Page 2 of Satin Empire

Alana: If I don’t text you in an hour, assume I’m dead. RIP.

Noah: Don’t be stupid!!!!!!!

And yet, despite my cousin’s very good advice, I sneak off toward the bathrooms and look around for a boring, unmarked door, the kind that would lead into the back section of the club where the dancers hang out. It doesn’t take long, and after a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I yank open the door.

Only to find the biggest man in the entire world standing in the hall, frowning down at his phone.

He doesn’t register me at first. I’m caught between backing out and pretending like this was all just some silly mistake and striding past him like I belong. Confidence is an amazing thing; it’s almost like a superpower. Pretend like you belong, and hey, you belong. Except Big Guy looks over, narrows his eyes, and squares up.

“You the new girl?” he rumbles.

Holy shit. Did I mention he’s big? The guy’s built like a refrigerator with the kind of hands that could crack my skull in half. His head’s shaved to stubble and he’s wearing a cheap suit that looks like it’s stretched across enough mass to drown an entire cruise liner. Big Guy crosses his arms, and I swear the seams on his coat scream help meeee as they flex.

“Uhm,” I say and another one of my wonderful traits rears its ugly head: impulsiveness. “Yeah, that’s me. Carlo told me to meet him here.”

Big Guy snorts. “Carlo didn’t fucking tell you that. Come on, you can get dressed back here. You brought shit to wear, right?”

“No,” I say very slowly. “I was hoping I could talk to Carlo first. He’s here, right?”

“Not yet. Boss comes later.” Big Guy glares at me. “You plan on dancing in that fucking sweatshirt? You gotta have something better underneath.”

“I can dance in a freaking plastic bag and the guys out there will be throwing fifties at me,” I snap at him, annoyed at the way he’s looking at me.

Which makes him laugh a deep rumble. “Alright, girl, I like that. You go ahead and get the guys hard in your fucking sweatshirt. Not like I give a shit. It’s Thursday night.”

He leads me to the changing room. It’s surprisingly nice. There’s a row of vanities, each of them cluttered with makeup, curling irons, straighteners, and blow dryers. Lockers line the other wall along with cubbies, benches, and racks of extra clothes. A few girls are lounging around and chatting about the night, and I’m instantly ten years old again, a little girl around a bunch of real women.

“You’re on next,” Big Guy grunts at me.

“Hey, Helmuth, you got a cigarette?” one of the girls calls out.

Big Guy, apparently called Helmuth which is hilariously apt, flips her off. “You’re a damn mooch, Lydia. I don’t got shit for you.”

The girls cackle at him and one throws a shoe. He grunts and bats it away, shaking his head and muttering about his hard life as he walks out.

“So you’re the new girl, huh?” A redhead walks over and sits down heavily on the bench next to me. She’s older, in her thirties, but still fit as hell. I’m pretty sure I could swipe a credit card through the lines between her abs. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” I say, looking around. “Uh, I was told I could talk to Carlo before going on?”

“You wanna talk to Carlo, huh?” The redhead laughs but she doesn’t seem mean about it. “Honestly, he’s not here yet, but I bet he’ll be out there when you go on. Helmuth is such a fucking prick, but you’ll figure out how to work him, you know what I mean? You’d better get ready since you’re up soon.”

“Oh, I mean, I can’t actually dance, I mean, not until—” I’m stammering, suddenly aware that I’m in way over my head, because these girls are serious about what they do, and that guy Helmuth doesn’t seem like the type to find my little prank funny. Which means if I get caught trying to play them, I’m going to end up with my ears cut off and my tongue nailed to my feet or something like that.

The redhead stretches her absolutely fantastic legs. “Don’t get cold feet. You’ll piss off Helmuth, and you really don’t want to piss off Helmuth. That dickhead broke a girl’s wrist last week and all she did was call him a prick. I bet he’ll give you a concussion if you screw up his precious little schedule. God, he is so obsessed with that stupid schedule.”

I stare at her, mouth hanging open. Helmuth could pop my eyes out of my head with his thumb and forefinger, and I really don’t want to make him mad, because now I’m picturing even more nightmarish punishments.

Except I’m not a stripper—I can barely dance—and I’m dressed like I’m about to watch Netflix minus the chill part. I might’ve talked some shit to Big Scary Helmuth, but I was just running my mouth. I can’t actually go out there.

Can I?

The redhead—she introduces herself as Gina—sits me down and starts on my makeup. She’s quick about it and does a really good job while the other girls chatter the whole time. They’re complaining about boyfriends and bills and bad tips, and the girl Lydia, the blonde from earlier, keeps whining about needing a cigarette.

“New girl!” Helmuth shouts into the changing room. “You’re up. What song you want?”

“She’ll dance to ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me,’” Gina answers for me and winks when I gape at her. “It’s a classic.”

“Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.” The door slams again.

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