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And whatever reset I came here for slips cleanly out of reach.

Chapter twenty-one

Overtime

Clint

By the end of my shift, my feet hurt, my tips are okay, and I have almost stopped thinking about Paul.

I’m in the back hallway, peeling myself out of my g-string, when Emiliano leans against the wall beside me.

“Papacito,” he says.

I pull on my shorts. “Good night, amigo?”

“Better later.”

“That’s a weird answer.”

“There’s a private party,” he says. “Vacation guys. Rich. They need dancers.”

I reach for my T-shirt. “We just danced.”

“For bar money.” Emiliano flicks two fingers toward my pocket bulge, which is a little less bulgy than usual. “This is better.”

“How much better?”

His grin widens.

That’s not an answer, but it’s close enough.

My body has already started imagining the uphill climb to Casa Sirena. Paul somewhere inside, maybe painting, maybe reading, maybe pretending not to notice when I come in smelling like sweat and other men’s hands.

My stomach tightens. Emiliano sees something on my face and misreads it kindly.

“Easy,” he says. “Same thing. You dance, they tip, and everybody says you are beautiful. Maybe they touch too much, so you move away.” He shrugs. “Or don’t. Your choice.”

“Comforting.”

He laughs. “Just be pretty in your underwear.”

I made enough tonight. I should say no.

I pull my shirt over my head. “Fine.”

Emiliano claps once, delighted.

“Good. Papacito comes with me.”

The party is five blocks up and one world over. The streets get narrower and quieter as the bars fall behind us.

“Relax,” he says over his shoulder. “You walk like police are behind you.”

“That’s my natural stride.”

He laughs and keeps climbing.

The building doesn’t look like a party from the street. Just a tall white block of windows and balconies evenly spaced. Emiliano presses a buzzer. A voice answers in English, and the front gate clicks.