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“Something like that. I don’t know the specifics. Like I said, not my story to tell.”
“Would he tell me his name if I asked?”
Cashmere shrugs again. “No clue. In my experience, the relationship has to move into serious mode before real names are exchanged.”
“Gotcha.” I stand and move to an empty vanity, taking my makeup bag with me. “But you think he’s nice?”
“Yeah, definitely. There are worse things than being loved by the brothers of Crestvale House.”
“Crestvale House?”
“That’s what we call the mansion. I call them Mur—er, nothing. Stupid inside joke that wouldn’t make sense.”
“Oh, okay.”
While I finish my face, I glance at my phone and see that I have about five minutes before my stage time. Cashmere will be after me, thank fuck. I hate following him.
“Break a leg, sis,” Cashmere says as I leave the dressing room.
Waiting behind the curtains, I replay our conversation. I didn’t really learn much except that Cashmere thinks Whisper is a good guy. It’s a start, but if I want to know more about the man, I’ll have to do my own recon. Cashmere is clearly editing what he says to me.
My music starts and I slink onto the stage, scanning the room for Whisper but not finding him. That’s disappointing.
My aerial hoop drops slowly from the ceiling, and I climb on, starting my sultry routine to the R&B song, “Streets” by Doja Cat. Just a minute or so into it, as I’m flipping into a backbend, I see Whisper walk over to join Specter and another man.
He made it.
I exaggerate my movements then, popping my ass, bending deeper, and making eye contact with him, licking my lips as I do. Letting the song move through me, I roll my hips as I slide to the floor and writhe, simulating sex. I crawl forward then roll onto my back and peel myself off the stage. I finish by swinging onto the hoop again, hanging upside down by my knees and twirling as the final notes of the song fade out.
It’s quiet for a second and then the crowd goes wild, clapping, whistling, and shouting my name. I get to my feet, bending forward in a bow and tossing a wink in Whisper’s direction before slinking off the stage.
Cashmere high-fives me. “Well done, Blush. You were incredible.”
“That means a lot coming from the GOAT.”
He laughs, tossing his long hair back. “There’s room on that list. You might steal my title.”
“Don’t think so, but thanks for saying that.”
The MC calls Cashmere’s name and the club practically shakes from the thunderous reaction of the crowd. Men throw themselves at him, tossing money at him, trying to buy him drinks all night. I have my admirers, but nothing like what he has. It’s aspirational.
The difference between us is that dancing is part of who Cashmere is. He’s classically trained and it shows. He loves it, which is why he keeps at it when he doesn’t have to anymore. I stumbled into it through stripping and waiting tables. It’s what I’ll do until I find something more lucrative. I mean, there’s always sex work, but it’s not my jam. I tried it a few years ago and can only describe what I went through as some kind of weird performance anxiety, even though I don’t have a shy bone in my body. I don’t get it and I don’t want it enough to push through it. Dancing works for me and the money is steady enough to take care of my family.
Back in the dressing room, I peel out of my jumpsuit, startling when I hear my name quietly spoken.
Whisper is leaning against the doorframe. “Hi.”
“Hi. How’d you get back here?”
“I can be very persuasive when I want something.”
Smiling, I cross one leg over the other. “And do you want something, Whisper?”
“When can you leave?”
“As soon as I’m done working the room.”
“Do you want some company after that?”
