by Emilia Finn
She lifts to her toes. Not the balls of her feet, but her actual toes, and opens her eyes when dudes toss bucketloads of cash down in appreciation.
“Mac?” Tara’s voice echoes behind me. “Sweetheart, you need to go back to work. I’m paying you a lot of money for tonight. Please don’t make me regret it.”
“Yeah…”
Slowly, I step away from the bar and circle the room, but my eyes remain on the dancer. Shame fills my belly, because I’m ogling a girl that’s only trying to pay her bills – I know what that’s like.
Lucy and I aren’t together. We’ll never be together. But just because I don’t get to touch doesn’t mean I get to cast my eye elsewhere. Having someone else’s heart in my chest, a cheater’s heart, a liar, a thief and a general waste of space, having his heart doesn’t mean I get to become like him.
I loved Lucy when I was fourteen and owned the heart I was born with.
Insanely, when I was waking after surgery, my biggest worry was that I’d see her and not love her anymore. Like our hearts are where we keep those emotions instead of just our blood. Fortunately for me, I saw her within a day of waking, and my blood still warmed. My lips still curved. Her tears made me hurt, but at the same time, told me she loved me too.
Unfortunately for me, with my new heart came bills, massive bills, and with those, my chance of ever being with someone as amazing as the girl I considered my best friend was dashed. My new heart could also feel bitterness.
Yippee.
I make my way around the outside of the room, holding my breath as I pass through thick clouds of smoke, and blink my eyes when that smoke makes them sting. I approach the door and sigh when I find a lineup of men and women waiting to come in. At least they’re not fighting or pushing their way through.
Just before reaching the door, I peek back over my shoulder at the stage – shameful of me – and catch another glimpse of the woman. I let my eyes wander her legs and stop on her ass, cupped in booty shorts that make my eyes narrow.
Through the smoke, the haze, the noise, and my own drumming heart, I look up just in time to catch her eyes. Green and wide, she stops dancing for a second, her chest lifts and drops with exertion.
A part of me wonders if she’s stuck on my eyes as much as I am on hers, but then someone shoves someone else out the front.
I turn away from the woman with a shrug, push through the doors, and start fixing what my absence broke.
“One fucking line, assholes!” I set my drink on the stool I’m allowed to sit on when it’s quiet, and step up to the front of the line. “ID, then tell me who’s shoving.”
Lucy
Close Call
“Oh god.” Standing onstage, completely still when I’m being paid to dance, I study the doorway Mac passed through, and gulp to lubricate my dry throat. My stomach rolls, and my hands shake, because he was right there. He stared right into my eyes.
“He walked.” Celeste shimmies past me. “He didn’t recognize you. Keep going.”
“Oh god.” On rubbery legs, I move toward the pole, do my best to continue the routine I write in my head. I climb for a moment, spin, and touch down again, but then the tears rush to my eyes. The shame. The guilt. “I’m sorry.”
I hurriedly snatch up the cash on my side of the stage, sniffle the mess that leaks from my nose, and when I stop to collect the larger notes by the thirty-something-year-old businessman, I choke out a cry when he reaches forward and grabs my wrist. “I’m sorry. I have to—” I yank my hand free from his steely hold. “I can’t do this.”
“Private room?” he murmurs with a thick accent of… Ireland? “One time, and I’ll reward you well.”
I shake my head and stand on trembling legs. “I’m sorry.” I clutch the cash to my chest and turn to Gloria. “I’m sorry. I can’t—” I shake my head. “I can’t do it.”
“Go.” She moves around me, does her best to cover up the clusterfuck I’ve become. “Take a breather. Come back for the third set.”
Instead of informing her that I won’t be back, I merely turn and dash from the stage to a chorus of muted grumbles and cries of disappointment. I probably drop money. I probably lose some of the precious dollars I need, but I keep moving anyway until I hit backstage and stumble toward my chair.
“Oh god.” I look up and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is reddened as though I’ve been on a crying jag. My eyes, green when they should be brown, make me cry at what I’ve become. I drop my money, cast a fast glance over the pile and pray it makes up twelve hundred dollars.
