Sweat dripped from the tip of my nose, my tights chafing and my t-shirt stuck to my body like spandex as I worked, and if a blind stranger had walked in at that instant, they probably would have been hard pressed to discern the difference between what I was doing and sex, with the way I was grunting and gasping. Still, doing a hundred entrechat quatre jumps without resting is hard work, and that was only one of the movements I was putting myself through that day.

I'd slept like hell the night before, like I had the night before that, tossing and turning throughout, even waking up once with a stifled scream barely held behind my lips. I kept having bad dreams of being dragged into the Bertoli mansion and of Eduardo forcing me into an empty room. The only relief from my nightmare was that at least I'd woken up before anything more than that could happen, but it didn't make sleeping any easier. I'd finally given up as the sun crested the horizon, and had instead, mechanically eaten a slice from the half-tier of cake that Margaret Bertoli had sent me home with, the box tucked on the passenger seat of my car without my having a chance to even comment. The vanilla cake with almond buttercream had at least given me some energy, and I decided that instead of kicking back on my couch to do a little solo session of Netflix and chill, I'd get a workout in. Workouts always helped me get in the right frame of mind and to remind myself of what was important. Some people meditate, some run or do weightlifting like Tomasso. Daniel and Luisa did martial arts, and Adriana painted. But I danced.

Which is where I found myself as I did jumps ninety-seven, ninety-eight, and ninety-nine, stumbling only slightly when I landed jump one hundred. My stomach roiling, I walked on shaky legs over to the corner where I'd put my bottle of water, taking a moment to swallow some before setting the metronome again, this time for a hundred grand plie with my arms held in the Spanish fourth position.

"Whore," I heard whispered as I started my plies, startling me and causing me to lose focus. I looked around, but my studio was empty, the polished wood floor gleaming and the front window showing nothing but the mostly empty parking lot of the strip mall I was renting space in. It was Sunday morning, and even in mostly casual Seattle, not too many people did shopping at that time, especially in a strip mall that had a Chinese restaurant, a dry cleaner, my dance studio, and a dermatologist's office in it. I shook my head, knowing it was just my insecurity and recent memory talking, and reassumed the proper position in the mirror, waiting for the right beat of the metronome.

"Why not just spread your legs instead?" a voice whispered again, and I stopped, grinding the heels of my hands into my forehead, whining in rage and frustration. I didn't need to place the voice. It wasn't like it belonged to any one particular person, but it was the amalgamation of a hundred different voices, all of them people who had looked down their noses at the stripper who wanted to pretend she could be a dance instructor. The majority of what made up the voice was male, of course, but there was one little voice, the youngest, that scared and hurt me the most. It was my own voice, the voice of the pretty sixteen-year-old with her own boobs who'd never have gone into stripping, and certainly not sleeping with men for money. No, the sixteen-year-old Carmen was going to make her impact in the dance world, even if the American Ballet Company said her turnout wasn't good enough because she had spirit and guts. Besides, there were a lot more types of dance than just ballet, weren’t there? Shakira wasn't exactly a prima ballerina either, but she was known worldwide.

"Yeah, but that isn't what you are most scared of," I whispered to myself, looking in the mirror. "You . . . you're worried that . . ."

I couldn't even say it to myself, sinking down to the floor and weeping, feeling every bit the tramp and whore that Eduardo Mendosa had made me feel two days before. I’d heard things like that before, but it was starting to get to me. For the first time in years, I felt dirty and felt quiet desperation grip my heart as I wondered if I'd ever find someone who'd look beyond my past and if I could ever escape the years I'd been a stripper.

I was so caught up in my despair that I didn't hear the door to the studio open, and I shrieked when I felt someone touch my shoulder. Whoever it was took a step back, but his voice was calm, and thankfully, familiar. "Carmen, shh, it's me."

I wheeled around to see Tomasso, wearing a tank top and shorts, and I smacked myself in the forehead. "Tommy. You wanted a massage. It's Sunday morning."

"It is, but never mind that," Tomasso said, sitting down on the floor beside me. I'd worked with him about once a week ever since he crushed his ankle, first with low back massages before helping him make sure his ankle was fully rehabilitated. Nowadays, I just worked him over generally, as he tried to stay in top condition while still handling his work for his father along with being a husband and father.

He continued, his face etched with concern. “What’s up? I can deal with my lower back later in the hot tub at home."

I sniffled, wiping at my nose and told him. "After Friday night . . . yesterday was hell. I had one of the kids’ classes I teach, and a father came in with his daughter. Apparently, he used to be a customer of the Starlight Club a few years ago."

