STELLA

I swing open the door to Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club right before the stroke of midnight. The metal handle is freezing, and I pull my hand away as quickly as I can. I forgot my gloves at home today. I check the time on my Michael Kors watch and let out a breath of relief, which freezes in the air in front of me. My shift starts at twelve o’clock. It’s eleven fifty-six.

I’ve been working as an exotic dancer on the side for almost two months now. It’s not something I particularly enjoy. The men I have to put up with in my job are generally unappealing, sometimes rude and borderline harassing, but always drunk. But I do it because, well…why does anyone put up with a job?

“Gotta pay those bills,” moans Lorelei, coming in behind me.

Ah, Lorelei. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Sure do,” I say. I stop and wait for her, holding the door.

Lorelei has been working here longer than me, although I’m not quite sure how long it’s been for her. I’m weird with details like that. It’s not that I’m spacey, it’s just that details can go right over my head if I’m thinking about something else at the time. Which isn’t good, considering my line of work.

Lorelei takes the door. “Thanks.”

“Why do I get the impression you don’t want to be here any more than I do?” I ask as we head to our lockers.

She shrugs. “Probably because you know me. You’re right. We’re twenty-one. We’re stripping after college. We’re two walking, sexy clichés.”

I set my purse on one of the tables, then open my locker and start to undress. The outfit I pull out of my purse, the one I selected from my closet an hour ago, is a unique one, even considering what we’re about to do; it’s a tiny little number, black and full of sequins, and the top of the garter explodes in a pattern of black lace. “Speak for yourself,” I say as the fabric falls through my fingers.

“Ugh,” Lorelei says. She’s taken off her pants and now she’s bent over, stroking one of her legs. “I forgot to shave.”

I hand her one of the disposable razors that I always keep close at hand. “Use mine.” Even though I’m anything but a veteran at this, I know you always have to come prepared.

I eye her as I finish getting dressed and reach around to buckle my bra. I’ve always thought Lorelei to be prettier than me, but I must admit that I have the better body. Lorelei has the kind of face that guys automatically go for. It’s the kind of face that shows no trace of inhibition when she’s on stage and is always done up to perfection with top-of-the-line makeup. The same goes for her hair, which today cascades down her back in perfectly-rolled curls. But she’s several inches shorter than me, and my long, muscular arms and legs beat hers any day.

“Thanks.” She grabs it from me and uses the small built-in sink to shave herself, her cheeky bikini riding up as she lifts her leg awkwardly.

When I’m sure she can’t see me, I reach down into the sock that I haven’t yet removed for this very reason. Swiftly, I slide out my knife.

I clutch the cold metal, concealing it within my fist. It’s a medium-sized switchblade, and I’m not even sure if it’s legal or not. It’s not supposed to be on the premises when we’re working. I know that. I stuff it inside my locker and quickly cover it with one of my spare tops, paying special attention to tuck the fabric down around it. There’s no way I’d do this job without some kind of protection, but unfortunately, I can’t keep that knife on my body at all times – for obvious reasons. This is my routine every night: secretly pull from sock, stuff inside locker, cover until invisible. Repeat. Most nights Lorelei arrives after me, though, so I have plenty of time to make my move in private.

I doubt Lorelei would care. Hell, I know lots of girls in this line of work carry something on themselves for protection, although ninety-nine percent of the time it’s usually just mace. It’s just that if there’s one thing the academy has instilled in me, it’s confidentiality. Because you just never know.

She finishes up as I’m pulling another pair of fishnet stockings over this elaborate contraption I have going on. Then I grab for a long, dark grey beaded necklace, which I swoop over my head and allow to cascade down my back – my signature look. It’s something different, and the men love it. I look at her and smile.

“There,” she says. She offers the razor back to me.

Instead of taking it, I say, “You can put it in my bag.”

“What would I do without you. Oh–” She stops, removing something from my purse’s depths.

I freeze.

“Ohh my. What is this, Stella?”