It doesn’t. Not even close.
But still, I rush to the lockers and toss the bills in, then I dash to the sink and scrub my hands clean. I lather up with antibacterial soap, rinse, dry, and when I’m certain they’re clean, I rush back to the mirror and claw at my eyes until I can tug the lenses that make my vision murky.
One out, then the second, I toss them down on a cry, then I push my hand over my head until the wig comes free. Pins tug at my real hair. They poke my scalp and draw a grunt when I tug too fast and take a heap of my hair with them.
I toss the wig to the little makeup table, and when I look back into the mirror, to my tank still bunched on my sweat-slicked skin, a sob escapes my throat as I tug it down. “He saw me. He saw me. He saw me.” My lips shake. My hands shake. And I’m the girl so removed from anything and everything, that shaking hands is a massive fucking deal.
I race around the room, steal wipes from Celeste’s table to begin swiping the makeup from my face. I tug the lashes from above my eyes, take more wipes to work on the brows Gloria drew in to make mine thicker and sharper. I smear the lipstick from my lips, and yank the stupid silicone from my face. I blow my nose and lean against the table for a moment, because I’m crying.
I don’t cry!
I make a mess of three separate makeup stations. I stab my legs into a pair of jeans, and tug the denim up to cover my black booty shorts. My tank is decent when paired with jeans, especially when I’m not under those club lights that make it see-through, but I still snatch a new shirt from my locker and pull it down to cover my torso.
Music continues to boom through the club, but for the first time in my life, I don’t sway. I don’t bob. I don’t dance, because maybe that part of me is broken now. I snag my phone and fight to swallow a sob when Mac’s name sits on the locked screen.
Hey, Luce. Thinking of you. Still working, but I was wondering… wanna get breakfast tomorrow?
I desperately check the timestamp of the text, swallow when I find it was sent just a minute ago. Which means he saw me dancing, he thought of me, but he doesn’t know it was me. Maybe seeing anyone dance makes him think of me. Hopefully.
Please god, let that be the truth.
I toss my phone down without replying, and instead, stand in front of the mirror and work on my breathing. One hand on my stomach, the other on my left ribs. I breathe in and concentrate on filling my lungs. In and out, hold it in, let it fill my body, then out again while tears continue to sting my eyes.
“He saw me,” I murmur to no one. “But he doesn’t know it’s me. He saw, but he doesn’t know. He saw, but he doesn’t know.” When my heart slows a little, I snatch up my phone again, move away from my text screen – I’ll reply tomorrow – and instead hit redial on a number from a few hours ago.
“Early knockoff?” the smarmy voice asks. “Why are you calling me halfway through a shift?”
“I’m out.” I let my humiliation and fear wash away, and in its place, I soak up the anger. “I’m done. I have your cash, so I’m out.”
“You made two thousand dollars tonight?” he questions. “Really? In half a shift? Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I did,” I lie. “Some rich dude is sitting front row and tossing the big bills. I’m out. I’m depositing the last of it tomorrow, then you need to fuck off and leave me alone.”
“I dunno, Little Dancer. I just… I don’t feel as satisfied as I thought I would. This doesn’
t feel like enough.”
“It’s enough! It’s ten thousand fucking dollars! I did what you asked, so now we’re done.”
“Deposit my money, but we’re not done. Not even close.”
“We’re done!” I hang up and toss my phone away until it smacks Celeste’s makeup, shattering one of the compacts and sending powder wafting into the air.
Another sob tears from my throat while I hurriedly try to fix what I broke. I slip into a pair of sneakers, and make my way back to my locker. I’m dressed, I’m me again, I look like me when I look in the mirror, and now I have a minute to count my cash.
I take the original eight hundred from my locker, only to shove it into the bag I pull across my body. Then I grab the loose bills and take them back to my little table. I grab a fifty and place it on Celeste’s table to replace the broken compact, then I sit and swipe tears from my eyes as I count. Four hundred. Four fifty. Five hundred. Five-twenty. Forty. Fifty. Tears plop onto my lap as I shakily count the singles until finally, I reach the last.
