The other shoe never drops. Jon is there day and night, giving me space when I want it, and crawling into bed next to me when I ask. I feel bad about it, imagining him waiting around for something I can’t give him. He wants sex. I know how to fuck. God knows I learned that lesson a long time ago. Emotional distance is a requirement of survival. At one point, Jon would have been all too happy to jump on that whore bandwagon, but not so much anymore. One night we stayed late at the club, and I told him I wanted to show him my gratitude. I made an ass out of myself, and he shot me down.

The next day I told him I needed to work again. I couldn’t keep taking his money for doing nothing. As it is, I tried to give back the amount he'd paid me, but he wouldn’t take it. The cash kept appearing in my apartment, in my jeans, or under my pillow.

When I told him I wanted to start stripping again, it looked like I sucker punched him below the belt. Jon didn’t protest, though. He gave me my old hours back and a slot in the pink room. It was what I wanted. I was ready to fight for it, and I didn’t have to. I felt deflated after that. I worked, silently noticing the same men every night. They ordered lap dances and over-tipped. While wondering why Jon didn't castrate them on their way out, I realized something.

Jon never watches.

He’s not on the floor when I work, and nowhere near the pink room. At first, I was grateful to avoid the awkwardness, but then I noticed he’s not there even in passing.

I wondered if I'd broken whatever we had, but decided not to dwell on it. For now, I just need to keep surviving.

In the dressing area, I pull off my sweatpants and sit there on the yellowed wooden bench in a light pink t-shirt, not wanting to get dressed yet.

Gretchen is cooing in front of her mirror, pursing her lips and grinning. She’s wearing a glittery black pushup bra and G-string, thigh-highs, and shiny black heels. I'm barely listening until I hear his name. Gretchen arches her back and tosses her hair, laughing with a deep chuckle. “Who’d think Jonny would ask for me so many times, but he does. Private pink room party for two.”

I glance at her. “Jonny who?”

The other women in the room quickly look away—except Beth, whose eyes dart between us. She stops dressing and becomes deadly still, her hands on her knees, waiting.

Ruby lips curve into an evil grin as Gretchen rises from her bench, clicking her way across the room toward me in her fuck-me heels. She leans in front of my mirror and preens, adjusting her amazing rack, then straightens to look down at me like she’s so much better.

“Ferro. Who else would it be? What’s the matter, Princess? Did you think he only liked looking at you?”

Beth sees me snap and lunges forward to stop me, but she’s not fast enough. My hand pulls back and, by the time she does, it’s too late. My fist is already flying headlong into Gretchen’s face. I catch her cheek with my knuckles. The impact sends the dancer flying backward, and she falls to the floor. I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

I learned how to take a hit, and I learned how to throw one. Gretchen screams childishly and covers her face, trying to kick me off. “His dick is so big no one can satisfy him. It’s not your fault, honey. He just needed someone better.”

If she'd shut up for two seconds, I could regain my control. Instead, she elaborates, describing how she's sucked Jon off every night for the past two weeks. I should be crying, but my rage scalds any tears left to fall.

I’m on the floor, about to bitchslap her, when she drops her hand to taunt me. I have a clear shot at her face, and the girls around me are chanting, begging me to kick her ass. The background sounds dim to a forgettable buzzing, allowing me to focus on her claims of sucking Jon’s cock. I imagine myself pummeling the bitch, and I know I can make her bleed. I know I shouldn't, but I can’t stop myself.

I’m screaming at her, blasting her with words that make no sense, threatening her with things I’d never do. My hand is open as I swing my arm, intending to smack the arrogant expression off her face, but someone grabs my wrist and jerks me backward.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jon barely touches me. One swift movement pulls me away from Gretchen and to my feet, then he drops my wrist and steps back.

He’s wearing jeans, no shoes, and no shirt. His bare chest is chiseled and glistening like he'd been working hard. He looks at me like I’m completely broken, attacking that woman without reason.

We’re both fired. That’s the old rules. Jon hasn't said much about them since he bought the club and plastered his name to the front of it. His mother has been freakishly silent as well. I know it’s unnerving Jon, and he has better things to do than deal with this, but I can’t help it.

“Don’t touch me!”

Jon takes another step back and holds his hands up, indicating he won’t. He’s breathing hard, and his face flushes. “We can’t have this shit in here. You know the rules, Cassie.”

I’m breathing so hard my lungs feel like they are on fire. There isn’t enough air. Bruce is there, scraping Gretchen off the floor, and shoving her belongings into a bag. She’s pulling at his arm, trying to stop him, but the man might as well be a tank. “You know the rules. You’re out.”

