Backstage again, the club is closed now, and I suddenly remember I’m not wearing a thong. I smile. That went home with Derek. A shiver races over my body as I remember him lifting it to his nose and smelling it, telling me he could smell me. A look of lust on his face like he loved my scent.

God, I feel crazy. I can’t believe I had sex with a client. It was totally stupid. Totally irresponsible. But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I’d do it all over again. He was so good, so huge, and thick. I’ve never cum like that before, and I know I won’t be satisfied until I have his cock inside me again.

I hear commotion around the corner, and my stomach clenches. Not having on a thong is suddenly the least of my problems. I’m about to come face-to-face with the House Mom and I have to answer for why I didn’t go out on stage when I was called. Dancers have to go on stage. Always.

I could lose my job for this. Even though I have a ton of money set aside, I still need this job. I don’t want to start all over, especially not somewhere else. This is the best club in Manhattan.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves, and reach up to smooth my hair. I can’t let anyone know what actually went down tonight. Sleeping with Derek is even worse of a mistake than not going onstage. But somehow, that feels wrong. How could being with him like that be a mistake?

It can’t be. It’s not. I realize I’d do it all over again in spite of the consequences I might be about to face.

But I still have to figure out how I’m going to get out of this mess.

Because I just realized I didn’t collect any money from Derek. Not once the whole night. Not after the outrageously expensive private dance I gave him, and not after what happened later. Though I would never collect money for sex.

I hang back while the other girls report to the House Mom and tip out on all of their earnings from the night, trying to figure out how I’m going to get out of this.

“Ella,” she says, her eyes falling on me, full of scrutiny. “Come here.”

I slowly approach her as she consults her clipboard that has every client and every dance accounted for.

Her sharp eyes snap back to me. “You were missing from the stage.”

“I had a VIP client,” I stammer, hoping she can’t see how nervous I am.

“Hmm, I see that. You telling me you were giving him a private dance that entire time? For hours?”

I shrug. “He wanted the most expensive dance I could provide.”

Her eyes narrow like she’s not sure she believes me, and she tells me how much I owe. It’s more than I’ve ever had to tip out before because of the obscene cost of that dance. “And I’m adding on more as a fine for you going missing from the stage.”

A sigh of relief works its way up—I’m not getting fired!—before my throat locks up with the realization that I can’t tip out that much. It’s more than I collected from all my other clients combined from the first half of the night.

“I— um— I can’t—” the words won’t come, and the suspicions the House Mom has had all over her face from the minute I walked up seem to solidify in her mind.

Her expression hardens and she puts a hand on her hip. “Did you collect the money?”

I cringe, not knowing what to say. I can’t lie about it. I’m sure the truth is written all over my face. I didn’t collect any money. I think part of me simply couldn’t take anything from him, even for the private dance, after what happened between us. It would have cheapened it when I feel like it was so much more than a random hookup.

“You had sex with him, didn’t you, Ella?” she demands.

I drop my head, not even bothering trying to answer or offer an excuse. She won’t understand that what happened tonight wasn’t normal. That something different—something special—happened. She doesn’t care about any of that. All she cares about is collecting the money and making sure we follow the rules.

Rules that I’ve broken left and right all night. Unable to stop myself.

I’m fired.

I know it. She doesn’t tolerate anyone fucking a client. And still, in spite of all of it, knowing I’ve lost my job, I don’t regret it.

She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers. “Give me your phone, Ella.”

And that’s that. It’s that simple. And that complicated. Because I just gave up my job for a night with Derek.

I swallow hard and blink back my tears. Then I nod and turn silently, going toward the dressing room where my phone is stored in my locker.

I take her the phone, then return to the dressing room to change and clean out my stuff, knowing it will be my last time in here.

“What’s going on, Ella?” my friend Misti says as she peels off her fake eyelashes.

“I just got fired,” I say miserably.

Misti and some other girls gasp. “What? You’re the best one here. What happened?”

“I slept with Derek.”

Her eyes go wide. “Derek? As in the guy you did the private dance for? Derek, Prince of St. Albans?”

My eyebrows draw together in confusion. “What? No. I mean, yeah, the guy I danced for, but he’s just Derek.”

Misti shakes her head excitedly. “No, Ella. He’s not just Derek. He’s a fucking prince.” She looks at me in awe like I’m the celebrity here.

I’m so confused. A prince? He didn’t tell me that. How is that even possible? I mean, he did act like he owned the whole damn world, but still. A prince?

I feel like my whole world has been rocked, and not just because he totally rocked it with that magic cock.

In a daze, I change clothes and pull my wig off, staring at myself in the mirror as my long blonde hair tumbles down around my shoulders.

This night has been the craziest of my entire life.