OLIVIA

“You can do this,” I mutter. I suck in a deep breath, trying to psych myself up so that I can make it through one more night of work. Except it’s not just one more night. I have repeated the same mantra to myself for months now, and this job never gets easier.

Staring into the mirror, I hate the person I see—a woman with long fake lashes, too much makeup caked on her face, and a short black wig that itches her head, forcing her to scratch so hard that she looks like a dog who has fleas. None of it is mine; all of it is a facade to lure customers into the club. I hate that I have to work at Club Rave, offering my body to men, shaking my ass for a few dollars. But I’ve chosen this lifestyle as a temporary means to make money.

The bass thumps through the club, and even in the dressing room, the music vibrates beneath my five-inch heels. Each girl has their own vanity that they use to get ready, but tonight, the boss called in a few extras to entertain a private party, and now, we’re forced to share. On nights like these, the claws come out, and the girls have been known to fight over something as stupid as using the last of the hair spray.

“Liv,” Donna says from behind me, “we’re on in five. Hurry up. I need to put my face on. Courtney won’t move her ass until she’s slathered on another five layers of concealer, and I have bags under my eyes that make me look like a zombie from The Walking Dead.”

I don’t see a thing. She is gorgeous and has the body of a goddess. But her looks are not her best feature. Men like her because of her spitfire personality that matches what they see on the outside.

Her long, dark strands, also as fake as mine, sit above her large breasts that are practically falling out of a sexy referee costume. Most of the girls wear wigs to protect their identities. Donna just so happens to be the daughter of a successful banker in town who would go ballistic if he knew what she did for a living. Unlike me, Donna dances because she likes it. She loves when men throw themselves at her; she even gets off on it.

We became friends after only one night at the club. I was nervous about dancing in spandex and a crop top in front of strange men, and Donna did everything in her power to make me comfortable.

I look at her reflection in the mirror and laugh, shaking my head at her ridiculousness. “You look great, as always. Stop fishing for compliments.”

“But it’s true. I’ve been dragging ass this whole week. I’ll be lucky if I don’t break a heel and face-plant on the bar.”

I remove a tube of red lipstick from the makeup case on the vanity in front of me. “That’s because you choose to run out for your late-night booty calls with Tony whenever he beckons you.”

“If you saw the size of him, you’d run right over, too. Trust me.” She places her hands on my shoulders, winks at me, and squeezes down hard enough to cause me to slump in my chair. “You need to get laid, babe. When was the last time you had a good dicking?”

I burst into laughter. “Dicking? Where do you come up with this shit?”

She proceeds to make an O with her left thumb and index finger and then sticks her right index finger through the middle, sliding it back and forth at a fast pace, her eyes wide open with a goofy smile splayed on her face. “This is what you need to do before your vagina dries up like the Sahara.” Donna moves to the side of my chair, leans against the vanity, and bends down, as if looking under my skirt.

I roll my eyes. “What are you doing, weirdo?”

“Checking for cobwebs.” A smile reaches up to her deep brown eyes, but she holds back her laughter, her face giving away nothing.

I swat at her arm, but she moves in just enough time, causing me to smack my hand on the edge of the counter. “Damn you. Shut up, and go get ready. We don’t have time to discuss my love life, or lack thereof.”

“I’m only trying to help. As your breast friend, it is my duty to make sure you stop moping around and find some action. A one-night stand would do you some good.”

She has a point, but I don’t bother to acknowledge her comment. It has been far too long since my last boyfriend. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I dated so many losers in a row that I gave up on the idea of finding anyone normal in this city. My last boyfriend stole my car and wrecked it, and the one before had a drinking problem.

Propping her leg up on my chair, she laces up the black leather boots that cover her pale legs and stop mid thigh, accentuating her killer curves. “Is that what you’re wearing out there?” She sets her foot on the floor and moves closer, her eyes traveling down my body in disapproval. “You have to take that off.”

I slide the red lipstick along my lips and blot with a tissue from the box next to my makeup case. “Why? What’s wrong with what I have on? I wear this every Thursday.”

