“Don’t say anything.”

Jet pulls his lollipop out of his mouth with a sassy pop. “I didn’t say anything.”

I stop restacking my cosmetics before spinning around to face him. I don't need to peer into his eyes to know he is lying; I heard it in his undertone.

“What?” he asks with a chuckle, shadowing me to my dressing nook. “An hour ago, you were packing like a mad woman. Now. . .” He scans our location to make sure we don’t have any unwanted listeners. “Now, you’re going to work at a brothel,” he whispers.

“I’m not working at a brothel.” I cringe when my voice comes out louder than I was anticipating. “I’m performing at one. That is completely different.” My voice is as low as my heart rate. “Besides, it isn’t a brothel; it’s a bordello.”

Jet’s blond brows shoot up into his hairline. “If I wrap a piece of shit in a candy wrapper, do I get to call it candy?”

“No,” I reply, faking a gag.

“Exactly!” he shouts, holding his hands in the air. “Just because you give a brothel a fancy title doesn’t alter the facts. Maison’s is a brothel. Their ‘house representatives’ are paid for their services.”

The way he says “services” leaves no doubt as to what he is implying.

"Maison’s clients aren't like Viper's clientele. Our guys are happy to pretend the little strip of material you use to cover your gorgeous tits from their view isn't there. Maison's clients won't just demand the strip be removed; they’ll want to feel what is under the strip, taste it, then spill their nasty cum all over it."

I gag for real at his last sentence. "That won’t happen. I have it in writing that I am simply performing my routine for thirty of their dearest clients."

Jet snatches the piece of paper I am referring to out of my hand. “You mean the dirty old geezers who pay for sex clients. Nothing about them is ‘dear,’ dear.”

I zip up my gym bag while mumbling, “For a man who works at a strip club, you’re very Negative Nancy about the sex industry.”

He stops reading the handwritten contract Keke, the manager at Maison's, drew up when she cornered me backstage fifteen minutes ago to glower at me. When Keke first handed me her card, I wadded it up and threw it in the trash. I underestimated her negotiation skills. Within minutes, she had me eating out of the palm of her hand. She doesn't just have the gift of the gab; she is a shrewd businesswoman. If I didn't know better, I'd say it is more than just a managerial role informing her business acumen. She is as invested in Maison's as her clientele who pay top dollar to use her services.

“Showing your assets is one thing, Savannah, but letting people feel them up is a different kettle of fish.”

"No one is feeling anything. I'm just performing." Guilt riddles me when my tone came out bitchier than I intended. I'm not angry at Jet; I'm just peeved I am in this predicament to begin with. "People pay thousands for ballet tickets, so who's to say they won't spend a hundred dollars to see me? It's three thousand dollars, Jet. I can't turn down that amount of money. I need that money—badly."

When I slump into the wooden chair across from my dressing area, Jet takes the seat next to me. I want to ramble about how unfair life has been to me the past ten years, and that if I could just catch a break, I’ll never whine again, but if there is one thing I’ve learned the past five years is that complaints get you nowhere fast. If you want to change something, you have to do it yourself. Relying on anyone only guarantees failure. I’ve been taught that lesson numerous times my past nearly twenty-nine years.

“I’m smart, Jet. I won’t get caught in the net Keke is setting.” I wish my tone came out this confident when I told Ryan I didn’t regret trusting him.

Although I'll never regret loving Ryan, I do regret trusting him. Trust issues have been my biggest downfall the past decade. It doesn't matter if it is merely signing a slip of paper presented by a US Marshall or accepting a drink from a stranger at a bar, not being able to trust people's motives is my biggest personality flaw. How can you expect someone to give you their trust if you are not willing to do the same? You can't. That not only makes you untrustworthy, but it also makes you a hypocrite.

“Let me come with you—”

“No,” I interrupt, shaking my head.

If I want to walk down a dark, unlit path, that’s my choice. But I am sure as hell not taking anyone down with me. I laid in a bed I shouldn’t have. Now I’m trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“No, Jet,” I reply more forcefully, ramming his rebuttal into the back of his throat. “Even if you hadn’t revealed your true self earlier tonight, my answer would still be no. I need a friend, not a superior.”

He shoves his lollipop back into his mouth, swishing it around as if he is ridding the horrible taste my words left. “Alright, but if you get an itty bitty touch you don’t want—”

“You’ll be the first man I’ll tell,” I fill in, smiling. I don’t need his protectiveness, but it is nice to have.

“Nah. That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Jet stands from the bench, extending to his full height. “I was going to say, hit them with your stilettos. Those fuckers hurt.” He rubs his arm I aimed for earlier, feigning injury.

I laugh, loving the one-eighty our conversation just took. I swear, it has been like this every day for the past three weeks. We bicker like were vying for a spot on the national debate team before laughing like teens who huffed down a sneaky joint between final periods. Although at times Jet’s bouncing personality is confusing, it is also refreshing.