Tomasso grimaced, knowing what was coming. "Did he cause a scene?"

"Yeah . . . in the end, I lost half the class, as apparently, some of the moms didn't know either. They've sat there for six months or more watching their sons and daughters take classes the whole time, everyone smiling and having fun, but apparently, my past is more important than that. So there goes a hundred and eighty dollars a month, and God alone knows what the damage will be if the story spreads."

I sighed, gaining control of myself as I shared the story. At least it was in the open now. “Before, I was able to defend myself, stick up for myself. I mean, I'm a good enough dancer that men like him would spend good money just to see me shake my body for them, but suddenly, I'm not worth thirty bucks a month so their kid can have lessons once a week? Normally, that works, but after what happened with Luisa's brother . . . I just didn't have the nerve."

"Well, you'll be happy to know that Eduardo is already on the way back to Brazil, and sporting a full set of lumps and a sprained shoulder courtesy of his sister," Tomasso said. “Luisa whooped his ass good yesterday morning before we shoved him on an economy class ticket all the way back to Porto Alegre."

"That's at least a little bit of good news,” I said, depression quickly washing over me again.

“You know, we’re all proud of you. You're going after your dream, and you're not letting things stop you. You're strong, which is more important than anything else. You're going to make it. You're going to be a success."

"This isn't Pretty Woman, Tommy. You know that. A success for me is not having to go back to stripping, nothing more."

"Stop that," he said, his voice having just a hint of harshness. "You are going to be more successful than that. Hell, look at it this way. You had an asshole hit on you Friday night, but you also had a guy stick up for you too. Now when was the last time you got white knighted?"

I chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, that felt nice. Who was that guy anyway?"

"Degrassi. One of the associates," Tomasso replied, leaning back and putting his head against the wall. "Kind of a hard luck story in his own right. Nothing you need to know about. It's Bertoli business, but let’s just say he's got his own string of issues to overcome."

"Really?" I said, surprised. "He looked like a part-timer to me, what with that off the rack old suit of his. So not your style. He had a cute smile, though, to his benefit."

Tomasso laughed and shook his head. "You know, you're nearly the first person who has ever told me anything good about Dante Degrassi? Oh, he never has had anything bad, really, but he's been the invisible man to my family for years now. Someone else must have seen what was going down, and yet nobody stepped in except for Dante. That's something that I won't tolerate. I’ve told you before, but if anyone disrespects you, talk to me."

I shook my head. “It’s been okay, for the most part. Some of the men remember who I am. Obviously, one of them told Eduardo about me. They’ll probably always think of me as hired entertainment.”

Tomasso shook his head again and put an arm around my shoulders. "By the way, I know about your apartment. Daniel drove by the other week to bring you a little gift. Nothing much, just some stuff he picked up on his most recent trip out of state. When he went by your place, he found someone else already living there. Were you going to tell us?"

I shook my head, feeling a bit of my pride flare up. "I made my decision on my own, Tommy. I'll live by it too. The studio needed new flooring, and in order to pay for it, I had to cut my budget in other areas. My choice, my decision."

Tommy hummed and hugged me tighter. "That's what makes you special, and godmother to Johnny, remember? Ninety percent of the other people who have even half the relationship you have with my family would have come hitting us up for more money for renovations, and often sacrifice a lot less than you have."

I shook my head. “I still don’t get why you guys believe in me. Is it because I was willing to take Daniel in when nobody else would?"

Tomasso laughed and nodded. "That, and your going off on a few Bertoli men when they came looking for him certainly helped too. You've got guts, brains, and heart. That's enough in my book.”

"Still, it's like I'll always have that scarlet letter hanging around somewhere. I mean, what sort of man—what sort of good man, I mean—would be interested in damaged goods like me?"

“One who can see what we see," Tomasso said softly, consoling like a big brother. "Who knows? The right guy could walk through the door of this place tomorrow."

I was about to protest when the phone for the studio rang, and I got up. Picking up the call, I listened and quickly realized it was someone trying to find out class information. I pulled the phone away and held my hand over the mouthpiece, looking over at Tomasso, who'd gotten up off the floor. "Tommy, I’ve gotta take this. Uh, potential customer. But thanks. I know you did your best to try and cheer me up. Listen, if your back is giving you problems, come by tomorrow around two.”

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Keep your head up, Carmen."

Tomasso walked out, and I took my customer off hold. "Sorry about that. Now what classes can I help you with? We've got ballet, jazz, hip-hop, and ballroom, if that's your thing."