It’s a condom. She flicks it between her fingers.

“Hey.” I reach and miss and end up grasping at air. “What the hell do you think it is?”

“I know what it is. Why do you have this, missy? You know what Mama May said last week. This isn’t a special services club, and we’re not even supposed to have this kind of thing.”

The condom isn’t for me. Really, it’s not. My love life is lackluster, to say the least. And yeah, Mama May doesn’t want us to bring any of our own “sexual paraphernalia,” as she calls it, because according to her, if we’re not doing anything illegal, we shouldn’t need it. Which is pretty ridiculous if you ask me, because what if we want to do something perfectly legal after our shift? Not that that’s something I anticipate. The quality of men here is, as I said before, sorely lacking.

I grab it from her, laughing. “Since when are you one to be so into rules?” Maybe the switchblade wouldn’t go over so well with her, after all. “It’s for Simone. She asked me to bring her one. God knows I don’t use any condoms these days, so I had some laying around.”

Lorelei slams her locker and gives me a sideward glance. “I thought Simone was trying to conceive.”

I slam my locker, too. “Nope. I guess not. How do I look?” I do a little twist.

“Smokin’. Come on.”

By the time we start, the club is packed. It’s going to be a long night. I prepare to replace a dancer named Tracy as the end of her shift approaches, and she comes down off the pole out of breath and sweating, but only after gathering up her fair share of tips off the platform floor. Most of the men around her don’t want her to leave, but a few seem to change their minds when they see me approach. They’re looking at me like I’m the next piece of meat to be evaluated on the auction block. I divert my gaze, refusing to make eye contact. Tips be damned.

A flash of lights set to the beat of the music draws my attention. Lorelei is already working a stage opposite me. She’s past a large divider in the main room, and I have to strain to see her. I can only catch streaks of her hair being tossed and glimpses of her legs over the top of the divider as she twists and twirls her money out of her viewer’s pockets. She’s giving them what they want. They won’t be left impatient, that’s for sure.

“Come on, girl,” a man taunts, shaking a wad of cash up and down from his seat.

Tracy has since disappeared, and I’m up. The men are waiting for me, almost-empty drinks in hand. I take the stage, taking extra care with my tall heels to not fall flat on my face on the way – it’s always been a fear of mine, although I’m lucky that as of today it hasn’t yet happened – and swing myself around the pole in one swift motion, sticking that very heel into the air. This pleases my small crowd, and the man who’d been calling to me now starts to fork over some of that cash as I continue to dance. He thumbs through the bills, the motions more for show than anything else. He’s drunk. I can see it in his eyes and the way his movements are just a little slowed. Of course, that should be a given. They all get drunk here. That’s what this place is for. It’s what I’m for. For a bunch of lonely, single (hopefully) guys to come and watch me wrap my half-naked body around a pole for a couple of minutes. I want to puke.

But I won’t. I don’t want them to notice my slight tinge of nausea, so I try to mask it with a smile.

I can be prone to nausea at the most inconvenient times. Ever since I was a kid, my mom used to complain about having to rush me out of the store, forfeiting her huge pile of groceries, holding my little body straight out in front of her in an attempt to avoid getting puke on her just-dry-cleaned cashmere sweater. For a while she thought it had to be some kind of medical condition, but it never amounted to anything except annoyance and inconvenience. And now is certainly one of those times of inconvenience.

The smile works. They don’t let up their cash flow, and their expressions of glee plaster their obliviousness all over their faces.

For crying out loud. They’re like kids in a freaking candy store. I need to get a better job, I think as I send my hair flying.

Although, that isn’t quite true because this isn’t my main job. I should have said, I need to get a better side job. That’s all this is. A side gig that I just so happen to be pretty good at, and a side gig that just so happens to, so far, be pretty good to me in return.