“Not this week. Bruno said you had to wear the gray skirt and top tonight. Ya know, the sexy-teacher outfit.” She points at the opposite end of the room, her finger landing on Kerry, who is wearing the same schoolgirl outfit as me.

Guess I missed the memo.

Bruno will kill me if I go onstage in the same costume as another dancer.

I glance in the mirror, checking my makeup one more time, and run a glossy shimmer along my bottom lip before smacking them together. “Whatever Bruno wants.” I stand with my hand held out, motioning toward my chair. “Go ahead. You should finish up here. I’ll get changed, and then I’ll see you in the VIP room.”

“Perfect.” She plops down on the leather chair. “I’m right behind you. Break a leg.”

After I change, I walk down the creepy back hallway. In the dimly lit space, the lumpy red wallpaper reminds me of coagulated blood. The lack of ventilation along with the mold and whatever is festering inside the walls and drop ceiling make it hard to breathe.

At the end of the hall, opposite our dressing room, I open the door to the VIP room and suck in a deep breath, taking in the dense air and the stench of sweaty bodies. Purple lights illuminate the mirrored walls and ceiling, casting shadows of the men who are sitting on couches scattered throughout the large, open room and standing around the bar that runs along the right side.

Two girls are dancing, each wrapping her body around a pole at the center of the room. While we’re not strippers, we have to do some pole work on occasion, especially for the high-end clients who book private rooms. Bouncers guard us, as if we were their property. In some ways though, we do belong to Bruno and his club.

Donna files in behind me and playfully smacks me on the ass, pushing me closer to the stage. Even after three months of working at the club, I still get stage fright for the first few minutes until I get into my groove. But, after I’m on the stage, bar, or whatever spot Bruno has chosen for me that night, I try not to think about the people in the crowd, and I concentrate on the real reason I am stuck working here.

Donna takes her place on the stage. I follow her lead. Bruno even had the circular platform mirrored, allowing anyone who is standing close enough to see right up our skirts. I purposely wear booty-hugging black shorts instead of the standard thong and fishnets most of the girls wear.

Moving my hips back and forth to the music, I keep my eyes on the crowd forming in front of me, careful not to focus on anyone in particular. I made that mistake when I first started dancing. A man thought I was making eye contact to signal that I wanted him when all I was trying to do was calm my nerves and pick someone to zone in on. I had done the same thing when I was in law school, and my trick had worked every time. But the freak followed me home for a week after our strange encounter, which resulted in me having to stop by the courthouse to get a restraining order.

Fun times.

I’ve heard stories from the girls, some who used to strip, about men who became obsessed with them and thought they were dating just because they’d paid them for a lap dance and tipped well. Unfortunately, the same thing happens in this line of work.

I look at the men surrounding us, standing a few feet back from the stage, thanks to our bouncers.

“Make eye contact,” Bruno always says to us.

So, I do, my eyes traveling around the room, never stopping on anyone in particular.

With this job, at least I don’t have to wear a G-string, take off my clothes, or have sweaty, horny men touching me. They only stare at me with their mouths open wide, whistling and screaming, as I throw my leg around the pole. After I twirl a few times, dancing nonstop, my body and the pole are now slick with sweat. Under the heat from the lights and the steady pace we have to maintain, I practically melt into a puddle on the floor.

I tighten my grip on the pole and hop off before I fall and embarrass myself, like when I first started out. Counting down the minutes in my head until the end of this shift, I keep going and force my body to move, already feeling my leg cramping up. I hate when that happens because it makes standing in these heels ten times harder.

When the song changes to a more techno beat, I inch forward, in sync with the other girls, and we gyrate to the beat of the music. I took ballet, tap, and jazz lessons when I was younger. But I never thought I was any good.

One of the girls I met while working as a lawyer at the public defender’s office told me about a club that paid well for dancing without taking off your clothes, and I was banging on Bruno’s door the next day, begging him for a job because I was so desperate for cash. The life of a public servant has zero rewards. On my measly public defender salary, I barely made enough money to pay a few bills and treat myself to a manicure once a month.

