I left the coffee shop with what little optimism I had. Hours later, I sit on a bench in Central Park under threatening cloudsand in blistering cold, trying to cling to hope like it owes me rent. Iwishit owed me rent.
The noise of the city and the chatter of the passersby behind me barely register. Anger fuels my fingers as I swipe under my eyes, wanting to blame the cold. But I know better.
Desperation doesn’t cry. It bleeds. And my blood is frozen drops, shattering my hope against the concrete.
But I am not this girl. I don’t cry in parks. I don’t freeze on benches, wallowing in self-pity.
I fix. I hustle. I survive. I don’t have time to cry.
And yet…Here I am.
I glance at my watch for the time. Rehearsal doesn’t start for another two hours. I have enough time, maybe.
With a deep breath, my eyes lift toward the sky, silently asking forgiveness for the choices I have to make now, then push off the bench and head for the subway.
Twenty minutes later, the wind cuts through me like a knife despite my thick wool coat as I stand outside the white-painted brick building in Midtown. The grim sky opened up just as I stepped out of the subway. Snow pours down in thick, cold sheets, covering the awning until only a hint of pink can be seen peeking beneath the blanket of white. An unlit, pink neon sign that saysInfernohangs on the building.
As cold as I am, I hope it’s true.
“They’re closed,” a deep voice says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Aww. Thanks so much. I would’ve never known if you hadn’t told me. It’s not like I can read the business hours on the window or anything.” I turn to face Mr. Obvious and nearly swallow my tongue when I take in the dark dress pants and expensive coat, and I realize this guy could very well be the owner.
He chuckles as he strokes his jaw with a knuckle. “Well, if you know they’re closed, you must have other reasons for being here.” His eyes rake over me, scrutinizing me. “You don’t seem the type.”
“And what type is that?” I grind, the cold burrowing into my bones as another blast of wind hits me, and I pray he doesn’t think it’s an attitude. It is, but not at him, because while I might be a wee bit unfiltered at times, I’m not stupid. But the damn cold and my situation are at war, determined to turn me into a twat.
His shoulders lift as he rocks back on his heels, eyes running from the tops of my ivory knitted hat to the snow boots on my feet. “You look like a nice girl.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I laugh. I’m not a nice girl. I’m not a bad girl either. I’m just me, and the idea that the world has that you must be one or the other is annoying.
He grins and walks past me toward the door. Glove-covered fingers wrap around the handle, pulling the glass door open. He steps aside, holding the glass open, and jerks his head. “I’m guessing you’re the two o’clock audition.”
“Yep, that’s me.” I scratch the tip of my nose.
It doesn’t feel like luck. Just bad timing—hers, not mine. Whoever this girl may be probably needs the money as badly as I do, and who knows how long she’s waited for that call. But I’m not about to pass up the opportunity. She should’ve shown. Now, I just need to convince him I’m whoever it is he was expecting and to give me a job.
He gestures for me to stop just inside the entrance and disappears. Suddenly, lights illuminate the space. I suck in a deep breath and take a minute to let the place soak in.
I’ve been to strip clubs before, but never to this one. It was out of my price range with its six-figuremembershipfee.
A bar to the left gleams like obsidian, lined with top-quality liquors against a beautiful, modern mirror, and guarantees you will leave here with a lighter wallet and fewer morals. A few small tables and booths are scattered throughout the room. I’m assuming waiting spaces for when the main room is open.
“Follow me.” I jump when his deep voice cuts through the silence, my nerves getting to me.
I trail behind him, heels clicking over black marble veined with silver. He pushes through massive double doors, revealing a space five times the size of the bar. Black seating circles several large tables that, if the poles positioned in the center of them mean anything, also serve as smaller stages, and even without touching the seats, I can tell luxurious leather feels like butter.
It’s sleek. Expensive. The kind of place that doesn’t just serve drinks. It serves fantasies. And I’m about to offer myself on a platter.
The price tag on the place makes sense now. I just hope the money is as good as I was told because I wouldn’t be here otherwise.
I don’t judge strippers or anyone else trying to survive. It’s honest money. Kind of. I’m also not modest or shy. But my ballet company? They would judge. Hard. And the sacrifices my family made to get me here would mean nothing.
But I’m out of options.
I expect to go to an office like a naïve jackass, so when we stop at a set of seats in front of one of the main stages, I fail to hide my surprise. His brow lifts, almost as if he’s saying I told you so. My eyes narrow as I march to the stage, but he stops me before I get there. “Not yet. Sit.” He nods at the spot next to him.
I don’t want to sit. I want to get this over with. Keeping my expression neutral is a challenge I’m sure I fail as I return to the seat and take my place beside him. I’m embarrassed to be here. In some ways, it’s no different from appearing at open auditions, but this extremely intimate setting with just him and me…It’s awkward, sitting on the curved black leather sofa while he continues to stare at me as if he knows something I don’t.
