“Good evening, ladies,” I say as both a warning and a heads-up that I’m coming into their dressing room.
They know the rules. If they leave the door open, then anyone on the staff is free to enter. If it’s closed, then knocking is required, but entry is still granted. They also know that the only ones allowed in here are staff, me, and the security team. I have a guy on the back hallway every night to keep the girls safe from anyone with the crazy idea of pronouncing their love for one of the strippers by bursting into their dressing room. Apparently it was an issue before I showed up. Not that I saw the appeal.
Well, at least not for all of them.
None of them are shy about their bodies, but I want them to feel as if they get a say in when they can let their hair down, so to speak. They also know there are cameras in here too. Not to record, just live feed only to prevent any “disagreements” they might have.
We’ve already broken up three fights between the dancers, most of them either involving Trixie or at least instigated by her. I’m not against people working out their issues with one another, but they all know I’m not about to let it get out of hand. Cops and ambulances won’t be called here, and no one will pay to watch a girl dance while there’s blood running out of her nose, regardless of how big her tits are.
A few nod at me. Others call out their greetings. But they all fade into the background as I walk toward the one by the back exit. An exit I recently had updated to code standards for everyone’s safety.
“You’re late,” I say as I look at the woman who holds more attention here than anyone else. Something that should shoot warning bells off inside me, but it doesn’t set. Her innocence is something I can’t seem to stay away from. I’m drawn to it, wanting to protect it and also tarnish it simultaneously.
Let’s be clear: I’m not a good guy. I’m not the worst, but I’m definitely not known for being a good guy. Or even aniceone.
“Sorry.” Her voice is clear, but with her head down and her hair in her face, it’s almost mumbled. I can hear it over the other girls talking, but only just.
I take another step, brushing the tips of my jacket against her back as I cross my arms. I’m not pissed, but I find it curbs the urge to reach out and stroke her hair. Somewhat.
“You told me you’d never be late.” My mouth curves up in the mirror. I hope she’ll look up and see me teasing, even if my words came out at a growl.
“Sorry.” Again, there’s no movement up at all, her head still tucked down.
I haven’t teased a woman in months. I almost feel rusty at her lack of response.
My smile drops, as do my arms, as I take her in. She’s curled in on herself, something I’ve never seen her do here before. She might not hold her head high here, but I’ve never seen her cower. Not even when she danced for me or during our interview.
She’s just breathing, nothing more. She might not be the opening number, but I have her going on within the hour. She should be putting on her costume, checking her rigging—hell, putting on makeup. Something other than just sitting here with her head down.
She looks rejected. Hurt. Sad. Emotions I don’t like to feel, and ones that make me pissed as hell to see on her so clearly.
I step to her side. “What’s going on?” I say, voice low. Not only so it’s just her who hears it, but because I feel my temper starting to get the best of me.
All she does is shake her head.
I reach out to grab her chin, and her flinch away is a scream in the face. My heart stills at her response as I pull my hand back quickly and clench my hands hard. I want to demand answers. To force her to speak and not just appear afraid of me.
The briefest thought passes in my mind, wondering if it’s me she fears. If she saw my scars. Ones I’ve tried hard to keep hidden here and everywhere else. I’m still playing a role, one where everyone thinks I’m the same person I was months ago. Only when I’m at Milly’s place in Kansas or with my fighting girls in Michigan do I let the stiffness slip off me like a collared shirt. There, I just blend in, T-shirt and all. Neither place expects me to me anyone more than what I am. Only here, at home, do I have to play this role and be someone I’m not anymore.
I lower to one knee. If any of the other girls see it, I don’t know, nor do I care. But I know Payton sees me. Her eyes are down on the floor, but despite her hiding behind her hair, I know she can see I’ve taken this stance to show I’m not the threat.
Even though I go slow, she still flinches away, but I hold steady and continue till I lightly grab her chin, turning her face toward mine before moving her hair out of the way.
I take a breath. Then another. Then a third. I count to ten backward. Still the rage inside me doesn’t dissipate.
Her eyes don’t rise, but I don’t need to see them to see the rest of her.
“What happened?” I all but bark out.
Her face is the color of the cushions muse mother uses in the fall on the back patio. Dark blue and purple. The cuts on her cheek and lip aren’t bleeding, but I know at one time they were.
“Nothing.” Her lips tremble as she speaks, but she still doesn’t look up.
Her answer makes my fury boil. “I don’t tolerate liars. Want to try that again?” I grip her chin harder, and her eyes fly to mine.
“I fell.”
“You fell,” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.
