I cracked up before I could stop myself, giggles spilling out as the bouncer, a mountain of a guy named Tony, strode over.“Alright, ladies,” he said in a voice like gravel, “time to call it a night.”
The girls protested, slurring out excuses, pointing fingers, clinging to each other like they were auditioning for Drunk Bridesmaids: The Musical.The whole scene was ridiculous, and I was still half-laughing when my gaze shifted past them, just beyond the flashing lights and raised drinks.
And there he was.
Henry.
For a split second, I froze—every muscle in my body tightening like I’d been caught in a spotlight I couldn’t step out of.What the hell was he doing here?Did he really think he could just walk in, bat those guilt-ridden eyes at me, lure me into another night, and then vanish again before sunrise?
Hell no.
But then I caught the look on his face.
Not lust.Not arrogance.Fear.His pale blue eyes darted like a trapped animal’s, his shoulders hunched, as if just being in this room was a battle.And something in me cracked.It had to have taken every ounce of courage he had to step foot in Babylon, a place that screamed queer at the top of its lungs.And for one aching moment, sympathy stabbed through my anger, sharp enough to leave me breathless.
The music thundered to a close.The announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system: “Give it up for Solomon, everybody!And next up, you know him, you love him, the man, the myth, the muscles—Hercules!”
The crowd erupted as Hercules bounded onto the stage in little more than a loincloth, flexing like some gay Greek god made flesh.I pasted a grin on my face, gave the crowd one last playful wink, and slipped off the stage.My pulse was still hammering as I headed for the dressing room, every step heavy with the knowledge that Henry was out there.
* * *
Backstage, I sat hunched on the ripped vinyl couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the scuffed linoleum like it might offer me a way out.The air was thick with cologne, sweat, and the faint tang of cheap whiskey—every dancer’s perfume mixed into one.My name was still on the lineup, second set looming, and I was praying against it like a man begging for divine intervention.Maybe the DJ would forget.Maybe the sound system would blow.Hell, maybe the ceiling would cave in.Anything to keep me from stepping back out there and seeing if Henry was still in the crowd.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted.If he’d left, I’d feel gutted.If he was still there, I’d come apart.My chest was tight either way.The other dancers moved around me, snapping g-strings and spraying themselves down with body glitter.I just sat there with my heart pounding, knowing the second I walked out, I’d find my answer.
The announcer’s voice cut through the haze, harsh and final: “Put your hands together for Solomon!”
My cue.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the silver waistband clinging to my hips.My palms were clammy.I’d been hiding out in the dressing room for the past hour, willing Henry to take the hint and get the hell out.
But as I stepped back onto the stage, my chest squeezed.Half the bar had cleared out, the drunk bachelorette party long gone, leaving behind a scatter of crumpled napkins and lipstick-smudged glasses.The lighting was dimmer now, softer, like the night itself was winding down.Music thumped, low and sultry, vibrating through my bones.
And then I saw him.
Henry.Standing right there in front of the stage like he’d been waiting for me.His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, but his posture was still stiff—like he was bracing against some invisible storm.
I tried to play it cool, moving my hips in rhythm, making my face blank, pretending he was just another customer.I’d done this a thousand times—ignore, compartmentalize, seduce without feeling.But it only lasted a few seconds.My heart was punching against my ribs, and I couldn’t stop looking at him.
That was when some drunk guy staggered forward, grinning wide, and shoved a twenty into the waistband of my thong.The man’s fingers grazed my skin, and I forced out a fake laugh, stepping back.But I saw it.The flicker in Henry’s eyes.Like something had cracked inside him—anger?Jealousy?Shame?
Before I could even process it, a couple more men came up, tossing bills at my feet, reaching, watching.It was the usual scene, a Thursday night ritual.But Henry never moved.He didn’t even blink.He just stared at me like the whole world was collapsing around him.
And then—tears.
I froze mid-step as they started rolling down his cheeks, catching in the dim bar lights.Henry Forrester, the man who buried every ounce of softness beneath layers of Catholic armor, was standing there unraveling in front of me.
My throat tightened.I couldn’t do this anymore—not the act, not the mask.I hopped down from the stage, landing right in front of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of his soap under the stale beer air.
Before he could pull away, I wrapped my arms around him.His whole body trembled against mine, rigid at first, then melting like he didn’t know how to hold himself up anymore.I leaned in, pressing my lips close to his ear.
“Please don’t go,” I whispered.My voice cracked, raw and unguarded.“Let’s talk after I’m through with work.”
ChapterEleven
Henry
Song of Songs 2:16 – My beloved is mine, and I am his.
