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I exit my car, double-checking that I’ve locked it, and hurry inside. It’s different this time.

Inside, bass thumps through the sticky floor as I clock in and make my way to the dressing room; I remember how to find it after I was given a tour and a locker on the day of my audition.

Rhys and his teammates would never step foot in a place like this, nor would any of my coworkers, so at least there’s that. I’m invisible here, which is exactly what I need.

The dressing room smells like perfume, hair spray, and alcohol. The women move quickly, fastening heels, adjusting their outfits, checking themselves out in mirrors. I introduce myself; some have friendlier smiles than others. I love pole dancing, but I think it’s safe to say everyone in this room would much rather be working at one of the other clubs.

I hurry up and get changed into the lingerie in my duffle bag. I’ve chosen a matching lace mini skirt and long-sleeve crop top. I’m hoping the neon yellow synthetic spandex will help me stand out under the lights; I need all the help I can get. My scars are mostly camouflaged by the work Casper has completed thus far; the rest is cloaked by my outfit and dim lighting. Hardly anything is left to imagination, so I don’t think anyone is going to be focusing on what’s under my tattoo.

When I make it out to the floor, I’m suddenly aware of my body—where my hands are, how I’m standing—nothing feels natural. Despite this being a bit of a dive, there are more patrons than what I’d expect on a Tuesday. I get to work.

My first time on stage is surreal. I’ve done these moves before, but never under such bright, hot lights. Music pounds through the speakers, up through the floor and into my rib cage. Men sit at the rack and watch; it’s . . . weird. But also not as nerve-racking as I expected. After all, this time it’s different—I’m in control. As soon as my song ends, I collect my ones and a few fives.

After I step down from the stage, one of the guys requests a VIP dance and we head back toward the private rooms. I dance slow, making small talk with the customer, asking about his job and hobbies. I’m not paying attention to any of his answers, I’m mostly just trying to remember what I picked up from the YouTube tutorials on lap dances—something I didn’t learn at pole class. The guy smells like cigarette smoke, whiskey, and sweat, and I push the familiar scent out of my mind, opting to breathe through my mouth.

He tries to grab my thigh halfway through and I step out of his grasp. “Hands to yourself,” I say.

He laughs, and tries again. The bouncers outside the room do absolutely nothing. Fantastic.

“I’m serious. No touching,” I say, firmer this time.

“Oh, come on,” he whines, then reaches for me again.

A woman with long dark hair appears in the doorway. I think she goes by Diamond. “She said hands off, Frank. Now get out.”

His upper lip retracts in annoyance and he begrudgingly stands, lumbering out of the room. She waits until he leaves before looking at me.

“You’re new,” she says flatly.

I nod. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Her arms cross over her chest. “Listen, that guy’s a regular. He likes testing the new girls.”

That’s comforting.

“Don’t take shit from them,” she says bluntly. “You’re in charge, act like it.”

I nod again. “Okay.”

Her eyes scrutinize me; she knows I don’t belong here. “I’m not gonna babysit you all night, though. If you want to earn the money you gotta get a stiff upper lip.”

My throat tightens. “Understood.”

“Good. Because there are other people who would kill for a VIP room. Don’t fuck up your next one.”

And I don’t.

By the time the night starts winding down, my feet are killing me. It’s one thing to dance once a week for an hour-long class, it’s another to have the stamina to get through back-to-back songs and completely freestyle. Slipping back into my sweatshirt, leggings, and supportive sneakers has never felt so fucking good.

My brain feels boiled and raw after the hours of endless stimulation—the lights, the music, the forced conversations. When I finally step outside into the cool night air, the silence rings in my ears. I stand there for a second and exhale. I survived my first night, which gives me hope for what the future holds.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub and soak my aching feet in hot water. I’m exhausted. I may not have been the smoothest out there, but I was able to lean into the new-girl thing, and milk it for a nice $430. Well, $375 after paying the house. Between this, my paycheck from Kucera Housing, the money I’ll save by cutting therapy and dance class for a while . . . I can do it. Barely.

Now that I’ve bought myself some time, I’m going to research everything Steve has been up to, because I’m not letting him keep this power over me. I lean back, my core screaming at me, and I grab my phone off the ledge of the pedestal sink to start my digging. My stomach twists when I unlock my phone and see the photo I set as my background. It’s a view of Minneapolis from my date with Casper . . . Maybe he’s still awake.

Hey, how was your day? Missed chatting with you.

Casper