I feel cheap as hell for even thinking that, like some dog chasing after bones.
Tears prick my eyes suddenly, but I blink them back, refusing to let myself go down that road again. I made my choice; I'm here; I'll make the best of it. For some reason, thoughts of Zayden pop up in my head: his smile, the warmth of his hands, his lips against my neck as he comes.
He's made this bearable so far, but I'm struggling to figure out how I'm going to do this once he's gone.
When I turn around at the end of the stage and use my shoulders for a little downward shimmy, things go from bad … to fucking awful. Dan and his friends are still shouting, telling me to show my shit, their faces bathed in shadow and the awful edge of the spotlight above my head. As soon as I take my eyes off of them, I hear commotion and then suddenly there's just this hand in my hair, dragging me back so hard that I fall, heels slipping out from under me.
Just like Grace did at the playground.
I go down heavy on the stage, the breath exploding from my lungs, and then I'm being dragged over the side. My body spins as I fall, knees and elbows connecting with the floor as the hand in my hair tightens and pulls. There's movement around me, probably the bouncers, but I'm still struggling to catch my breath and blink past the sudden tears in my eyes.
The rough old carpet digs into my knees and palms as I force myself to my feet and grab the edge of the stage to pull myself upright. As soon as I do, I see Dan in the arms of one of the bouncers, thrashing and cursing as he's dragged to the front doors. One of the other employees snaps a photo of him before he's thrown out; he won't be allowed back in here ever again.
“You fucking cunt!” he screams, right before he's dragged outside. I stand in stunned silence as the rest of Dan's friends are escorted out, crossing my arms tight over my bare chest as I struggle to keep my breathing slow, my eyes focused on the tinted doors at the front of the building.
God. I can't believe this is happening. And it's not just that my scalp hurts and my knees are bleeding, my elbows stinging. But I have to go to class with that a-hole. I have sit there during a lecture and wonder if his eyes are on me or what he's thinking about me. Not that I give a shit … because I don't.
I swear, I don't.
Tiffany hustles over to me in a black robe and puts her arms around me. She smells like that floral perfume, flaking glitter all over my bare tits.
“Come on, honey,” she says as she pulls me away from the main floor and the manager catches up to us, asking me if I'm alright, telling me to take a minute. At least he looks somewhat concerned, a nice change of pace considering his usual attitude towards me.
“I'm fine,” I say, lifting up a hand as he pauses outside the curtain to the dressing room, and we go in. I slip on a t-shirt, let Tiffany set me up in one of the chairs next to the vanity and bring me a soda from the bar. The fizzy bubbles race over my tongue as I consider how the hell I'm going to deal with Dan come tomorrow.
“Are you okay?” she asks for the tenth time as she takes a seat next to me. “Looks like you went down pretty hard.” I cringe and reach up to rub at the back of my head, feeling a slight scabbing of blood on my scalp.
“I'm okay, really,” I say as I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look huge and dark, and even though I've slathered on thick stage makeup, I look young. Too young. It's creeping me out a little to be honest. “Well, physically. I mean, it hurts, but that's not really the issue.” I turn to look at Tiffany, and I wonder what her story is. She must have one, right? I bet all these girls do. Some—maybe all of them—might have stories worse than mine. “I go to school with that guy,” I say and she nods, watching me with big, beautiful blue eyes. She has this mothering vibe about her that makes me think she's older than she really is. Looking at her now, she can't be any older than Zayden.
Zayden.
I sigh.
Too bad he wasn't here to punch Dan out for me. My mouth twitches a little.
“Well, remember, you're a stripper, not a slave. Don't let him treat you any different at school, okay? Make that boy behave.” She slaps a hand on my knee and smiles, but I can't seem to make myself smile back.
“We're partnered together on a research project. Do I tell the professor that the guy assaulted me at a strip club?”
“If you have to. You shouldn't be ashamed of what you do to survive. Some people think this place is a last resort, that it's the worst thing possible. But what's really bad, what's really low, is when you start to believe all of that, when you let yourself doubt. Do what you have to do, but stand up for yourself, okay?”
“I will,” I promise, and I know that's the truth. I might not be the bravest girl in the world, but I don't let people walk all over me either.