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“Forty-five percent,” she replies smoothly. “And that’s all dances, you hear? The Masters find out you been doing extras and not payin’ out, there will be hell to pay and that shit comes down on me. I don’t like shit, got it?”
Even though the words were threatening, she said it kindly enough. I wondered who this random den mother of an ex-stripper was. Sex-workers tend to have some of the best stories and histories. And if she’s been here for that long, she probably knows a lot about this place.
“I got it,” I assure her. “This isn’t my first rodeo. Just tell me where to set up and do my makeup, and I’ll show you what I got.”
Dee smirks at me, and I frown.
“I don’t think you’ll be doing your own makeup from now on.”
Chapter Three
This Girl is On Fire
Echo
I look into the mirror at my painted face with wide eyes. Sparkling flames rise up half of my face, shimmering in the light. The effect is stunning, a jagged edge splitting my face down the middle, the other side almost bare except for the glorious black lips.
The hair I spent all that time straightening is nowpoofed. That’s really the only word for it. It looks amazing, tousled and messy and full, almost like the divas of the eighties.
“What do you think?” Dee says, surprising me. My eyes flick up to meet hers in the mirror briefly, but it’s hard to not look at what they’ve done to my face.
“It’s… incredible,” I reply honestly. “I’d heard the costumes were cool, but this is just something else. It’s art.”
I stand, showing off the rest of my body for her. I was given an outfit, though it covers so little that calling it clothes is a bit of a stretch. The body paint actually makes me feel surprisingly covered, though. It’s not half of my body, but certain spots have been given flames that follow the curve of my body.
I immediately questioned the wisdom of someone in our position having paint all over us—after all, our clients don’t want to go home with telltale signs like glitter or paint—but I was assured it wouldn’t be an issue. Apparently, the world of makeup has come a ways over the last decade too.
Looking down at the beautiful designs, I smile. I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but have been too afraid to get something so permanent. This is rapidly making me want to change my mind. I feel so glamorous and badass.
The artist, a small Irish man with a foul tongue, said maybe ten words to me in the time he spent doing it, most of which were, “Stay still, ya wee hoe.”
Dee nods appreciatively. “I’ve always felt the same. Arturo is truly a master at what he does.”
“He is certainly, umm, talented.”
Dee chuckles lightly. “He’s not the easiest person to work with, I know.”
“He’s a bit of a dick,” I reply bluntly.
She smirks, holding in a laugh. “As long as you said it first.”
We’re going to get along just fine.
While I wait for my set, I look over the other girls' costumes and makeup. No two are alike, and I now understand why I had to get here so early. One of the women, a beautiful lithe blonde, appears to be some kind of bird, perhaps a swan? She glares at me across the room when she catches me watching.
Another with flawless ebony skin has roses and vines trailing up her body, the vivid reds and greens bright against her skin. Her hair is long and braided, with more flowers woven throughout. She gives me the slightest nod and I give her a small smile in return.
Each of the girls is as different and beautiful as the last, but no matter the packing on it, this is still a club. And to each of these girls, I represent a threat and new competition. Everything in me wants to push and fight for a spot at the top, like I would have done years ago.
It wouldn’t be so hard, even though I’m a bit older than most of the girls here. It’s all about the hustle: how much money you make for the club and how many clients you bring back. I have to force myself to remember that isn’t why I am here. I have much bigger plans.
“Come on, almost time,” Dee says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I nod, giving myself one last glance in the mirror before heading for the backstage. I peek out and see a very flexible blonde finishing up her routine. She’s topless by this point and I absently wonder who did her boob job, they’re phenomenal.
“Annika, everyone!” the DJ announces as the blonde does one final spin down the pole, landing gently on her back and pushing her body up toward the hands of waiting men in the rack around the stage. Cheers drown out everything and I watch the familiar routine of clean up and flirting fondly.
My entire body is thrumming with anticipation. The stage has always been my happy place.
