Page 32 of Creed

Oh, but it’s my fault, apparently, that he’s continually losing members because grown-ass men don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Fuck them. I’m no man’s fucking peacekeeper around here.

Before he stormed back to his office, he yanked me up so hard by my wrist that I felt a pop in my shoulder followed by a burning pain down my arm. Tank had jabbed his meaty finger in my face and spoke so close I could smell the stench of old pussy and cheap vodka on his breath. Fucking gross.

“You fuckin’ work for me, Star. If you can’t follow the fuckin’ rules that I set for the dancers here, I’m sure we can find another way for you to work off your debts. I am a very generous man, after all.” He had said, his beady gaze raking down my body with a hunger that had turned my stomach sour.

I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat at his insinuation. I said nothing, which apparently was answer enough for him because he shoved me out of his way and jerked the door to his office open. Before he stepped inside he turned back to me. “Keep my fuckin’ VIP members happy, Star. Or next time there’s an incident, I’ll be sure to get involved to make sure we all get our…happy ending. You get me?”

I couldn’t argue with him so I nodded reluctantly before he stormed off.

How the fuck did I end up jumping out of a frying pan and into a goddammed fire? Traitorous tears flood my eyes at the same time blurry hand waves in front of my face. I look up to find Jett— one of the few bouncers of the club that I trust— standing before me. When I first started working at Viper, I trusted no one, despite him telling me he only took this job to protect the women here. Only with his actions has Jett proven time and time again for two years that he wants nothing from me but my safety and well-being.

Takes one look at me and sighs at the sight of my disheveled state after Tank sent me to the ground, but doesn’t say a word as he escorts me back to the dressing room area and silently looks over my face and my arm. I can tell he wants to poke and prod at the injuries to check the severity, but he doesn’t touch me.

Before leaving me to get ready, he gives me an ice pack and whispers in a low tone so only I can hear. “I’m not asking you to roll over for them, Star. But you need to rein in the claws a little. I know you’re a tough little shit, but I can only protect you so much while I’m here, and I don’t want to see you hurt anymore. Okay?”

I open my mouth to protest or to simply fuck off, but he holds a hand up to stop me as he clarifies. “That fucker absolutely deserved the blow you landed on him. But I want to keep you out of Tank’s crosshairs. The next time someone tries touching you on stage and I’m watching over you, give me this signal,” he raises his hand above his head with his fingers creating a pistol shape and flexes his thumb once. Easy enough. I nod as he continues, “and I’ll escort the problem from the club. Got it?”

He pulls me in for a hug and I sink into his embrace for a second before I shove him away with a grin that I’m sure doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’ll try.” I sigh, fighting the overwhelming feeling of helplessness over my life situation. “I just fucking hate it here, J.”

“I know.” He says, his voice solemn. “If I could get you out, I would, and you know it. You deserve to be out there chasing the sun, not merely surviving in the dark.”

His words give me pause, sounding so similar to what the taxi driver, Garrick, told me two years ago.

You keep your head up and your face to the sun and I promise it’ll shine on you again.

He doesn’t wait for me to say anything else before he walks out of the room, leaving me to finish getting ready.

Once I’m finally done brushing through the wig, I notice that Tank had not only left a nasty red mark on my face, but he smudged the glittery face paint I’d applied earlier. My stage name here at Viper is Stardust, a tribute to my love of David Bowie and not at all a nod to the man who first stole my heart—and definitely not the one person I dance for in my mind—though the DJ, Pete, continually calls me Star, so it just stuck.

I work quickly to use some cheap concealer to hide the mark, then touch up the red glittery lightning bolt I had painted over my eye. Just as I finish up with blotting powder on my face, Brandi comes barreling through the doorway and nearly tackles Coco, our other aerial artist.

Coco is probably the only other person I can tolerate here, besides Jett. I can’t fucking stand Brandi. She’s a kiss-ass to Tank and a fucking tattle-tale over all the other women here. If one thing goes wrong, her lips are flapping to Tank.

Her high-pitched voice grates on my nerves and I can’t understand a fucking word she’s saying as she speaks to Coco animatedly about some VIP group that just sat down…I think.

She and I share a look that says where’s the fucking duct tape? I turn away to hide the way I have to simultaneously suppress my laughter and hide my smirk over the fact that neither of us can stand her.

I check over my outfit to make sure I’m still properly tucked and strapped in all the right places as Pete pokes his head in the doorway.

“Star, you ready girl?”

I nod, “As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

He cuts a look over to Brandi and Coco, “Brandi, aren’t you supposed to be getting a bottle and glasses for table one?”

“Shit! Yes!” she jumps up from her chair and scoots around me toward the door. “Oh, and Star?”

I look at her with a raised brow but don’t respond.

“You’re in for a fucking treat tonight.” She winks before bouncing away.

“O-kay.” I drawl slowly, confused as fuck as to what she’s talking about.

“C’mon.” Pete escorts me back to the curtain before he leaves me for the DJ booth.

A few deep breaths later I hear the first few notes of Malevolent Melodies start, followed by the sound of the curtain opening and the spotlight shining on me. I always appreciate the spotlight because when people aren’t flooding the stage, it feels like it’s just me.

And sometimes Creed, when my mind gets away from me.

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