Add that to the original eight hundred. “One thousand, three hundred and seventy-three dollars,” I whisper to myself. I check my wallet, pull out an extra fifty. Add that. I’m six hundred short, and though it’s not like I don’t have six hundred in the bank I’m willing to pay to get rid of my problem, the deal was that it was cash earned by dancing.
He doesn’t want “trust fund” money.
“Shit.” I push the rolls of cash into my bag and close the zipper. Bringing the flap over the front and double-checking it all stays closed lest I lose a single dollar, I sit at the little table I started my night at, rest my feet on the steel bars at the bottom of the stool, my elbows on the table, and for an hour while the ladies dance, I stare into my brown eyes and try to figure out how I can fix this colossal screwup.
They told me to stop betting.
My cousin, my brother, my friends, even my dad. They all said to stop screwing around, but I believed in Mac so much. I believed with everything in my heart that he would walk away victor, and what I feel in my heart, that’s what matters most, isn’t it?
The heart… everything that is me and Mac revolves around hearts.
If we were using our heads – if I was using my head – then everything would be so much easier.
He doesn’t want me. He’s had a million opportunities to have me, but he walks every time. If I was using my head, I could acknowledge these stark facts and perhaps work on moving on.
But that logic doesn’t work, because my heart says differently. My heart says there’s only one person for me, only one person that can love me the way I need… and he refuses.
“Fucking asshole,” I hiss.
He’s the reason I make stupid choices. He’s the reason I make bad bets. He’s the fucking reason for everything, and now I’m sitting backstage of a club I’ve found myself dancing for men in, all because my heart overrides my brain, and I blindly dedicate myself to a man that doesn’t want me back.
“Fucking prick!”
More than an hour passes before Celeste and Gloria make their way backstage with arms full of cash that I could have made if I’d just kept my cool. Instead, I took that time to clean my face, fix the puffiness around my eyes, plan my escape, and try not to obsess over Mac.
I slide off my stool and wait for them to slip into gowns. My eyes are still itchy, still dry, my legs feel like jelly, but I stand and wait for them to sip a little water and drop their cash, then I step forward and enclose us in a three-way hug that surprises them both.
“I’m sorry I ditched.” I squeeze extra tight, and stop only when Gloria makes choking sounds in the back of her throat. “I’m sorry I panicked.”
“He didn’t see you.” Stepping back, Gloria keeps my hand in hers and squeezes. “He saw a body he liked, a siren that was calling to him.” She smirks. “But he didn’t see you.”
“I probably should be a little hurt that he was watching the dancing girls,” I grumble. “He was watching a girl, and he liked it.”
“She was you!” Celeste laughs. “Girl, he was watching your body move!”
“I know, but he didn’t know it was me, so I should probably have a broken heart right now… right? He was watching dancing girls… He was…” I bring a hand up to my forehead. “I’m so confused, guys. I don’t know which way is up.”
“Wanna know what I think?” Gloria moves to her little table and begins working on her makeup. “With age comes wisdom, and now that I’m old as dinosaurs—”
I roll my eyes. “You’re twenty-nine.”
“Like I said,” she laughs. “Old. But with all of those years comes Dalai Lama-level wisdom. That boy,” she points toward the hallway, “he’s attracted to you. You say he’s your best friend, which means he’s in love with your personality and brains. I saw him stop and put brake tracks in the floor when he saw you dancing tonight, which means he’s also wildly digging your body. Brains, body, personality. I can confirm you’re beautiful as hell. And you said the couple times you’ve danced together, you’ve felt his…” she trails off.
“Penis,” I supply on a whisper.
Snickering, she wipes the makeup from her eyes. “I just really wanted to hear you say it. He rocks a boner the size of Texas when he dances with you. Beauty, brains, body… he’s in love with the trifecta. Girl, what am I missing here?”
“I don’t know! He says no.”
“He says no?” Celeste stops by her table, studies the broken compact and the cash beneath it with a lifted brow, then she looks into the mirror and meets my eyes. “You’ve asked? Did you use the word penis? Because that might be where things keep falling down.”