A few minutes into my dance I catch sight of a lone man sitting at a table in the corner of the room. He’s drinking a beer. Well…he has a beer in front of him. I shouldn’t say he’s drinking it, because the entire time I’ve noticed him, he hasn’t taken one sip. He’s watching me. At least…I think he is. It’s hard to tell with the way the light’s shadows are falling over his eyes, and his prominent brow creates a perfect combination of concealing his gaze.

I might as well give it a shot. Tonight could use a little excitement, anyway. Who knows? Maybe he’s loaded and he’ll be blown away by my charm and elegant sexuality, come on over and pour out louds of cash onto me as I practically bathe in it. I roll my eyes, this time not trying to hide my expression from the watchful eyes upon me. Get over yourself. You’ve been at this for, what, two months now? You’re not the best. You’re not even the best in this room. Lorelei’s over there kicking ass, and here you are rolling your eyes and checking out the mysterious clientele lurking in the shadows.

That’s bad. The ones who lurk in the shadows, who give off that mysterious vibe, are usually the ones you’d least want to interact with.

There’s something about him though. Maybe it’s the way his hair falls perfectly down his forehead, over his right brow, threatening to descend over his eye, and his attitude that makes me feel like he planned the whole thing. Or maybe it’s the way he’s dressed, which would be impeccably if it weren’t for the top three buttons of his dress shirt that he has hanging open. The undone buttons expose the top of his chest, and pull my suddenly-magnetic eyes down to the very beginnings of a white undershirt.

I try to flirt with him with my eyes, desperately trying to keep the hope alive that maybe he’ll come over and join in on contributing to my cash pool, but the longer I watch him the more disinterested he seems. Right as I’m about to give up, he rises and reaches into one of his back pockets. He pulls out some money and tosses it onto the table, then walks away, leaving his beer.

It takes a lot to throw me. Since taking this job, I’ve learned how to put up with a lot of shit: catcalls (those are to be expected), drinks being spilled on me (both accidentally and intentionally), and touching (which is, by the way, strictly forbidden). So it should go without saying that I can take the heat. But that guy, the way he was looking at me, and the way he got up and flat out left just because I started looking at him…that threw me.

I regain my composure enough to finish my performance, and by one thirty, I’m beat. My feet ache and cramp in their compressing still patent leather. I’m dying here.

I’m breathing hard, and a fine layer of sweat breaks out across my skin as it does every night I dance. You may not think it’s possible for stripping to be one of the best workouts in the world, but you’d be wrong. I fan my face as I descend the few stairs, looking forward to some nice cold ice water and leaving the whistling and drooling of the men far behind, although I can still feel their eyes on me as I walk away.

I meet up with Lorelei as we converge on our way to the locker room. She raises her hand for a high five. “We did it,” she says.

“One mini-shift down,” I reply, smacking her hand.

We call them mini-shifts, the small segments of dancing we do before taking our thirty minute breaks. So far, it’s been my experience that you’re given more breaks in this job than any other “normal” job. I suppose you have to.

Just as we’re about to reach the freedom of the locker room, and with my hand on the door ready to open and get that nice glass of water, the fire alarm sounds. A loud, wailing sea of men’s voices flows through the building.

“Fuck,” says Lorelei, stomping her foot and yelling over the sound. “It’s like thirty fucking degrees out. Fuck.”

“If you say fuck one more time, I’m keeping my razor the next time you need it.” Lorelei has this thing with swearing. She’s trying to stop, and she’s asked me to help her. Most days that’s easier said than done. “I’ll make you dance all hairy.”

I’m not sure if she heard me, because she ignores what I said and takes my hand. Together we make for the door, about to join a large mass of people heading the same direction.

I hesitate briefly, resisting against the pull of Lorelei’s hand. Maybe I should run back inside for my switchblade. The truth is, I feel even more naked without that thing than I do without the majority of my clothes on, as I am now.

“Stella!” Lorelei says over her shoulder. “Come on.”

I guess it isn’t worth it. Don’t they always say that, anyway? Never go back inside for anything.

“Come on,” she says again. I rush up to her so that we’re closer together amid the small mass of people. “Keep me warm.”

