocolate wig, I slip into the dress Dante bought me. It fits perfectly but clings to my skin like a lie I can’t shed.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Not all my thoughts center on how he seems to know my schedule before I do, or how he shows up in places he shouldn’t be. They don’t even pertain to his lipstick-smeared mouth last week, and the guilt that filtered in his eyes when he told me I couldn’t accept Camille’s invitation to her dance recital. They’re of the way his pupils dilated when I pranced off the stage in the Viper Room, and how he couldn’t catch his breath when he entered me the first time.
I tell myself I imagined the sheer euphoria that pumped from him every time we were together, that he doesn’t care enough anymore toworry that I dance naked for money. But the truth is, he’ll be disappointed in me.
That hurts more than wondering what he and the mysterious brunette did last weekend.
I don’t know what I want more. For him to stay away, or for him to show up and drag me out of here like he has some kind of claim to me. It should be the former, but when you’re on the verge of disappointing the only person who’s ever truly seen you, it’s hard to remember your objectives.
I want to succeed for Gabriele, but I can’t deny how much I long for Dante’s approval. Even while resenting his controlling nature, it burns through me.
I’m doing this for Gabriele, I murmur to myself on repeat as I apply a risqué makeup palette and place in moss-green contacts.
Within minutes, I barely recognize myself in the mirror, meaning I’m ready.
When I step out of the broom closet, the hostess gives me an approving nod before signaling for the music to start. After freeing a handful of butterflies from my stomach with a quick exhale, I brave the blinding lights bouncing around the room and sashay toward the pole.
Cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol linger in the air of the stuffy, crowded room, and the heat is cranked up to an almost ghastly level. I wipe my hands down my dress to keep from slipping before circling them around the gleaming pole.
I haven’t even twirled around the pole once when a group of men crowds in too close. They’re loud and heavy-handed while attempting to stuff bills into my lingerie, which is still concealed by my dress.
I try to tease them back into their seats with the playful finger wiggle I give while performing the naughty teacher routine, but they continue to surge forward. Fingers grope my legs, arms, and waist as they attempt to fast-forward my routine to the strip tease part of my performance.
Every time I push one man back, another takes his place. Theirlaughter grows uglier when one brute tears my dress off my body, their intentions clear.
This was a mistake.
A terrible, stupid mistake.
Fear snakes up my spine, icy and paralyzing, when one man clamps my wrist hard enough to bruise. I yank away from him, but he lunges, and suddenly ten more surround me. The music pounds in my ears as fear that I might be hurt tonight in ways I’d rather not imagine filters through the fog.
“No!” I shout, pushing back.
Imaginary birds fly around my head when an elbow collides with my nose, stunning me so well that I freeze long enough to be pinned to the makeshift dance floor.
“Stop! No!” I scream as dozens of fingers grope, jab, and bruise me.
As two men hold my shoulders down, and another two anchor my ankles to the dance floor, I glance in the direction of the door I pranced through only minutes ago, searching for help.
The hostess is where I left her, smirking like this was the plan all along.
I’ve never hated someone on sight, but I can unequivocally say I hate her.
She has no clue what she’s doing. Not only is she staging a gangrape, but she’s also leaving my son defenseless to a world as corrupt as her morals.
I won’t mention who else flashes through my head, or I’ll hate myself even more than I already do.
Even with blood threatening to drip from my nose and terror clawing my throat, I continue to fight. I thrash against the hands pinning my legs, and roar no on repeat.
When one leg is freed, I smash my foot into the face of the man fumbling with his belt. He stumbles back with a groan before his tattooed hand shoots up to capture the blood staining his seedy porn stache.
He glares at me like he hates me.
The feeling is mutual.