After tapping his knee against mine, Jet gestures his head to the back door of Vipers. “Go on, get out of here. Pete accepted your womanly excuse. Just make sure you hunch over on your way out. I told him your cramps were so bad you looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

A smile raises my cheeks. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”

He cocks a brow, not needing to speak to relay his words. Pete isn’t running this show. Jet is.

“Alright. Thank you.” I lean in to press a kiss to the edge of his cheek before remembering that isn’t something I do anymore. Keeping everyone at arm’s length is a safe, respectable distance.

I pull back with only a moment to spare, making my near slip not just evident to Jet, but everyone surrounding us.

"Awkward," Jet murmurs under his breath, loving the snarled glances directed my way. "I might have to take two home tonight just to save your head from the cutting block."

"Haha. Don't blame me for your promiscuity," I reply, half-peeved, half-relieved.

After grabbing my handbag from my dressing station and securing a hoodie over my golden locks, I bump Jet with my hip then head for the back entrance. Anyone would swear the place is on fire for how fast my steps are. I haven’t been home before 4 AM the past three weeks, so my eagerness can’t be contained.

I push through the heavily weighted door with force, adoring the nip of freshness in the air. I’ve always loved Florida in the fall. Warm during the day, but perfect snuggling weather at night. Ideal! Well, it would be if I had a significant other to cuddle with.

Hearing my name being called from inside, I twist my torso. Jet is racing for the back door that is rapidly closing. His face is washed with concern. I try to stop the doors from closing, mindful of the alarmed locks Pete had installed late last month. Once the doors shut, they can’t open for another five minutes without inputting a safety code. The boost in security was implemented after two dancers snuck clientele in via the back entrance, pocketing their entrance fees as tips instead of handing them over to their rightful owner.

They didn't just lose their jobs; they nearly lost all the honest dancers their wages as well. Pete was pissed, so much so, he nearly doubled the cover charge. That would have been bad news for the entertainers, as the more money patrons hand over to enter, the less they have to share amongst the dancers. Considering one-third of the dancers at Vipers aren't paid a wage, they need those tips. Thankfully, Pete’s anger dulled when he was lavished with his employees’ attention. He kept the entrance fee at the agreed amount, instead opting for tighter security measures.

My endeavor to stop the door from closing is hindered by my shoe getting snagged in a grate. It slams shut, leaving Jet and his incoherent blubbering on the other side.

"I'll come around," I advise Jet when the thick door swallows his words. All I can hear is his muffled voice. Nothing he is saying makes any sense.

“His. . . out. . .front. . . wait. . .Savannah.” His clear words are separated by ones I can’t make out.

"Give me a minute. I'll be right around," I say with a groan, shocked by his eagerness to talk to me. I don't know what is so urgent it can't wait until tomorrow, but considering he went out on a limb for me tonight, I can't pretend I didn't hear him.

I keep my chin in close to my chest when I round the main entrance of Vipers. Although I wear a wig while performing, I've been caught out on three occasions the past week doing the most mundane tasks. Once, I was questioned at the laundromat. I was blinded by the client's eagerness to speak to me, even more so since he was standing next to his wife.

Deny. Deny. Deny. Then flee. That's the motto I've lived by the past three weeks.

My brisk pace down the cracked sidewalk slows when a familiar voice jingles into my ears—a voice I’ll never forget. A voice that sweetens my dreams as much as it blackens them. Ryan.

“I told you last month, Ma. He isn’t using the money to pay his rent. . . No, you don’t understand. Giving him a way out won’t teach him anything. . . You’re not hurting him by denying him, Ma. You’re helping him. . .”

I can’t see him, but I’m certain he has sensed my presence, as his voice didn’t lower because his mother interrupted him. It dipped like it always did when I tried to catch him unaware.

“Ma, I’ll call you back.” I hear a familiar beep, closely followed by the clearing of a throat.

Pretending I can't feel the world falling from beneath my feet, I glance around my location, seeking a quick exit. My choices are the packed parking lot on my right or returning down the dark, scarcely lit alleyway on my left. Neither option is appealing, but it can't be any worse than the predicament I am facing.

Deciding to wait for the alarm to unlock the back door is my best option, I spin on my heel and dash toward the alleyway.

My steps are stopped when a deep, gritty voice says, “Savannah?”

A million replies stream through my head, but not one seeps from my lips. I can’t command my legs to move, much less speak. So, instead, I keep my eyes planted on my shoes, pretending I am not who he thinks I am.

My pulse rages through my body when Ryan noisily huffs. It isn’t the huff of a man in shock. It is the gruff moan of an angry, tormented man. I don’t know what he has to be angry about? I’m not the one who tore his heart to shreds. He did that to me, not the other way around.

After clearing the anguish from my eyes, I raise my chin sky-high. “Ryan, hi,” I greet him, my voice as over the top as the grin on my face.

I saunter toward him like I have the world at my feet while chanting the same mantra on repeat: He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t think these types of establishments were your thing?” I question, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.

What? Old Savannah would have done that. I’m not relishing his unique, manly scent or getting a better look at his soul-stealing eyes. I am being polite. That is all.

Yeah, right.

