Chapter 5

My heart beats in rhythm with the industrial bass pounding through the speakers at Club Saturn as I spin around a pole on a small platform.

It’s Saturday night. Which means the club is packed, and the air is ripe with the scent of spilled vodka, cheap cologne, and sweat.

Wrapping my legs tight around the pole, I engage my core muscles and release my hands to arch backward over a sea of people moving like a riptide under a haze of smoke and multicolored spotlights.

One more hour. The tips will be worth it.

I slide down the pole a few feet until my hands meet the platform. Then I release my legs, letting them fall into splits.

Nights like these typically come with more slurred, lust-filled conversations than I care to entertain. Not to mention too many wandering hands over my bare, glitter-dusted skin.

I don’t receive any form of affection well, and I can’t necessarily blame that on recent trauma. I’ve been that way since I was little. Hugs from my dad. Hair ruffles from Laz. Soft touches from men I’ve hooked up with to try to fill the void in my chest. All of it makes me uncomfortable.

People here assume my lack of clothing equates to consent—that I want them to hit on me or touch me—but this is just a job. One I can’t lose, or I’ll be relying fully on Laz to pay our bills, and my brother deserves better than a deadweight like me.

I just don’t know how to move forward. How do I pretend things are normal? How do I carry on the day-to-day shit knowing Papi’s murderer is out there roaming free?

And forget explaining any of what I’m going through to my old dance company. The directors don’t need to hear about how I succumb to this awful, gutting grief every time I even think about stepping foot on a stage again, knowing I’ll never see Papi sitting front row to cheer me on.

God, I miss ballet, though. The physicality and skill required during a performance allowed me to transcend flesh and bone. I could shut off the world around me and float in this blissful space that didn’t bow to time. And when I finished performing, I carried that high in my tired, achy muscles for days.

My muscles burn after routines at the club, too, but it’s not the same. Few people here are watching me for my art. They’re mostly gawking at my body. I’d move on to another job, but I don’t have any skills beyond dancing and fighting, and I’m not particularly keen on beating the shit out of people for money.

Hooking my right leg around the pole, I lift myself upright. As I twist into another hold, I catch sight of a familiar face that drains the blood from my body.

What. The. Fuck.

On another rotation, I take a second look to make sure I’m not imagining shit.

Nope. The silver-haired man who robbed me of my kill the other night is sitting alone at a high-top table, watching me with bright eyes and a sly smile.

My initial shock burns up under a rush of pure rage.

Does he think this is some sort of game?

Well, I’ve got fucking news for him. He doesn’t scare me. I’ve dealt with stalkers before. Not everyone at the club accepts “no” for an answer.

There was this guy who pulled his car into the back alley one night when I was leaving and demanded to blow me in the back seat. Thankfully, Gage, my coworker and only friend, walked out and immediately picked up on the vibe. He’d strutted to the man’s window in heels and a miniskirt, cussed him out, snapped a photo of his license plate, and threatened to call the cops.

I’ve never witnessed anything so empowering.

After the guy peeled away in his creeper van, Gage called a cab to take us both home.

It’s possible I had a lapse in judgement and asked him to spend the night when I noticed Laz’s car missing from the street.

And yeah, my need for company spiraled into some handsy, under-the-blanket activity, followed by a shit ton of regret when I forced Gage down the fire escape the next morning after startling awake to Laz’s car door shutting.

I just need to deal with this man swiftly. I want nothing he has to offer.

Snaking down the pole, I leap off the platform. Immediately, an arm wraps around my waist, and I’m spun into a circle of shirtless guys dancing. They’re all grinning hungrily at me.

I have to fight the urge to take the one holding me to the ground.

Tips, Dante.

Slipping away with a forced smile, I stalk toward the silver-haired man. Every time I catch a glimpse of him through the mob of writhing bodies, my skin prickles with heat.

I’m pissed he’s at my place of work. But there’s something else trying to claw its way to the surface. Something I don’t care to name.

