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Once I push past a group of girls doing their version of a huddle before the big game—complete with praying to their lord and savior, whoever that might be—it’s Bricks I find by the back entrance taking names and assigning numbers instead of Ravage.
“Where’s Rav?” I ask.
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the dressing room.
That’s helpful. Thanks.
I knock—even though it’s pointless, no one will hear it—then push open the dressing room door. The room runs in a long “L” shape. Straight back and then branches off to the left. Newer girls take up the dressing tables up front. The longer a girl’s worked for us, the farther away from the door their dressing station is located.
Assuming whatever the problem Rav called me back here for is with one of the new girls auditioning tonight, I stop in the front of the dressing room, searching unfamiliar faces for anyone I might recognize. Girls are busy peering into mirrors, applying makeup, adjusting costumes, taking selfies, and talking. Nothing that needs my attention.
To my immediate right, Sandra, an older woman who provides costumes and other stuff dancers might need, has a table. Girls are crowded around her asking for help, but she lifts her chin when she sees me.
“Where’s Ravage?” I shout at Sandra.
Her thick mane of perfect white-blonde, teased hair doesn’t move a centimeter as she lifts her hand and points toward the back. “Swan’s station.”
I frown. Should it still be referred to as Swan’s station? Since she had seniority, her station’s all the way in the back. In fact, the last time the club was remodeled, we made sure she had everything she wanted—a waste since she decided shortly afterward she wanted to transition to teaching yoga instead of dancing here.
I turn the corner. Her station takes up the entire wall at the end of the hallway. Large mirrors, lots of light and a table with drawers to hold—well, everything and anything a dancer might want. She was always generous and usually shared the space with girls she was friendly with, but everyone knew not to touch her shit without permission.
I finally make out Rav’s back—our club’s crown-wearing skull grins at me from his leather vest. His arms move wildly in the air while he argues with a woman in a pink wig, silver bikini top, and matching pleated miniskirt.
Her feet are covered in frilly white ankle socks but no shoes, which amuses me for some reason. I can’t see her face with Rav towering over her. But from her quick gestures, she seems to be holding her own in their disagreement.
“What’s going on, brother?” I call out.
He turns and relief seems to wash over his face. “This one’s all yours, Dex,” he says, sweeping his hand toward the pink-haired woman.
Something about the curve of her hip and her shapely legs draws my attention. Familiar. Ravage finally steps out of my way and my gaze shoots to the woman’s face.
“Hell fucking no.” I stomp closer, banging my shoulder into Rav’s as he tries to make his escape.
“Told ya so,” Ravage says to her, lifting his chin in triumph.
“I’ll get to you later,” I warn him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I slip off my cut, then unbutton my flannel, shrug it off, and drape it over Emily’s shoulders. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
“A little number from my rave girl days.” She places one hand on her hip and strikes a pose that doesn’t answer any of my questions. “Still fits, too.” She tugs on the skirt, knocking my shirt off her shoulder. “Although it feels much shorter than I remember.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I step closer to pull the shirt closed and fasten two of the middle buttons.
She stares down at my hands as I finish covering what I can of her bare skin. “It’s amateur night, right?”
Is she out of her fucking mind? “That doesn’t answer my question.”
The playful smile slides off her face. “You didn’t answer my texts. My calls went straight to voicemail. And I felt bad about this morning…”
“What?” I pull out my phone and shake my head. “My phone’s dead.”
“Well,” a mischievous note enters her voice, “After I dropped Libby off at school, I went home. I had an ad pop up on my phone for amateur night at Crystal Ball—so happy I googled the place, now I keep getting ads for it all the time, by the way—and I thought, hey, why not.”
“Hey, why not, what?” I ask, dreading her answer.
She holds out her arms and shakes her hips from side to side. “I used to be a good dancer.”
I snort and pinch the bridge of my nose. She’s got to be kidding. “Absolutely not happening.” I drop my gaze to her purse sitting on top of the vanity. “Get your stuff.”
