Chapter One
Emi
I’m a professional dancer, classically trained from the time I was five. I’ve danced on more prestigious stages than I can count for audiences who watch me in rapt silence. But tonight will not be that. Tonight, I’ll be performing on a stage speared in the middle with a single chrome pole, for an audience of rowdy drunks. For a few precious minutes, I won’t be a ballet dancer…
I’ll be an exotic dancer.
Cardinal Sin is a strip club with two floors—male strippers above and female below—and on the first Friday of every month, they host an amateur night when just about anyone can show up with a costume and song choice and try their hand at shaking their ass for cash. And for the past six months, I’ve been doing just that. It allows me to shed the name I’ve built for myself and the pressures that come along with it and just…be. No rules, no judgment, no legacy to uphold.
Here, I’m not Emmélie DeLuca, only daughter and prodigy of the internationally renowned French dancer Mirabelle Bissett. I’m just Raven, woman of mystery and amateur stripper. And I love every minute of it.
Smoothing my hands down the chin-length electric blue wig that hides my long black hair, I check my finished appearance in the lighted mirror. My eye makeup is bold, with metallic blues and greens covering well under my lower lashes all the way up to my eyebrows and streaking across each temple. The extreme design acts like a masquerade mask, disguising my identity on the off-chance someone in the audience could recognize me.
“Oh my God, I’m so nervous I think I might barf.”
My gaze shifts to the brunette with big doe eyes on my right. She’s dressed like Britney circa “…Baby One More Time” with knee-highs, a tiny pleated skirt, and white button-down shirt tied under her chest. Her hands are shaking so bad she can’t get her fake lashes on properly.
I remember what it was like my first time, too. Not even the fact that I’ve been performing on stages my whole life had been able to keep the nerves away that night. Turning on my stool to face her, I smile and offer to help. I’ve been putting falsies on since I was ten, so it’s second nature to me.
“Thanks,” she says with a relieved sigh. “I’ve never worn fake lashes before. I’m more Baby Spice than Posh Spice.”
“I can tell.” I nod at her outfit. “A fan of ’90s music, I see. Same here.”
“A great love of the ’90s is all I really inherited from my mother. I’m Raquel, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Raquel, I’m Raven.”
“Ooh, that’s pretty. Is that your stage name?” she asks as I take both strips of lashes from her.
“Yep. What’s yours?” Raquel watches as I carefully reapply the glue and blow on it lightly.
“I have no idea. All I can think of is Candy, which I know is ridiculously cliché, but it’s like my brain stopped working when I walked through the backstage door.”
Oh no. Maybe Raquel isn’t doing this because she wants to. Maybe she has someone forcing her to take her clothes off onstage. Cardinal Sin is a far cry from a seedy strip joint—in fact, it’s extremely high class as far as these sorts of places go—but it isn’t uncommon to hear about a girl being strong-armed into dancing to pay off debts or for their asshole boyfriend who knows the kind of money this gig brings in.
Fire burns in my belly that someone might be taking advantage of this sweet girl. Lowering my voice, I stare into her light brown eyes so I can gauge her reaction. “Raquel, are you being forced into this?”
Her eyes widen for a split second, and I think she’s about to confirm my suspicion when she breaks into a laugh. “No, not at all. God, that’s probably what it seems like with how nervous I am, but no. This is on my bucket list of things to do before I turn twenty-five. I totally want to do it, I swear. I have a group of friends in the audience waiting to cheer me on and slip me some singles in case no one else does.”
She laughs at herself, and it loosens the knot in my chest, but it’s replaced with a twinge of jealousy. I’ve never had a group of close friends. Growing up, all my free time was spent training and performing. I didn’t mind the demanding work—I was doing what I loved, after all—but now that I’m not as entrenched in the lifestyle as I was when I was still performing, I feel like I’ve missed out on an important part of life.
“I think it’s great your friends support you.” I lightly touch the glue on the lashes, checking to make sure it’s tacky.
“Well, most of them do, anyway,” she mutters.
“Oh?” I prod, mostly to distract her from the underlying nerves, but partly because I can be a bit of a curious cat. “Close your eyes for me.”
