On my way backstage, a man at a high-top table slaps my ass and then grabs it in a firm clutch. Fuck. The force is so hard that I wince, stinging, and the sound of the whack rings in my ears.
I spin around to shove him off. My heart races and pumps with adrenaline, but security already slips between me and him, separating his grip on my ass. Let it go, Thora.
My eyes burn.
Stop burning.
I lift my shoulders. You’re still you. And I redirect my course. Away from the man, heading backstage. I avoid eye contact with everyone.
Safely in the employee’s only area, I open my locker. Not far away, Roger is in a serious discussion with one of the veteran girls. She nods, her brown curls bobbing with her head. I step into sweat pants over my rouge lingerie and then tug on a baggy maroon shirt.
When I untie my hair from the loose braid, I notice faint bruises on my forearm from training with Nikolai. I’m not even sure how I acquired it—a mystery bruise. And not the first one. Nor the last. As long as I stick with it.
I close my locker and jump, my heart rocketing. Roger is two feet from me.
“Virgin Mary,” he says. What? My face tightens. All week he’s been calling me Thora. I even celebrated at The Red Death with an extra shot. “I need to talk to you.”
I nod for him to continue.
“We’re cutting your act.”
“What?” My voice is a whisper. “Why?” I thought I’ve been doing better. I even did the splits. My rent, the bills, the food, clothes—I need this job. It’s the only thing keeping me financially afloat.
“You’re not great, but you’ve improved, sure. The cleavage helps.” He gestures to my breasts, thankful they’re covered in the shirt.
“There has to be something else…I can do, anything.” Anything. It just came out, but I struggle to take it back. I am so, so desperate. I’m about to be a stray cat in the rain, wandering a freeway. And I have to bank on Roger, of all people.
“It’s not about your routine,” he says, grimacing like he hates pleading.
But I’d grovel, I think. I wonder if I’d shamefully drop to my knees. No. Yes. I don’t know. My eyes burn again.
I’m about to lose my job.
He scratches at his thick red hair. “The owner wants to reduce the number of aerial acts in favor of go-go dancers.” I open my mouth to offer, but he raises his hands, silencing me before I release a word. “You’re not dancing for us. For starters, the other girls would look like giants next to you. And we’re here to make them look fuckable, not like they popped out of Jack and the Beanstalk.”
“So there’s nothing else?” I’d do anything. That’s what I’m telling him.
He scans me, from head to toe. Am I selling my soul right now? What the fuck are you doing, Thora? Surviving. On my own.
“There is something,” he says. “We have these private shows for top clients. Just you and a low hanging hoop and a room. Maybe one or two men. No sex. Too many lawsuits there, but it has to be way sluttier than that shit you do up there.” He checks his cell as my mind seesaws between my morals and my boyfriend and my independence. “That’s all I have. You’ll make twice what you make now.”
“How much?”
“A grand.”
“In a week?”
“A night.”
A night. My heart stops. That’s not just twice what I make now. That’s so, so much more. Tempting—this part of Vegas is very tempting. Say no.
Say yes.
“I need to know by tomorrow. I have to start filling the calendar.” He leaves me with my indecision. I can spend tonight and tomorrow searching for jobs, and if there’s nothing—then I can proceed from there.
All I know is that I can’t be broke.
If I’m broke, I go home.
I leave Vegas.
Return to a life that I have left behind. Start back at the beginning. Try to forget about the person who clutches my heart. Without money, I fail.
It’s simple.
I’ll figure it out. I have plans set for today and tomorrow. It’ll be okay. Motivational boosts in check, I walk through the club, hoping to grab a drink from the bar on the way out.
I make it five feet, and I stop dead.
No.
Standing by the stage, right behind a bald bouncer that blocks drunken men from slipping into the dressing rooms—I see them.
My parents.
At Phantom.
Act Thirty-Three
I bring my mom and dad to an Elvis-themed diner in The Masquerade, somewhere quieter where we can talk. They sit across from me in the red vinyl booth, music playing softly from a retro jukebox, frequently interjected by an “order-up” call from cooks.
The only thing they’ve told me is why they showed up at Phantom. A place I never told them I worked.
It was Shay.
He called them, out of worry for me, they said. And he confessed all of my sins, all the lies I’ve been telling for months. The betrayal sinks beneath an overpowering sentiment: guilt. Horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. A knife twists in my stomach, barely able to meet their eyes.
A phone call was too impersonal, my mom said.
They wanted to see for themselves. So they purchased plane tickets and saw my act tonight. They heard some guy scream at me to “show your tits” and watched another smack my ass.
I don’t think this is what my parents hoped for me. It’s not what anyone would want for their child.
When I raise my head, I see it in their eyes.
Disappointment in me. Hurt in them.
I drop my head again, my finger running over a sugar packet after we all order drinks.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” my mother says, her voice cracking. Her blonde hair splays on her thin shoulders, her makeup soft, with understated colors. Nothing like the bright red that stains my lips.
“This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” I whisper. My eyes continue to burn, but I don’t cry. Not in a semi-crowded diner, people sipping on milkshakes.
My dad remains silent, his fingers to his lips. His wispy hair has grayed almost completely. He’s twelve years older than my mom, a fact that never seemed to be an issue for them. Not even when they accidentally became pregnant with Tanner—my dad already fifty-one at the time.
I know love when I see them.
Unfailingly together, their hands cupped beneath the table, as though prepared to confront this problem, me, with unity. I never even dreamed of finding love. It’s been low on my list of pursuits. I thought I’d tackle that later. Maybe in ten years. I’d fall in love for the first time then.
I wish someone would’ve told me that you can’t search for love. That one day, it will find you.
An unexpected thing.
“Where are you staying?” my dad asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken.
“I have an apartment.” I let that hammer drop. My mom’s eyes shift to the table. I add, “In a good location. Safe.” These facts are important to them. Vital. Necessary things. And even as I say it, I know they won’t believe me. They’ll go back to their hotel room, Google search my address and research crime rates in the area, snoop on forums to see what real life people have to say.
“Why wouldn’t you tell us, Thora?” My mom practically cries. No, she is crying. This opens the floodgates on my emotions, my heart palpitating as tears drip off her lashes. “If this is what you wanted…you know we would’ve supported you.”