Once our set ends, I stop for a second, sweat dripping into my eyes and down my face. With the makeup and lights blinding me, I can hardly see the faces in front of me. Blinking a few times as I step down from the platform, I grab ahold of a bouncer’s arm, and he escorts me out of the room. I’m thrilled that I have thirty minutes before I have to go back on again.

I need the money. But I hate this job.

* * *

Our next shift moves to the main room of the club where girls are dancing inside cages suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Bruno used to switch me with the girls who normally worked above the dance floor, but one night, I got so sick from the height that he hasn’t forced me to go up there since. Now, he wants the girls to dance on top of a long mahogany bar at the center of the club where everyone can perfectly see us as we step onto the stools and climb up onto the bar.

I almost lose my balance when my shoe collides with something wet, causing me to glide toward one of the six poles bolted into the ceiling and fixed to the wood. On my first night as a dancer, I didn’t adjust to the black lights, and I walked into the bottom of the stage, falling onto the platform with my arms sprawled out and my legs sticking up in the air. It was beyond humiliating. I thought about quitting after that night, but Donna convinced me to stick with it, said things would get better as time went by. She was right. But that does not change how I feel about this job.

I could have worked a different job, apart from the public defender’s office, but I wanted to make some fast cash to pay off my debts. According to my projections, it will be at least one year, if not more, before I am debt-free. My pride has to take a backseat to the mountain of bills and collection agencies hounding me on a daily basis. I am flat broke and drowning in school loans.

“No touching!” the bouncer yells at a guy who has grabbed my leg, his sleazy hand running up the length of my calf. “I said, no touching.”

I try to shake him off, holding on to the pole and hopping around, as the bouncer peels the guy’s fingers from my skin and grips him by his shirt.

When the bouncer turns to manhandle him, my hand slides down the metal of the sweat-coated pole. With the slickness from spilled drinks on the bar, I fall forward after the guy releases my leg, having nothing left to keep me from tumbling to the ground. Except my body never hits the floor because strong arms have wrapped around me. The scent of musk and laundry detergent fill my nostrils as my nose crashes against the neck of the man who caught me.

“I got you, beautiful,” he whispers into my ear, his voice deep and sensual.

He sets me on the floor his striking green eyes luring me in. The dark tats on his muscular arms cause my heart to flutter a bit. Damn if he’s not one of the sexiest men I have laid eyes on in a long time. I was already curious about the man who saved me, but now…

Fashioned into tiny spikes that stick up in different directions, his dark auburn hair has more brown to it than red, somehow making him even more alluring. He has a trace of stubble along his angular jaw, completing the younger, sexier Michael Fassbender look.

My God, he’s gorgeous. Can I even use that word when talking about a man?

“I’m sorry about that!” he yells over the music. “My friend is an asshole. Let me make it up to you. What are you drinking?”

“I can’t, not when I’m working.”

“After work then.”

Before I can respond, a bouncer pulls me away from him and pushes the guy further into the crowd.

My cue to get back to work.

Bruno watches us from camera feeds in his office. I have no doubt, he is pissed about me taking a minute to talk to the man who spared me massive humiliation.

You okay? Donna mouths to me as I climb onto the bar.

I try to compose myself before getting back to our routine. With a quick nod, I continue moving to the beat of the music, falling in line with the rest of the girls on the bar with me. It’s rare for a customer to ever get close enough to us that we have cause for concern—not unless they’ve paid for a more intimate experience in the VIP room, but even that premium service only gets them within a few feet of the girls.

Among the guys in the crowd, I spot him instantly. He’s the kind of guy who stands out. He must be in his early twenties, though he could pass as older.

The boy who touched me must have evaded the bouncer because he’s found his way back to the group of guys surrounding my tatted savior. He chases the boy away with a wave of his hand, his mouth twisted in disgust while speaking to him, and then he steps next to a tall, dark-haired man with a scruffy beard and unkempt appearance. They do not look like friends. I’m shocked someone so yummy would even hang out with guys like the troll next to him and the skeevy dude who tried to feel me up. But the two guys to his left, the ones with beautiful women dangling on their arms, are even better-looking, similar in height, and just as well built.

