Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
After a final glance my way, she disappears through the crowd with more spring in her step than when she walked into the lion’s den without any armor.
As I watch her race toward the Palermo train station, Camille cozies up next to me, quiet again. She’s worried this will be the last time she’ll see the mysterious blonde. I’m not facing the same torment.
While ruffling Camille’s nearly black hair, I speak words I haven’t even ruminated on yet. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She won’t be gone long.” When she gazes up at me and smiles, the absolute truth barrels into me.
Magic doesn’t cease because you’ve been hurt.
You simply need to hone your skills as all the greats do.
Chapter 3
Lucia
The dressing room is colder than necessary, and the air is dense with old perfume, hairspray, and the persistent tang of stale beer drifting in from the main part of the club. At the battered vanity, I sit beneath bulbs that twinkle around the “starlet” mirror. I apply my makeup: foundation first, then the smoky eye makeup the manager claims makes me “mysterious.”
I don’t feel mysterious. I’m tired and anxious.
Tonight’s showcase isn’t just about tits and ass. It’s a themed night the owner pushes to boost earnings. Shady as ever, Salvator will lurk in the shadows with a new “business associate” in an ill-fitting suit tonight. Their suits never fit their bodies like Camille’s dad’s suit did.
That man knows how to wear a suit. It wasn’t just expensive—though the way the fabric caught the light, as only the finest wool does, made it obvious that it was—it’s how it fit him. The jacket draped perfectly on his shoulders, with no creases or sags, as if tailored for him. The sleeves stopped just above a line of white cuff, and the trousers broke elegantly over polished leather shoes.
He moved with an authority that revealed he’s completely comfortable in his second skin. Most men pretend to be something they’re not in a suit. Not Camille’s father. He commands it. Every inch, every button, and every crisp edge. Even the tie, a deep navy silk, was knotted out of habit, not effort. He understands tailoring is an art, and he is the canvas.
If he instead of the current owner managed this club, I doubt we would need to worry about changing things up with theme nights.
Although Salvator’s practices are fishy, the manager is a gem. Celesta makes sure we’re paid on time and always checks on us. We’d be happier if she quit bringing us bar peanuts to keep our energy up, though. No one eats them. Even before I left my princess tower for stripping, I knew that bar peanuts are bacterial breeding grounds.
After a quick glance around the dressing room, it’s obvious I’m not the only one aware of this. Every dish sits abandoned on the dancers’ dressing station, growing stale and adding its own musty note to the club’s aroma.
As I reach for the glitter to dust it over my cheekbones, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t recognize myself. I look braver, maybe? Over the past week, beneath the anxiety I’m rarely without, there’s been a glimpse of pride.
When it mattered, I didn’t walk away. I did something. My beliefs about the situation I stumbled onto may have been a little off, and I might have handled it the wrong way, but I still tried to fix what I thought was broken.
If society did that more often, I wouldn’t be here, getting ready to hopefully shake my ass for money for the first time this week.
Unfortunately, it is often life’s disappointments that strengthen us.
I learned my lesson again during my quick stop at the candy store last week. I was barely twenty minutes late for my shift, but I’ve been paying for my tardiness all week.
My booty hasn’t graced the stage once this week. Until Salvator decides I’ve served my penance, I’m stuck behind the bar, hustling for tips as relentlessly as I sweep up peanut shells.
Huffing, I apply a thick coat of red lipstick. As it has many times in the past seven days, my mind drifts to the train ride home from Palermo. My heart pounds as I replay what I did before it. I gave Camille’s father a fake number, and not any random sequence of digits either. I made it look legitimate—area code, prefix, and the right number of digits. It was so plausible that it could have belonged to someone in the city.
Although I had a mostly sheltered childhood, I learned early that details matter. Being lax with minor things is how people get caught.
Still, regret persists. The sparks in Camille’s father’s eyes made me want to ignore every con. I traveled back in time and was hopeful that the horrors I’ve faced would eventually be worth it.