Gretchen turns to Jon, eyes wide, full of tears. “Jonny, don’t throw us out. Please.”

Jon is glaring at me. He turns to her for a moment—we both do. “Why the fuck not?”

Bruce freezes, and there’s not a sound in the room except Gretchen sniffling.

“We were just letting off some steam. Club Ferro is the best job I’ve ever had, please. It won’t happen again. Things have been different since you came. I don’t want to leave.” She sways her hips, making it hard not to look at the G-string covering nothing. She approaches Jon, and he doesn’t shut her down. He doesn’t step away or anything. She touches his shoulder carefully, gently stroking his skin with her fingers. “I’ll make it up to you, enough for this whole thing. For both of us.”

Jon looks like Sean. He’s stone, devoid of emotion, and I hate it. He lets her hang on him, making promises to suck him off for my sins too.

Screw that. I shove her out of the way and smack both palms into his chest. “No fucking the staff, huh, Ferro? What happened to that rule?”

“I’m not screwing anyone.” His voice is cold, lifeless.

I hit him again shoving both hands hard against his chest. Is he with her? I can’t process the thought. It gets stuck in my mind, gagging me, swirling around me and making me sick.

How could he choose her? I need to get a hold of myself. The little voice in the back of my head is telling me to get a grip, but I’m hysterical again. The veins in my neck pop up as my jaw tightens. I bite out the words and shove him as I say them, “Getting a blowjob is fucking!”

“Not here.” Jon disregards me and turns away. He refuses to explain himself. It sounds like he’s saying getting head is okay, and it’s not fucking at all. I hear his voice from years ago—that young arrogant boy standing in the mall, telling me sex is a game, something to master. Meanwhile, I said it was about love and adoration.

In reality, sex is neither.

Sex is power over another human being. It’s not fun. It’s not sweet. It’s a part of my past I wish I could erase. I still feel Mark’s hands on the sides of my head forcing my mouth over his hard shaft, pushing too far into my throat, gagging me. Tears streaked down my face then, my ears ringing as he yelled at me, slapping the sides of my head as he ordered me to do it right, swallow harder, and suck him off.

Thinking about Jon doing that to someone kills me.

It’s not the same, Cassie. Reason tries to call out to me, but it’s no more than a distant echo that no longer holds meaning.

The same thought replays in my mind, like a CD skipping on a scratch.

Not Jon. Not Jon. Not Jon.

I’m too livid to form words. My entire body shakes, and I swear to God my skin will crack and explode. Growling, I race at him and jump on his back. I scream at him, “You’re an asshole! A big stupid asshole who can’t control his cock!”

Jon peels me off without effort. He holds my wrists above my head and twists my arm behind my back in a way that makes me move with him or get my arm broken. He shoves me back a few paces until my back hits the wall. Jon plasters his body to mine, pressing me into the wall with his bare chest, and holding me in place with his hips.

I try to twist out of his grip, but I can’t move. My heart beats harder as an icy tendril of fear reaches up from within me. It weaves its way from my stomach, up over my ribs—making every muscle tighten—as it climbs to my throat and wraps around like a sleeping snake. I jerk my head back and forth, trying to kick free, but he won’t move.

Jon hisses in my ear, “I’m not doing this here. You’re losing it, Cassie.”

His hot breath pours over my neck. I don’t stop struggling. “You don’t own me.”

“I know that.” His voice is too light. It registers that he’s not yelling, that this isn’t a fight. It’s me.

I snap, “I can pay my way.”

“I know that, too.” He stops pressing on me so hard, and I can breathe again. Jon’s eyes meet mine and lock. Sadness is buried so deeply within them, that I wonder if he even knows it’s there. Pity clings to the corners of his mouth, and I don’t want to hear those words. His lips part to say something, but I cut him off.

“I’m not the same girl you met in Mississippi, so stop staring at me like that. I grew up. So did you.”

“Cass…”

“Don’t treat me differently.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are!” I try to shove him off, ignoring the tightening sensation in my throat. He’s too big. I can’t make him stop. I can’t…

“Cassie,” he breathes my name, begging me to stop but I can’t.

I growl and thrash, screaming, “I’m the same as everyone else here! Stop acting like I’m not! I’m not different, so don’t treat me like I am.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why?”

He hisses in my face, “Because you are different, Cass! Fucking get that through your head.” He steps away abruptly causing me to fall forward. I stagger and catch myself.

I watch him retreat. His shoulders are tight, and his hands fist at his sides. He storms away, saying, “Fine, you’re the same as everyone else here. Get your ass on stage in five or you’re fired.” His voice is detached like he doesn’t care about me, but when he turns away, the scars on his back tell a different story.