I shrug, nodding my head. “Sure!”
“Good!” Richard murmurs. “I appreciate it, Dove.” I watch as his back disappears into the dark room, strobe lights flicking and flashing, cutting through the obscurity like light sabers during a Star Wars movie.
I quickly slip through the thin crowd of people, heading straight for backstage.
“Dove! Hey, girl!” Natasha waves at me from her makeup cubicle.
I nod my head at her, slipping off my clothes until I’m standing in nothing but panties and a bra.
“You up second tonight, boo!” Tash further says, swiping blood red lipstick over her soft lips.
I smile, gathering up my belongings and placing them in my cubicle. I begin on my makeup and hair, making sure I go extra on both. Peering back at myself in the mirror, my lips curl between my teeth. My skin is silky smooth with a natural tan, and my hair is a deep red. Girls used to be envious of my skin because it’s never seen one freckle or imperfection, and unlike most redheads, I don’t burn in the sun; I tan.
I pile my hair onto the top of my head and get started on my makeup. Lining my dark green eyes with black liner, I giggle as Tash begins rapping beside me. It’s what she does to warm up every night. I love Tash, but I feel sorry for her. She has a five-year-old daughter and a shit excuse of a husband. I know that if she could, she wouldn’t work here. I’ve asked a couple of times why she does, but she shrugs me off as if she’s made peace with her fate.
It makes me uncomfortable, and we’re not that close, so I leave it.
Thirty minutes later and I’m ready.
I step out onto the stage, all lights cutting out as a single spotlight flashes on me. Clutching the pole in my hand, “Voyeur Girl” by Stephen starts playing. It’s the song I always open to. Now it’s almost as though the beat and lyrics are inscribed into my bones, orchestrating my fluid movements as I dance around the stage. I lose myself in the music and let my body be taken over by the trance-like sound. I don’t have to look around to know that people are watching. Tash says that men come every night when they know I’m dancing. I don’t know how much truth there is to that because I never pay attention. I know I’m above average. My mom and dad had paid good money all my life to make sure my footing, my temperament, and body remained in sync with whatever music was playing, but aside from that, I have always had a natural wave for dance.
I continue to float around, my body rolling against the pole. I skim my hand down my belly, toward my upper thighs as I bend down, spreading my knees wide and bringing them back together. I slowly open my eyes, but I don’t know why because I never open them. My eyes are always closed, fixed on splashing art against a dark canvas by the waves of my body. But I open them, and they land on a man seated by the bar. I can’t make out his face because he’s wearing a dark hoodie that’s covering most of it. His knees are spread wide as he lounges back against the bar. I may not be able to see him, but I feel him on me. With every thrust of my hips, I feel as though his eyes are caressing the curves of my body. Chills creep over my flesh as I squash the thoughts that are invading my mental space. The song winds down, and sweat pours out from me as I flick my long red hair all around. Gazing back to where the man was, I find him still there, watching me carefully. Everyone fades into the background as the energy surrounding us crackles in the air. I watch as the tip of his cigarette burns like a lit match, calling me to him with every inhale. Smoke clouds gather around him as he exhales. Why can’t I look away?
Even though I can only make out the outline of his eyes, I feel them on me. Eye contact is the language that no one can speak, but chemistry is fluent with; it’s the language of fate. It’s two souls catching on fire without a single word being spoken. I continue dancing to the song until the very last strum before making my way backstage, wanting to see if I can get a closer look at him. Him. There’s an air of familiarity that hovers over his body, enticing me. Or maybe it’s the language that no one speaks, and I’ve suddenly decided to take classes.
“Hey, Dove!” Rich interrupts my thoughts, nudging his head toward me as I make my way to the bar. “The usual?” Rich is a middle-aged man with a full beard. He has two little girls who he raises alone since his wife died in a car accident when they were babies. Richard also owns this bar. Most people would think that some guy who owns a strip joint must be desperate and sleazy, but that’s just not the case. He has three girls who he kept on since he purchased the place from the previous owner a couple of years ago, and that’s not by his choice, because he kicked all the rest of the girls out, wanting to turn this into more of a biker bar—since that’s what he also does—but he knew Tash and I needed the work and the tips. We could have taken on the bar by bartending, but he had already promised the barmaids that they would keep their positions. So he kept Tash, Vane, and me, which worked out perfectly since the three of us get along quite well.
“Yes, please,” I say, my eyes flying around the room to see if Mystery Guy is still here.
He’s not.
My heart sinks a little, so I pick up my vodka, lime and soda and shoot it back, running the cushion of my thumb over my lip to swipe off the residue.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I slide my empty glass over toward Rich, who runs his hand over his long, scruffy beard.
“Yeah, all right, baby girl.”
I slip to the back of the bar toward the staffing area, grabbing may long coat that drops to my knees, and buttoning it up. I pull my phone and headphones out of my pocket, swiping through Spotify to find a new song. Something I can maybe sweat out to when I go back to my run-down apartment. I love to dance. It’s something that keeps my soul alive and my limbs on fire. Music is the cure to all of my troubles for the exact minutes that it plays. After a while, I push on any song as I’m shoving through the back exit of the bar.
The door slams closed, and I fidget with my phone, ready to walk to the bus stop.
A hand slams over my mouth, shocking me into fight-or-flight. I tear out my earphones, kicking and screaming to turn around, but the thick body that’s behind me holds too tight, unwilling to let go.
I feel soft lips brush against the lobe of my ear, warmth slithering over my skin. “If you want to break free, Little Dovey, I would advise you not to scream.” His other hand comes up to the front of my throat, and he clenches. “It gets my dick hard, and you don’t want that.”
I lie on pristine marble flooring, my body jerking with every breath. The room is clean, almost sterile. It’s one large square with cell bars as a door. There’s a diamond chandelier that dangles lavishly from the center of the roof and a single toilet and basin to the back of the room. A ball of fire has sparked inside my chest, its grip refusing to let go. I’m cold. So cold. Goosebumps scatter over my skin in colossal welts, my once tanned skin has now fallen to a sepia white. Grazing my finger over the leftover crumbs from my cookie on the ground, I draw the number twenty-one.
Twenty-one is how long I’ve been here.
The men who visit me usually arrive in fours, but this morning, the man who is seated opposite me is alone. He’s not someone I have seen before now and something tells me there’s a reason why. He’s wearing a black party mask with neon lights attached to it: both eyes are blue crosses. He tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, almost like he’s examining me.