Chapter 3
Lucia
The dressing room is colder than necessary, and the air is dense with old perfume, hairspray, and the persistent tang of stale beer drifting in from the main part of the club. At the battered vanity, I sit beneath bulbs that twinkle around the “starlet” mirror. I apply my makeup: foundation first, then the smoky eye makeup the manager claims makes me “mysterious.”
I don’t feel mysterious. I’m tired and anxious.
Tonight’s showcase isn’t just about tits and ass. It’s a themed night the owner pushes to boost earnings. Shady as ever, Salvator will lurk in the shadows with a new “business associate” in an ill-fitting suit tonight. Their suits never fit their bodies like Camille’s dad’s suit did.
That man knows how to wear a suit. It wasn’t just expensive—though the way the fabric caught the light, as only the finest wool does, made it obvious that it was—it’s how it fit him. The jacket draped perfectly on his shoulders, with no creases or sags, as if tailored for him. The sleeves stopped just above a line of white cuff, and the trousers broke elegantly over polished leather shoes.
He moved with an authority that revealed he’s completely comfortable in his second skin. Most men pretend to be something they’re notin a suit. Not Camille’s father. He commands it. Every inch, every button, and every crisp edge. Even the tie, a deep navy silk, was knotted out of habit, not effort. He understands tailoring is an art, and he is the canvas.
If he instead of the current owner managed this club, I doubt we would need to worry about changing things up with theme nights.
Although Salvator’s practices are fishy, the manager is a gem. Celesta makes sure we’re paid on time and always checks on us. We’d be happier if she quit bringing us bar peanuts to keep our energy up, though. No one eats them. Even before I left my princess tower for stripping, I knew that bar peanuts are bacterial breeding grounds.
After a quick glance around the dressing room, it’s obvious I’m not the only one aware of this. Every dish sits abandoned on the dancers’ dressing station, growing stale and adding its own musty note to the club’s aroma.
As I reach for the glitter to dust it over my cheekbones, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t recognize myself. I look braver, maybe? Over the past week, beneath the anxiety I’m rarely without, there’s been a glimpse of pride.
When it mattered, I didn’t walk away. I did something. My beliefs about the situation I stumbled onto may have been a little off, and I might have handled it the wrong way, but I still tried to fix what I thought was broken.
If society did that more often, I wouldn’t be here, getting ready to hopefully shake my ass for money for the first time this week.
Unfortunately, it is often life’s disappointments that strengthen us.
I learned my lesson again during my quick stop at the candy store last week. I was barely twenty minutes late for my shift, but I’ve been paying for my tardiness all week.
My booty hasn’t graced the stage once this week. Until Salvator decides I’ve served my penance, I’m stuck behind the bar, hustling for tips as relentlessly as I sweep up peanut shells.
Huffing, I apply a thick coat of red lipstick. As it has many times in the past seven days, my mind drifts to the train ride home fromPalermo. My heart pounds as I replay what I did before it. I gave Camille’s father a fake number, and not any random sequence of digits either. I made it look legitimate—area code, prefix, and the right number of digits. It was so plausible that it could have belonged to someone in the city.
Although I had a mostly sheltered childhood, I learned early that details matter. Being lax with minor things is how people get caught.
Still, regret persists. The sparks in Camille’s father’s eyes made me want to ignore every con. I traveled back in time and was hopeful that the horrors I’ve faced would eventually be worth it.
It isn’t solely Camille’s dad on my mind lately. Camille takes up just as much space. Our bond was immediate, as if I’ve known her since she was born. The way we connected was healing. Her nervous smiles and the way she reached for my hand when scared soothed the pain that tore through my heart long ago.
I feel hollow knowing I probably won’t see her again. She’s materialized in my dreams as often as her father has this past week. I wake up missing both her and the sense that I belonged.
As I reach for my mascara, I remind myself that I can’t fix anything by wondering what could have been. I’m here because it’s good, quick money, and stripping is work you can find anywhere, no matter where intuition leads you.
I’ve moved around a lot the last three years, never staying long enough to put down roots. Carlisle is my latest stop. I love its old historic buildings and the river weaving through them, but I don’t see myself staying long.
It isn’t home.
Though I’m not sure where home is anymore.
Shaking my head, I clear away the gloomy thoughts that will slice my already ridiculous tips in half. Before the kerfuffle last week, I was close to achieving the dream milestone I’d set last month. I can’t reach my goals with attachments, so I can’t let distractions keep me from getting into Salvator’s good books. I need to perform tonight more than I need my next breath.
My costume hangs behind me. It’s a metallic-silver bikini with fringe detailing that catches the light, paired with fishnets that have seen better days. I slide into them, the fabric cool on my skin, then pin my hair back to put on a wig. Wigs and contacts are more effective than Superman glasses. They conceal nearly as many features as masks do.
The music from the main room pounds through the walls. It’s a steady thump that matches my heartbeat. Peeking into the hallway, I spot Mia, one of the other dancers, leaning against the wall, scrolling endlessly through her phone.
“How’s it looking out there tonight?”
She glances up, her expression resigned. “Quiet.” She grimaces. “Dead, actually. I’ve never seen it this slow. Hopefully it’ll pick up once all their wives go to bed, but right now…” She shrugs before tucking a strand of her dead-straight hair behind her ear. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
