I rolled my hips slowly, deliberately letting the rhythm pull me instead of fighting it. Arms up, wrists crossed, then down again, fingers trailing the air like I was touching something that wasn't there. Men always thought it was for them. It wasn't. It was math. Angle of hips plus tilt of head plus the exact second I let my eyes meet theirs equals bigger tips. Simple.
A guy in a too-tight polo, mid-forties, wedding ring tan line glowing under the blacklight, leaned over the edge of the stage, waving a folded hundred like it was a flag of surrender. His friends hooted behind him. I dropped to my knees in front of him, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath and the cheap cologne he'd drowned himself in. I arched my back, let my hair fall like a curtain, gave him the slow smile I'd practiced in cracked motel mirrors when I was sixteen.
"Goddamn, baby," he slurred, tucking the bill into the waistband of my shorts. His fingers lingered, brushing skin that wasn'tcovered by sequins or fishnets. I caught his wrist, gentle, always gentle at first, and guided his hand back to the rail.
"Eyes only, handsome," I said, voice low enough that only he could hear it over the music. "House rules."
He laughed like I'd told a joke. His thumb grazed my hip again anyway.
I stood up smoothly, spun away, and let another dancer, Jade tonight, slide in and take the attention. She was newer, hungrier. She'd let him touch longer. I didn't judge her for it. We all had different lines.
Another song bled into the next. I moved to the pole at the center of the main stage, wrapped one leg around the cool metal, climbed halfway, then dropped into a slow spiral. Hair whipped across my face. The crowd roared. Bills rained onto the platform, ones, fives, twenties; a couple of hundreds, if I was lucky. I never looked down to count while I was up there. Counting broke the spell, and the spell was the only thing keeping me from feeling every hand that had ever tried to grab.
By the time my set ended, my thighs burned and my lower back ached in that familiar dull way that meant I'd pushed too hard again. I scooped what I could into my garter, nodded to security, Big Mike tonight, always Big Mike on Fridays, and slipped backstage.
The hallway smelled like sweat, baby oil, and the faint chemical sweetness of vape clouds. Girls laughed in the dressing room, voices high and sharp from adrenaline and whatever they'd taken to keep smiling. I didn't join them. I never did.
I changed fast, wiped glitter off with baby wipes until my skin felt raw, pulled on my leggings, an oversized hoodie, andsneakers that had seen better years; my real clothes. The ones that made me invisible again.
I was shoving tips into my backpack when Zariah burst through the door like she owned the place, which, in a way, she kind of did. She'd been here longer than me, knew every manager's weak spot, every DJ's playlist preference…she also knew mine.
"Hadley Jackson," she sang, dragging out the syllables. "You look like someone just told you the bar ran out of tequila."
I zipped my bag. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're doing that thing where your mouth goes flat, and you stop blinking." She leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, sequined bralette still on because she never changed until the very last second. "Come on. Talk to me."
"Nothing to talk about." I slung the bag over my shoulder. "Long night. That's all."
"Bullshit." She pushed off the lockers, stepped right into my path. "You've been dodging me for three weeks. Every time I say, 'let's grab food after,' you've got some excuse about your brother. I get it, okay? I do. But tonight? Tonight, you're coming with me."
I raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"The festival. Tomorrow night. Embers are headlining."
I almost laughed. "The Embers? That boy band your thirteen-year-old cousin screams about?"
"They're not just a boy band anymore, Had. They're, like... cultural. Girls lose their minds. Cal Parker could sneeze and it'd trend for a week."
"I don't care if Cal Parker cures cancer. I'm not going to a concert."
"Why not?"
"Because I have responsibilities, Z. You know that."
She softened, just a little. "I know. But listen, your brother's not gonna die if you take one night for yourself. You're twenty. You're allowed to breathe."
I looked away. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh on her face. She wasn't wrong; she was never about this part. But wrong or right didn't change facts.
"Zariah..."
"I already got us passes. Backstage ones. Holland knows I'm coming. We grew up on the same block, remember? He texted me yesterday. Said it's gonna be insane."
I stared at her. "You've been plotting this."
"Damn right I have. Because you're disappearing, Hadley. Every shift you come in looking more tired than the last. You smile for the customers, you smile for me, but it's the same smile. Fake as hell. You need something that's just yours."
I rubbed my temple. Headache starting behind my eyes. "I can't afford tickets. Even if I wanted to."