But I don’t need to bother. It comes as no surprise that as soon as we get outside and the frigid air hits us, there are suddenly tons of men whose turn it is to do the stripping; they whip off their coats and outer layers faster than I ever thought possible, draping them over our shoulders until we’re wearing three solid layers of musty old leather, pilled North Face fleece, and over washed thrift store sweaters. The smells of b.o., smoke, must and spilled beer surround me and form a nauseous concoction which, once it hits my nose, makes me feel ill. I lean against Lorelei for strength. The dancing and sudden and cold was already getting to me; throw in those smells of dirty old men wrapped around me, and I’m done for.

I lean in closer, or rather, I fall in, thanks to the nausea and the pain in my feet, until I almost reach her ear. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I try to whisper.

“What?” She’s loving the attention she’s getting from the men, no doubt hoping it’ll earn her more tips when she takes the stage again in half an hour. If they come to turn this damn thing off. She stops batting her eyelashes for a moment to look at me. “Oh my gosh, Stella. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be right back.” I stumble a few feet away. She doesn’t yet know about my propensity to nausea; it’s not like that’s something I go around eager to tell people about. One person, a man, tries to follow me, and he reaches for my elbow to help hold me up, no doubt thinking I’m simply wasted, but I twist my arm out of his grasp and shoo him away. If I really puke, there’s no way I want anyone around me when I do. And I really, truly feel like I’m going to puke.

I find a place around the side of the building where there’s some privacy and hold myself up with one hand against the brick wall. Ugh. All I can think about is the overwhelming desire to get these things off me. The smell is still unbearable. It’s the smell of horny, drunk, desperate and raw man. But the cold sucks, too, and I’m faced with a dilemma: puke or freeze?

Fuck it, I choose freeze.

The nausea still as strong as ever, I drag the coats off me and let them fall to the ground, where they land with a thud. Please stop, I plead with my body. Please stop.

It’s no use. The sickness continues to rise, even stronger now, and I place my other hand against the wall as I finally throw up.

When I’m done, I do my best to wipe my mouth. I raise my head and look around. The nausea is gradually subsiding, as it does, and my senses are returning. My eyes scan the area until confusion sets in. Where am I? I’ve never been here before. I can’t be far away, though. I can still hear the crowd waiting for the fire trucks just around the corner, and I’m pretty sure I can even hear Lorelei’s voice above them as she continues to flirt, but where I am is basically nothing more than an empty, wide alley. It’s pretty well-lit, though; there two tall, bright fluorescent street lights cascading a small amount of light onto and around me. It looks like there’s supposed to be a third, but it’s burnt out.

I’d better head back. I lean down and pick up the men’s coats, slowly collecting the bundle of fabrics so as not to disturb my stomach again. When I rise, I freeze. A man is walking toward me from the direction of the crowd. He’s about my height, taking my heels into consideration, and he’s balding, but he has a strong look about him, with his tight shirt displaying his muscles. He has on an old pair of light wash, stained jeans. No coat, I notice. Did he come over here to get his from me? I sift through the coats, about to open my mouth to apologize and offer his back to him, when I see him look back over his shoulder. I stop, the coats dangling in my hands. When he sees that he hasn’t been followed, he says, “Hey there.”

“Hey,” I answer. Everything inside me tells me there’s something off about this. He’s being way too fake-casual for a simple request to get his coat back. I need to get back to Lorelei.

I avoid meeting his eyes and try to slide past him, but he’s blocking my way with his sheer mass. Instinctively, I reach down. My hand hits the bare skin of my leg. I pinch my eyes closed. My switchblade. Fuck.

He ignores the awkward move I just made and tilts his head toward the club. “I saw you on stage.”

I cross both arms in front of me and now embrace the bundle of clothes over my most vulnerable parts. I’m sure he did, but I don’t recognize him.

He looks me up and down. I’ve never felt more vulnerable. I turn my head away.

“What are you doing way back here?” he asks. “You look cold.”

