“I’m not talking about the stage,” Mr. Greco snapped. “I’m talking about the private rooms. After hours. You’ve been dodging them.”
“You want me to grind on some sixty-year-old in a Santa hat for tips? Pass.”
“Yes, it’s part of your fucking job especially during Christmas season.” Mr. Greco’s dark eyes blazed with furious anger; his pupils narrowed to slits.
Kyle’s jaw tightened. “I’m a dancer. I dance on the stage. That’s the job you hired me for.”
“You don’t define your job. I do,” he shouted. “Do you think those guys come here just to watch you twirl around under a disco ball? They want more. They pay more. And you’ve been saying no.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said, heat rising in his chest. “Because I don’t let people touch me. That’s not what I signed up for.” A wave of flaming fury washed over him as Mr. Greco outlined the change to his job description; the injustice of it all left a bitter taste in his mouth. He would never comply with that old man’s gruff and unreasonable humiliating demands. The way Mr. Greco looked at him made him uneasy.
Mr. Greco slammed his hand on the desk. “Then maybe this isn’t the place for you.”
Kyle stared at him, his expression unreadable. “You’re firing me?”
“I’m giving you a choice,” Mr. Greco growled. “Start working the private rooms tonight. Or get the hell out.” He stood rigid, his posture radiating an unspoken command, a silent order that tolerated no refusal.
Kyle stood and didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’m out.”
Mr. Greco stood, face red. “You ungrateful little fuck!”
But Kyle was already walking out the door, down the hall, past the mop bucket and the busted soda machine. His hands were shaking. His throat burned. He needed the money. God, he needed it, but not like that. Not at the cost of himself.
He reached the dressing room, changed his clothes, grabbed his bag, then paused.
Screw it.
He turned back, slipped into the office while Mr. Greco was out front yelling at someone. The drawer wasn’t even locked. Kyle yanked it open, heart pounding, and there it was: a fat stack of cash, probably the night’s take. He didn’t count it. Just shoved it into his leather jacket pocket and walked out like nothing happened.
The cold hit him like a slap when he stepped outside. But this time, it didn’t sting as much until he heard the police sirens. Were they coming for him? He quickened his pace, head down, the rhythmic thud of his boots on the pavement a steady drumbeat.Don’t let them get me. Run faster.
He was done dancing for other people’s rules.
And he wasn’t looking back.
Now he was running faster in the cold to keep warm and to ward off the police cars. He didn’t have a plan, just a direction. West. Anywhere but here.
By the time he reached his shoebox apartment his fingers were numb and stiff, barely able to bend. The radiator hissed and clanked, offering little warmth against the icy wind that seeped through the cracks in his windows. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just grabbed his old backpack from the closet, stuffed it with the essentials: jeans, a couple of shirts, toothbrush, charger, the photo of his mom from when she was a Radio City Rockette. He clutched the single photograph, the only image he had of her, her youthful face smiling up at him. Her long auburn hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the piercing blue eyes she shared with Kyle. Her eyes sparkled like shooting stars. He placed the photo in his bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder.
He paused at the door. Looked around the tiny room. The cracked mirror. The scuffed floor. The window that never quite closed all the way.
“Good riddance,” he muttered.
Outside, the snow was falling harder. He walked to the edge of the highway, thumb out, breath fogging the air. Most cars didn’t stop. A few slowed, then sped off. Finally, an SUV pulled over. The driver was a woman in her forties with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a cute furry dog in the back seat.
“Where you headed?” she asked.
“California,” Kyle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She raised an eyebrow. “You got a death wish or just bad timing?”
“Little of both.”
She shrugged. “Hop in.”
As the SUV rumbled westward, Kyle leaned his head against the cold window. His stomach twisted, not from fear, butfrom the weight of everything he was leaving behind. The city. The club. The rules. The shame.
He didn’t know what was waiting for him in California. But it had to be better than this.