Whatever it is, I plan to kill it.

I stop a few feet away from him, keeping the table between us as a barrier. The spotlights flash white, bathing him in an angelic glow that has my heart rate spiking.

His face is fucking flawless. Model-worthy. I’m guessing his hair color is a choice. That, or he prematurely grayed because he doesn’t look old. Maybe mid-thirties?

He’s wearing delicate silver chains woven through both of his ears, and a dark V-neck tee, revealing smooth skin and the defined cut of his biceps.

The lights flash blood red, and I’m suddenly reminded of his words the other night.

Your guardian angel, or the devil, here to drag you to hell. I’ll let you decide.

He’s definitely the devil-type. He’s straight-up trouble, and I’m not just saying that because I watched him shoot someone.

Clenching my jaw, I wait for him to acknowledge me. If he thinks he’s getting something from me, he’s sorely mistaken. I’d shout at him to fuck off, but the music is blasting too loudly.

He rests his elbows on the table, making himself more comfortable. With a huff, I stomp around the table and get right up in his space.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Though his gaze stays fixed on the dance floor, I catch the twitch of his lips.

“Unwinding,” he answers simply.

Irritation snaps through me. Was I too quick to assume he came here for me?

No. He’s just playing games. Why else would he show up at this particular club after having screwed with me last night?

“You’re very good at what you do,” he says, lifting his drink to his lips.

With a held breath, I watch him swallow. My cock gives an annoying twitch, which only sparks my temper hotter. It’s only because I haven’t had sex in months. I went a little overboard when I first got the job here, and then the act became more of a chore. I haven’t even taken matters into my own hands lately.

I lean in close enough that my body presses against his knee. “How do you know where I work?”

He swipes his tongue along his bottom lip as he sets his drink down in the little ring of condensation. “Confidential information.”

My nostrils flare on a hot exhale, and he breaks into a wicked smile. It’s like he knows he’s stepping on landmines. Pretty sure the twisted fuck likes the pain.

Breathing normally takes effort when he moves those icy blue eyes to me. They’re lit up in a way that brings another wave of tingles to my body.

His gaze slides down to the bruise I covered up with makeup. Flushing, I turn my head slightly so he can’t look at it anymore.

I should walk away. If my coworker, Gage, spots us, he’ll never leave me alone about it. He’ll want all the details, even though I know he’ll also be disappointed I’m giving attention to someone else when I told him I wasn’t interested in anything.

However, something tells me turning my back on this man would be dangerous, and I refuse to show weakness to someone who looks like he would eat me up.

He curls a finger to summon me even closer. Balling my hands into fists, I brace for his touch on my skin, but all I feel is the warmth of his breath against my ear, tinted with the pine scent of his gin and tonic.

Fuck him for proving to be more respectful than half of the people in this club.

“I’m not sure you understand the gravity of your situation,” he says.

I scrunch my nose. Just how much does this man know about me? Panic blooms in my chest at the idea of being so exposed.

“Whatever you think you know, I can handle myself,” I say stubbornly.

“Oh, you’ve proven your skill, baby boy.”

Warmth spreads to my groin. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t be sporting a boner when I climb back on that platform. Why didn’t I march over to security and ask them to remove this man instead of engaging him in conversation? Why am I still giving him the time of night when he’s clearly deranged?

Maybe it’s because he took a bullet for me the other night. Or maybe it’s because some small, stupid part of me wants to inch a little closer.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your baby boy,” I retort.

His eyes shine with amusement. Frozen in place, I wait for him to give me some explanation as to why he’s here.

Without another word, he turns his attention away from me and picks up his drink to sip at it leisurely.

I bite back a growl. It’s not like he called me over. I came to him willingly, and now I’m even more aggravated that he’s basically dismissing me. That I’m not enough to hold his attention.

“Fuck you.” I spin on my heel to go finish out my shift.

If he wants a fucking show, I’ll give him one he won’t forget.

Some content on the website is uploaded by users. If it infringes on your rights, please contact us.