I give a nervous laugh, and it comes out lighthearted, just as I’d hoped. I don’t want to give him the impression that I’m suspicious, or certainly that I’m verging on panic. “I wasn’t feeling well, but I’m okay now.” I shrug my shoulders up to my ears. “I’m freezing.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and says nothing.

“Well,” I say, “I’d better be heading back. Thanks for checking on me, but I’m okay. Really.” I try once more to pass him.

He puts his hand up, stopping me. “Wait just a minute. Do you, ah–” he rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not sure how to say this. I’ve never asked for anything like this before.”

Oh, God. I have an idea of what’s on his mind, but I don’t dare think it.

He laughs. “I guess I’ll just come out and say it. Do you offer any…special services?”

I’m frozen, both literally and figuratively.

“Wait,” he says when he sees my lack of reaction. He pulls out a wad of cash and flicks through it in front of me. Two hundred dollars, all in fifties, I note as I count it with my eyes. Bastard. He’s actually serious.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t offer anything like that. None of us do. It’s illegal.”

He laughs again, but this time the laugh is deeper, more menacing. This time, he’s done putting on a show. “Illegal…” A look of insult crosses him and he shoves the money away, then looks over his shoulder again. “What can I do to change your mind?”

I feel my pulse start to pound in my neck. Maybe if I count the beats, it’ll distract me enough until this moment passes. One. Two. The beats get faster, closer together. ThreeFourFiveSix.

“Huh?” He bends down, trying to look into my eyes to pry some kind of answer out of me.

I don’t let him. I continue to look away. Just relax, Stella, and assess the situation. I take a deep breath in. Okay. The guy’s talking dumb, but he looks innocent enough, not that that means anything… and he’s definitely been drinking, which means a hell of a lot. One thing’s for sure: I’d feel better right now if I had my knife.

I snap back to the present and I’m greeted by his face, and his breath stinking of beer and his eyes glassed over. He’s still trying to catch my line of sight.

I shake my head then place my hand lightly upon his chest, an innocent attempt to move him out of the way and free myself of him once and for all. “No. You can’t change my mind, sir. I’m sorry, but like I said, I don’t do that kind of thing. I’m just going to–”

He grabs my hand at the wrist and twists it around. He still has a smile on his face, one that reaches almost to his ears. “Oh, come on. Come on.”

I place my hand on top of his, using my fingers to try to pry myself free. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t release me, but he does loosen his grip a little. Then he moves us both back toward the wall. “Come on.” With his free hand, he reaches back into his pocket and pulls the money out again. “This is more than two hundred dollars. Right here.” He shakes it. “Don’t you need two hundred dollars?”

“No, I don’t, and let go of me!” Try as I might to sound brave, my determination is no match for his strength. As I twist in his grasp, he coils around me like a vine; it’s clear that he has me, and he won’t be letting go any time soon.

Then, in a flash of movement, he releases his pent-up fury and throws the money on the ground. It lands next to where I’d gotten sick. He shakes his head. “Look, I’m being nice here. Don’t make me–”

He’s interrupted by the distinct sounds of someone approaching. Eagerly, I peer past his shoulder. Two other men have broken off from the crowd and are making their way over to us, their expressions curious and confused. They must have heard me raise my voice.

Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief. If he’d kept this up, my next move would have been to scream, and that’s something I’d rather not have to do. Screaming would have made it official. It would have meant I’m really in trouble, that I really am being… attacked.

Immediately, he releases me and takes a step back. My hand falls to my side and I rub at my wrist where he’d held me. It’s sore.

“What’s up?” one of the men asks, the question directed to neither of us in particular. He comes to a stop in front of us, along with his friend.

The man in front of me answers for me. “Nothing at all. Just working out a deal with the lady here.”

“A deal, huh?” the same man says. I squint as I analyze the tone in his voice. He sounds either intrigued or suspicious. I pray it’s the latter.