Ryan is wearing a suit. Not just a shabby old suit you see on a hundred men, but a suit that showcases every spectacular cut of his body. His hair is a little shorter than I am used to, and the scruff on his chin is a little thicker, but his panty-wetting face, mind-numbing eyes, and lips as soft as a cloud haven't changed the past ten years. This shames me to admit, but he is as reckless to my composure as he has always been.

Now I am even more annoyed. A cheater doesn’t deserve to have this hold over someone. He broke my heart. Not partly. Not just a smidge. Wholly. He destroyed me. He destroyed us.

“It was lovely seeing you again, but I really must go.” I bite the inside of my cheek, loathing that my voice is croaky, as if I’m seconds away from crying. I don’t cry—not for this man. I shed enough tears a decade ago to last me a minimum of three. I will not cry another tear for this man.

I barely get two steps away from Ryan when he asks, “What are you doing here, Savannah?”

He says my name so bizarrely, like he hasn't mentioned it in years. Perhaps he hasn’t? Maybe she doesn’t like him talking about me?

“Uh. . . I was just. . .umm.” Spotting a flyer flapping in the cool breeze, I settle on, “A mix up in dates. I thought it was ladies’ night. My mistake.”

Ryan nods as if accepting my excuse. It is a pity his eyes don't hold the same confidence.

“Your ride?” he asks, nudging his head to a gleaming gold Mercedes pulled to the curb at the front of the club.

After soundlessly thanking my blessings, I stammer out, “Yes! I better get a wiggle on. He hates waiting.”

I hope the past ten years have been more detrimental to Ryan’s hearing than his looks, as my voice is doused with so much deceit, even a stranger would detect it.

“He? You brought a guy to ladies’ night?” Ryan interrupts, his tone rife with suspicion.

“Uh huh,” I reply, annoyed by his uncalled for interrogation. “Come on, Ry. We’re in the twenty-first century. Lots of relationships step outside the box these days.”

He glares at me. “Ryan. No one calls me Ry anymore.”

Ouch. Hello ego, here, have a bruise.

“Sorry. . . Ryan.” I peer over my shoulder, certain my mother has joined the party. The way I sneered his name was low—nearly as low as my heart rate is sitting. “I wasn’t aware the shortening of your name was damaging to your sanity. I’ll be sure not to make the same mistake next time.” I stop pacing to the stranger’s Mercedes to add a final nail into the coffin of our conversation. “If there’s a next time.”

My dash to the Mercedes is fast, but not fast enough to miss Ryan’s quick exhalation of air. He isn’t the only one fuming. How dare he be so rude. I’m not a piece of gum his shoe picked up on the sidewalk. I was his first love—his first lover! I should always hold a special place in his heart. Shouldn’t I?

Blinded by anger and confusion, I throw open the Mercedes’ passenger side door and slide into the warm leather seats without a second thought. The driver startles, as shocked by my arrival as I am by my eagerness to evade Ryan. Am I so desperate to get away from him, I’m willing to put my life at risk?

I realize my answer is yes when I blubber out, “I will pay you any amount you request if you will drive out of this parking lot right now.”

The man I’d guess to be in his late forties advises his caller that he’ll call back later before housing his cell in his suit. The longer his glassy eyes scan my features, the tighter his brows knit.

“Abby?” he queries, his slight intoxication not affecting his ability to remember my name. “They said you won’t do private dances.”

I lose the chance to confirm his suspicions when I spot Ryan in the passenger side mirror, ambling closer to the Mercedes. The curiosity on his face matches that of the man whose car I’ve hijacked.

“I don’t. . .usually. But if that’s something you’re interested in, I’m sure I can arrange something.” My voice is full of shame.

The stranger’s face lights up, answering my offer without words.

“Okay, great, but I need you to drive first. Now. Please.”

He peers at Ryan approaching his vehicle with caution before dragging his eyes down the street, as if expecting undercover officers to jump out of the bushes and arrest him for prostitution. I understand his apprehension. Even with Ryan out of uniform, he still looks like a cop. He has the swagger of a cop, never mind the fact his hand is braced on his waist where his gun usually sits—if it isn’t still positioned there. Ryan has the same cutthroat determination Regina has. I doubt he ever clocks out.

“Please,” I beg the stranger when Ryan spots my inconspicuous gawk in the side mirror, not only speeding up my heart but his steps as well. “I’m doing an exclusive show at Maison’s Bordello next month. I’ll get you an invitation.”

“Really?” His tone is way too sleazy for a man of his age.

I swallow my dinner for the second time tonight before nodding. “Yep. Definitely.”

I don’t care if his cover charge costs me every penny I’ve earned so far this week, I’ll pay any amount to stop the pain throwing my heart back to the point it was ten years ago. I’ll even lower my dignity to that of a whore, because no amount could shred my ego any more than my exchange with Ryan just did.

Our reunion was brutal, ten times worse than I could have possibly imagined. He looked at me like he hated me, like I am the one who broke his heart.

That hurts even more than his reflection fading in the side mirror as I drive away from him in tears for the third time in my life.