“No.” I sit back at my stool and pout. “I don’t ask. Like, I don’t say it outright like that. That would be weird, and a no after that would be a million times worse. But I dance with him. I dance for him. I hang out with him almost every damn day. I spar with him. I train him. I ask to drive with him, and there was this one time I licked my ice cream this certain way. I was trying to be sexy, but it made me feel this,” I hold my thumb and finger barely half an inch apart, “small. Seriously, I made myself blush because of how I was going at that ice cream. But nothing! He’s not that stupid, guys. I’ve known him forever. We did our homework together; he’s not stupid.”
“And you’re saying the ice cream thing didn’t work?” Gloria presses a dramatic hand to her chest. “Good lord, how could he not take that hint?”
I narrow my eyes. “I could kick your ass from here until next week. I’m a trained weapon.”
“With mashed potatoes for brains,” Celeste laughs. “Girl, ice cream is all tongue. A man can lick the ice cream and send us loopy with lust. But unless you’re gonna… ya know…” She widens her eyes. “You should have bought a corndog. That would get the point across much clearer.”
“But I…” I sit taller. Lift my hands… Drop them again. “Damn.”
“It’s okay, sweetpea. It’s a learning curve.”
“The more you know,” Celeste says, only for Gloria to nod in agreement. “The more you know. I get that this is scary for you, I get that rejection is terrifying, especially for such a sweet flower like you, but what you’re doing isn’t working. Just tell him what you want. If he says no, then demand answers. Smack him upside the head and ask that stupidass why he doesn’t want you. Knowing is always better than not.”
“I’ve been friend-zoned,” I groan. “It’s humiliating.”
“Would you rather he wasn’t your friend first?” Gloria asks. “If you could have a do-over, would you prefer to have met him in a club and gone home with him that night?”
“I mean…” I think of meeting a grown Mac Blair in the dark. I think back to the businessman from tonight, his request to slip into another room, then I replace his face with Mac’s. “It would be exciting,” I admit. “I would be exhilarating and fun and hot if that’s how it happened.”
“But?” Celeste lifts a brow. “Finish it ou
t, baby girl.”
“But I want him because he’s my friend. Because he’s sweet and crazy, he’s funny, he’s impulsive and balances out the fact that I’m never impulsive. He’s my opposite; the obnoxious to my shy, the daring to my cowardly. I can’t know all of that stuff if we meet in a club. And I can’t be in love with his grit and determination to do better, be better if I wasn’t there for the bumpy ride in the first place.”
“He’s the yin to her yang,” Gloria sighs.
“The Clyde to her Bonnie,” Celeste finishes. She drops her brush to the little table and comes to me to cup my face. “You’re so in love it almost makes me sick.”
I pop my bottom lip into a pout. Press a hand to my swirling stomach. “Me too. It makes me sick every single day.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, sweetheart.” She presses her newly cleaned lips to my brow. Lingers there until I sigh. “Just tell him. If he says no, then he never deserved you. If he says yes, then stock up on condoms, because you have a hell of a lot of sexual tension to release. Things are gonna get messy.”
Warmth fills my stomach and face at the same time. How? I don’t know, but that’s what happens.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Sex is fun,” she quips before turning away again. “Good lord, sex with a man that has big hands and enough confidence to be bossy…” She drops back onto her stool and sighs. “I had my own Mac one time. He was the best kind of obnoxious and bossy.”
“You did?” I push off my stool and stop behind her so we’re both in the mirror. “What happened? Where is he?”
“We fucked. Turns out we weren’t right for each other. Now he’s dating my cousin, and they’re expecting their second baby.”
“Ugh!” I turn away and stomp back to my table. “That was the absolute worst way to end this pep talk. You’re a jerk.”
“You got a cousin he might be into?”
“No!” I whip my bag over my head and place the strap so it rests between my breasts. “I’ll kill any that try. They know he’s mine, they know I have dibs. Anyone wants to cut in line, and we’ll take it to the octagon.”