“There’s no deal,” I say quickly, stepping forward. The look in my captor’s eyes let me know he wants to stop me, but he doesn’t dare with witnesses around. “I’d like to go back now.”

I’m safe. I have to be. There are two other people here with me, three total now, and they can’t all be bad. Can they? I move forward again, only to bump into one of their unmoving bodies. I look up. The alcohol on this man’s breath hits my eyes. He’s much taller than the first man, and as they both return my gaze, all I can see are their spacey, piercing eyes shrouded in dark circles. One of them has a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. My lungs rise and fall in a way they never have before, and my throat tightens as though I need to cry. I swallow the feeling away. I extend a hand behind me as I back up, my fingertips feeling for the wall but hoping for enough space to move. I start to shiver, either from the freezing cold or the fear; it’s impossible to say which because both are pulling at every inch of my body.

The two newcomers start to inch closer, and now there’s mischief in all three pairs of eyes.

When I hear my own voice, it’s full of trembling. “Please move,” is all I can say. I don’t mean to say it, especially the please part, but it’s all that comes out. I immediately regret it. I just said please to these jerks? Get it together, Stella. You know how to defend yourself. Remember what you learned at the academy. But I can’t. I reach for the memories, in the back of my mind, and come back empty-handed. And I try to scream, but the trembling has evolved into silence.

Their response is to finish closing in on me, and one of them extends a hand toward me, possibly making for my neck. I recoil. I want to sink away. I want to be anywhere but here.

I’m about to do just that – sink down against the wall that I’ve been backed against, simply because there’s nowhere else to go, when I spot another shimmer of movement.

“Please,” I think to myself, and I don’t realize I’ve spoken it out loud until it’s already left my lips. I have no idea who this person is, but I’m begging the universe for this to be someone who will help me.

The first man grins with delight at the realization that he can continue his quest, and he leans in, his mouth making for my neck. Whatever happens now, I’m about to be changed forever, one way or another. I’d just rather not have to witness it firsthand, so I close my eyes.

Right then, when I feel like this could quite possibly be the end of me and my entire little world – or at least my relative innocence – I hear the clap of a hand against clothing, followed by a yank. I still don’t dare open my eyes, and I don’t dare think this could be anything other than more shit that’s about to go down. I ready myself for the worst that’s yet to come. It feels safer. So much for Stella Montgomery as she once was, I think. Here she lies.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Stella,” comes a deep, rustic voice. It’s commanding and firm. It has no time for bullshit. “Open your eyes.”

I blink a few times. His hair is dark and unkempt, and his thick layer of stubble matches the rest of the careless look. His eyes meet mine, and I’m relieved to see that they’re tired, or maybe just pained, but they’re not drunk. Then, they change. A curtain of ferocity closes across those eyes before he turns from me. Even deeper chills, this time ones of realization, not fear, run through me. He’s the man from the corner, the man who’d been silently watching me with those nearly-invisible eyes. I recognize him first by that unbuttoned shirt, but seeing his features this closely leave no doubt in my mind that it’s him.

He steps closer, placing himself between me and the three others, and suddenly I’m shielded by his body, facing his back, and this man doesn’t reek of alcohol or dirty thrift store clothes; he smells like clean, masculine flesh, and freshly washed laundry. Most importantly, he smells safe. I never knew that “safe” was actually a smell, but it sure as hell is.

“I said, who do you think you are? What the hell is this?” All this from the man who was close to burying his mouth against my neck.

The man protecting me doesn’t answer, but clenches his fist at his side. Looking around him, I can see one of the men standing a ways away. He’s partly bent over and he’s clutching at his shoulder with a grimace on his face.

The stranger turns back to me. He says loudly, “I’ve been looking for you.” His voice has authority laced throughout it, as though he doesn’t care what happens as a result of his words because he has nothing left to lose. That might be the scariest thing of all.

I furrow my brow.

He raises his. “You weren’t waiting where we were supposed to meet. It’s two. I was looking for you.”

