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Marco nods toward the back. “You’re on in ten.”

“Crowd okay?”

“Wet. Horny. Tomado.”

“Awesome.”

I hand the towel back and head toward the small dressing area, which is less a room than a hallway with hooks and bad lighting. My stomach is still tight and twisted. Paul. Don with his giant granny hat. The way Paul looked when he saw me wet and mostly naked in his living room.

Our living room. Ours until determined otherwise.

Not right now’s problem.

I strip off the wet T-shirt and hang it on a hook. Change into the neon g-string because my life has become a series of ever-shrinking disguises. Check my phone.

Kev again.

STAY CALM. STAY POLITE. DONT LEAVE.

I almost type something back—“oops” or “too late”—but change my mind.

The music changes out in the main room. Bass pushing harder now. A whistle from somewhere near the stage. I tuck the phone into my shorts on the hook, roll my shoulders, and step out toward the light.

For the next hour, at least, I know exactly what to do.

The stupid thing is, camming would be easier. That thought hits somewhere between the first song and the second, while I’m sweating under pink light with a neon g-string trying to saw me in half.

Camming would be easier.

Casa Sirena has air conditioning that works and a bedroom with a door that locks. I could be there right now in a comfortable chair, laptop open, sweatpants instead of neon panties, making more money in less time and no greedy fingers grabbing for what they can’t have. Instead, I’m dancing for pesos and damp American dollars while a guy in a sweaty tank tries to decide whether he’s brave enough to tuck a bill into my waistband.

Ridiculous. I step closer and offer permission. He does it, fingers lingering at my hip a beat too long. I let him have the moment, then move away before he decides he bought two.

The cam room always likes the part where you almost give them something. Same rule applies here. The difference is on cam, I can control the frame. Here, the men are close enough to touch, and that’s part of the deal. Fingers at my waist. Knuckles brushing my thigh. A palm that slides too close to my ass before I catch the wrist and guide it back where it belongs.

“Nice,” I say.

The guy grins and adds another bill.

A week ago, every hand felt like an alarm. Now I barely flinch.

Progress, I guess.

I turn with the bass, let the lights catch my shoulders. The neon g-string is doing heroic work for an item of clothing that should be illegal. Marco whistles from the bar because two men near the stage are waiting to tip me, and I’m too far inside my own head to notice.

Bad dancer.

Bad guy who could solve this by turning on the camera and somehow can’t.

I know why Becca dumped me. Not the “my work got in the way” line I tossed at Paul, or the chump at Dairy Delight, but the real version.

She gave me a choice: the cam or her. She didn’t yell when she said it. She was standing in our living room with laundry folded on the couch, looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

She said, “There’s hardly enough of you to share.”

I knew what I was supposed to say. I had maybe two seconds to say it.

Her face changed before I even opened my mouth.