I think about the eighty dollars an hour. About how she never told me this wasn’t just between sets. From ten to two a.m., we’re doing nothing but dance. Four hours straight. Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Cash.
Three nights a week.
I swallow the first shot. Then the second. Then the third.
“That’s not all,” she says casually. “Sometimes a few VIPs will ask for?—”
“Don’t say private dances,” I cut in.
She laughs. “No. Just to talk to us. Flirt a little. Bring them a bottle of Dom or whatever they’re drinking. Courvoisier. We sit. We chat. Like hostesses.”
This sounds awfully like a call girl.
I feel it in my gut. A slow, creeping fear.
“What if this is just step one?” I whisper. “Cage dancing. Step two is bottle service. Step three is escorting.”
I shake my head. “I have a bad feeling, Sage.”
She stares at me like I’ve insulted her.
“You think I let any of that shit happen anywhere near me?” she snaps. “I might be a lot of things, Beth, but I’m no one’s fucking side piece. And I don’t have sex for money.”
“That’s not what I’m implying,” I say quickly. “I’m just scared that someone’s gonna look really scary.”
“I’ve got this,” she says. “I’ll tell them we just dance. That’s it. I’m doing bottle service. You should try it. They pay you extra. And men tip.”
I bite my lip.
Every job recruiter has been a dead end. Every door closed.
I tell myself: one month. Maybe two. Until Christmas. Enough to buy my mom something nice. Enough to rebuild a nest egg.
Because everything is gone.
Car payment. Rent. Student loans.
There is nothing left.
I nod.
I do the shots.
When I go back up into the cage, I do feel looser.
Freer.
I stop thinking about the men watching. I stop thinking at all. I let my body move. I let the music carry me somewhere else.
Later, a finger crooks at me.
VIP.
They lead me upstairs to a dark booth with an old man whose breath smells like cigars. He laughs at his own jokes. Thinks he’s charming.
His hand finds my knee.
I nod. I smile.