Despite my rule of not focusing on anyone too long, I cannot take my eyes off him. And, once he leans into his unattractive friend to talk to him, our eyes meet at the same time, and I forget I’m supposed to be moving to the beat and following a routine. My body does what it wants, repeating the sequences from memory. He stares so hard, so intense, that, if the lights weren’t so damn hot already, I’d melt under his gaze.

He sifts through the crowd and steps in front of the bar to order, his eyes never leaving mine. After the bartender hands him a drink, he licks his lips at me and takes a sip from his glass. Lost in him, I don’t even realize the song has ended until Donna taps me on the shoulder, snapping me out of my trance.

“C’mon, Liv. Get your ass in gear.”

Ending our staring contest, I turn around, giving him a nice view of my ass in my barely there outfit, and I hop down from the bar. I look over my shoulder at him one last time before I follow behind Donna. He smiles and raises his glass at me, and I grin like an idiot.

I walk into the dressing room with Donna at my side, the other girls ahead of us.

Donna pats me on the back and pulls me closer. “That was a close call, huh? He had his hand wrapped pretty tightly around your leg.”

“I didn’t even have time to react before the bouncer threw him out.”

“You should’ve kicked him in the face for getting so close.” She tilts her head back and laughs. “That would’ve taught that bastard a lesson for touching the goods.”

Taking a seat in front of my dressing table, I sigh. “I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t had dudes try to touch me before. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Donna sits beside me, pressing down on the corner of her eye to hold her fake lashes in place. “At least you start your new job on Monday. You won’t need this place soon enough.” She turns to me and frowns. “I’ll miss you when you are a hotshot professor and have dozens of published papers in some fancy law journal.”

“It’s only an associate professor position at Strickland University, not Harvard.”

“Strickland is still a prestigious school. Give yourself some credit. Not too shabby for your first teaching gig. And it beats the hell out of the public defender’s office.”

I shrug, nonchalant, even though I know the position is the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re acting like I scored a job as a department head. I will still be here, shaking my ass next to you, until I have my freedom back.”

She grabs a bottle of water from the vanity and holds it up. “To freedom and making money. I’m so happy for you, Liv. Professor Ford has a nice ring to it. Professor Olivia Ford. You sound very official.”

Her comment brings a smile to my face. “Thanks, D. I guess you can say, teaching is in my blood.”

“I bet your dad was a good teacher. He can teach me quadratic equations any day.” She licks her lips and winks at me.

“Gross!” I throw a tube of lipstick at her, laughing. “That’s my dad you’re talking about. He’s retired and…just ew.”

She shrugs. “What? He’s cute for an old dude.”

I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia with parents who were both schoolteachers. My dad taught high school mathematics and met my mom shortly after when she applied at his school to teach English. I’m a little bit of each parent, good with both numbers and words.

Instead of teaching, I went to law school and landed myself a job at the public defender’s office after I passed the Pennsylvania Bar Exam right out of school. I had offers from top firms in the city, but I chose the life of a civil servant because I wanted to help people. Too bad the job paid shit. With all the loans and credit cards I had racked up while I was in school, the pittance of a salary I made wasn’t enough to keep food on my table, a roof over my head, and the collection agencies off my back.

I loved my job…until I had that one case—the one that rips you apart and tears you to pieces. Every lawyer has one client who tests their limits, their morals, and their judgment. Glen Brandis, aka the Wissinoming Park Rapist, was the straw that broke my back. I lost all desire to practice law after his case. I still lose sleep at night over what happened in the courtroom that day.

“Let’s go, ladies!” Tamara, the grouchy woman who manages the dancers, screams through the dressing room door. “You’re on again in two minutes.”

I groan and slide off my stool. “I seriously hope I won’t have to endure much more of this before I can make my escape.”

Donna laughs. “You only have to slum it a little bit longer, Teach,” she says, calling me by my dancer name.

* * *