She does, and I fit the strip to her natural lash line, holding it for a few seconds to make sure it secures well. “Ironically, my best friend, Liam, thinks I should do something more bucket-list-traditional like bungee jump or skydive. He doesn’t like the idea of me stripping, even for one night.”
“Keep your eyes closed,” I say and repeat the quick process with the other strip of lashes. “And I think what your friend feels is understandable. Not everyone is comfortable with the idea of people taking their clothes off for money.”
“Did I mention he’s a male stripper?” she adds wryly.
“Oh, well…um…” I’m not sure what to say to that. I mean, I have my suspicions as to why he might have a problem with it, but I don’t know Raquel well enough—or this Liam at all—for it to be my place to say anything.
“Whatever,” she says with a wave of her hand. “He just has to deal. This is a one-time thing for me, and whether I’m a huge flop or a raging success, I’m going to embrace the experience and have fun.”
“That’s honestly the best attitude to have. And the nerves will go away once you’re up there. Just focus on the music and you’ll be fine. The lights are so bright that you can’t see past the first row anyway. Okay, let me see.”
Raquel’s lids flutter open as she gets used to the weight and feel of the false lashes. “Well, how do I look?”
“Fantastic,” I say honestly. “You have that whole wide-eyed innocence thing going for you. They’re going to eat it up.”
Raquel gives a little squeal with a few claps, her giddiness pulling a laugh from me to join in her sudden excitement. “Thanks, Raven, you’re really sweet to help me like this.” She glances around us at the other half a dozen girls applying makeup, curling hair, and squeezing into tiny costumes while spewing back-handed compliments to each other in a passive-aggressive manner to rival the high school students at my studio. “Are you one of the regular dancers?”
The club alternates the amateurs with the regular acts to keep the audience interested and the money flowing. The manager has offered me a permanent position several times since I started doing this, but I turn him down every time. My life is wrapped up in running my mom’s dance studio, in my students. This is just to give me a taste of the forbidden. A tiny morsel to feed the dark fairy I keep locked deep inside me.
“No, but I got over my stage fright a long time ago.”
“Raven, you go on in three minutes,” Erin, the stage manager, says as she rushes over with her ever-present clipboard and pen. “And your friend here is after you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Raquel turns her gaze to me, silently asking for help. If I thought her eyes were big before, the fake lashes have rocketed them to adorable-cartoon-animal proportions, giving me an idea. Grinning, I say, “Her name is Bambi.”
A wide smile breaks across her face and she nods at Erin. “Yep, that’s me. Bambi.”
“Bambi it is.” Erin scrawls the name on her paper as she starts to move on. “Raven, hop to it, girl.”
Raquel grabs my hands and squeezes. “I’m usually a hugger, but I don’t want to ruin your makeup or anything. Thanks again for the help. Hey, if you ever need a massage, you come find me at North Crest Spa Resort in Glenview. I’ll give you the works, on the house.”
“Sounds great. Good luck, Bambi. Knock ’em dead.” I return the affectionate squeeze, weave my way through the dressing area to backstage, and stand in the pitch black to wait for my cue as the girl on stage finishes her number.
Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly and begin to tune out everything around me. The catcalls and whistles of the men in the audience become muffled, like being filtered through ten yards of cotton. My focus narrows down to the gleaming pole anchored in the center of the stage that for a solid four and a half minutes will be the center of my world. A world where Emi is left behind and Raven—the persona I think of as my dark fairy—emerges to play in the lights and bask in the sordid desires I don’t dare entertain outside of these dances.
I pretend this is all an act, but in reality, Raven is a slice of my truth that I’m too scared to acknowledge in the light of day. For the duration of my song, I’ll give her free rein. But afterward, I’ll lock her back in her cage, and I’ll once again be the Emi my mother groomed me to be.
Raucous cheers from the crowd swell at the sound of my name, punching a rush of adrenaline through my veins that pulls my shoulders back and nudges my chin higher. The first notes of my song mix with the men’s lascivious appreciation; it coaxes me from the shadows into the warm embrace of the spotlight, my heels striking the stage along with the beat. And with every cell in my body, I recognize only one thing…
It’s showtime.