I get what he’s trying to do, but why he’s doing it is beyond me. I want to trust this man, but I don’t. Who does he think he is, anyway? Like I should trust him to save me after two others wanted to join in? How do I know he’s not trying to trick me? As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another client, and look at what clients can do to you. This all goes to prove that I the last thing I should do is trust him.

He holds out his hand.

I can’t afford to consider my options. I have nothing else to lose. I release my hold on the pile of coats and let them drop to the ground. I place my newly-free hand in his, and together we start to walk away. I instinctively turn my head and see the three with looks of shock and disappointment on their faces. They mumble among themselves, and one of them lights up a cigarette. The first man, the one who’d offered me the cash and who I thought to be the most harmless of the three, flips us off.

“Don’t look back,” my savior tells me as we keep going.

I concentrate on my steps and trying not to fall in these heels, which is even harder now that my legs literally feel wobbly. I can’t stop feeling their piercing eyes on me as we walk away, either. That hurts. The feeling almost takes my breath away, and I have to force myself to try to relax so that I can continue to breathe normally. So instead, I focus on his hand, the warmth of it and the softness. I don’t even notice that he’s been holding a coat in his free hand this entire time, his coat, a black business-type sports coat, and I also don’t notice when he pauses to throw it across my back before continuing on.

The relieving sight of Lorelei brushes all other thoughts aside, including ones of the man who helped me. I slide out of his hand and run to her with the last of my remaining strength. “Lorelei,” I breathe. It feels so good to be back in her familiar presence.

“Stella?” She turns from the man she’d been talking and smiling with. Things have remained casual here, without a hint of drama. She had no idea I was in any trouble. “What’s wrong?”

I hold my forehead. I’m exhausted, and I need to find my boss to report all this to her and to take the rest of the night off. After I do that, there’s nothing I want more than to get home, lock my door, and slip out of this outfit and into a hot bath with candles, a good book, and a big slice of cherry pie.

“You’re freezing,” she says. “What happened?”

The fire truck must have arrived several minutes ago because the alarm now shuts off. The firemen start to exit the building and give everyone the all-clear to head back inside.

“Here. We need to get you in where it’s warm,” she continues, briskly rubbing my shoulders up and down from underneath the fabric covering me. I didn’t realize how cold I truly am. I feel hot. I guess adrenaline will do that to you. The coat is helping now, though. It was already warm when he put it on me, and the silk interior feels comforting and smooth against my skin. I stop.

The coat.

My rescuer.

I’m about to explain what happened to Lorelei, but my mind comes back to life. I remember what happened, who helped me. I turn, scanning the crowd for any sight of him. I can’t see much through the crowd as they try to make their way back inside the building, but finally I spot a tall man with dark, mussy hair. He’s walking away from the building and crowd with his hands in his pockets and his head down… and he doesn’t have a coat on. I rush up and touch the sleeve of his upper arm. The man looks over his shoulder and then pulls away from me.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, my stomach dropping. It’s not him.

He scans my body as he continues walking away, no doubt surprised to see a woman approach him who’s dressed – or rather, undressed – the way I am, and then he shakes his head and leaves me.

I turn back around.

It’s safe to say my heart is somewhat broken; I desperately want to thank the man, not to mention return what he kindly gave me. But really, the biggest part of me desperately wants to learn what it was about him when I saw him watching me dance – why he acted so mysteriously, and why he disappeared so quickly once he knew I was watching.

And especially why, minutes later, he reappeared when he did.

Although no words were exchanged between us, he ignited something inside me in the midst of my dance, in that moment of confusion, and he ignited it further still when he pulled me to safety, away from those who were dead set on hurting me.

I’m alone now. Most everyone has returned to the club, and from here I can hear the music resume. The bass pumps through my chest. I’m about to return to Lorelei when I hear the screech of tires. I turn, holding his coat closed so tightly around me that it strains against the nape of my neck. I’m just in time to see a black BMW sedan speed its way out of the parking lot, pull out into the dark, empty street and in the blink of an eye, disappear down the road.