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I can. With one deliberate move toward him, squatting down at the edge of the stage, my eyes on his, I pull him straight out of the darkness like a snake from a wicker basket. And the moment I know I have him, I start giving him all the sassiest smirks I can make as I tug on my thong, working it off my hips at the same time I’m slipping it right back on, never quite taking it off, never showing him the goods, giving him the tease of his life.
And just like that, he’s cured.
He doesn’t have to tip. He doesn’t have to toss a bill at me. That wasn’t my purpose, and it never is. That’s what differentiates me and Mack: I don’t work for the dollars. I work for the broken hearts. I pull off my clothes to make eyes come alive. I work to pull everyone out of themselves for one blissful moment, to make them forget who the world wants them to be and remind them who they really are.
Then the dance is over.
I’m back in the dressing room sitting in a chair, gazing at my own reflection in the mirror.
The bitter-hearted guy is probably bitter again, sulking with his friends. The lonely one is probably at the bar getting a drink, feeling himself sink into a state of invisibility once again. All of my efforts are in vain, because they’re all temporary.
My own sense of heroism is an illusion, too.
Just as fake and immaterial as the fantasy I play out on the stage between me and the audience.
I’m no one’s savior. I’m just a stripper.
“Yo, Zak,” comes Larry’s voice, grunting from the door. “Someone’s out front to see you.”
I eye him. It isn’t unusual for someone to want to see one of us privately. It is unusual for Larry to actually come back here and tell us. “Who?”
“Didn’t say. Some older guy.” Larry squints at me. “And he used your name … your real name.”
8
Mack’s gaze snaps to mine at once, alarmed. “That isn’t—?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, rising from my chair, slipping on my hoodie, and heading for the door.
But not before having my armed grabbed by Mack. “Dude. Careful. Remember what I said.”
Not pulling my arm away, I give Mack a soft, assuring pat on his shoulder. “I know you got my back. There’s no need to worry. I’m just gonna say hi, see what he wants, like I would anyone else.”
“Get a read on him, a good read,” Mack orders me. “All stalkers wear smiles. Serial killers, too.”
I laugh. “Oh, now he’s a serial killer? I think he had plenty enough of a chance last night—when I fell asleep in his penthouse suite—to Dexter me if that was his master plan.”
Mack’s eyes flash. “It was the penthouse …??”
“I got this.” I squeeze his shoulder, then head off. His grip on my arm slips away, letting me go.
But as I walk down the dark, narrow backstage hallway, my calm demeanor is slowly traded for anxiety as I wonder about a few things, like what brought him here, how he feels about that night I left him, and why he’s here now.
And also how he found out where I work.
I don’t believe I told him.
When I reach the side curtain that separates me from the masses, I’m nearly crashed into by one of the shot boys, who rushes inside. It’s Connor, the innocent-eyed roommate of Brett who lives across the hall from me—and who happens to work here.
And there’s nothing calm about his face; he’s a worried, fretting mess for some reason. “Oh, hey there, Zak. Sorry. I was sent back here to get—” His eyes go crossed for a moment. “I, uh … don’t even remember. Dang. Why’d I come back here?”
This sweet, doe-eyed country boy ended up on the doorsteps of Piazza Place a few months back. I’m still trying to figure out what his deal is. Does he belong here? Is it just a fluke that the city hasn’t eaten him alive somehow? How can someone have so much charm, exude so much strength, and yet look as frail as a stick of glass?
Well, to be fair, he isn’t exuding much strength right now. Like I said, he’s a mess. “What’s going on with you?”
His eyes snap to mine. “What? Sorry? Hmm?”
“Is someone chasing you?”
“Me? No. Why would someone be chasing me?” He finds that funny and lets out a strained, anxious laugh. “I just need to remember why I came back here. Was it to find Larry?”
Connor is an odd piece of luggage I’ll have to unpack another time. “Hey, have you seen a Poké Ball charm lying around anywhere?”
He squints. “Like … Lex’s Pokémon toys …?”
“It’s a small Poké Ball keychain thing, red-and-white. Belongs to Mack. Never mind,” I decide, dismissing it. “Someone’s waiting for me.”
