Page 33 of Creed

Letting the intense pounding of the drum flood me, I begin to wrap the silks around my arms, ignoring the burning sensation radiating from my left shoulder.

When Creed’s deep, smoky voice begins to sing, low and slow, about a found love so intense that it’s bound to break, I begin. I pull myself up the silks high enough to start wrapping the fabric around my right leg to move into a Rainbow Marchenko move. I smoothly drop my body upside down, then sideways to allow the silk to wrap a few more times around my leg before I release my hands and hang completely upside-down. I begin to rotate in a slow circle as I move my legs into a split, then into a scorpion pose.

I hear the crowd cheer and one man in particular whoops and whistles loudly. It's moments like these that make my life feel a little lighter. When I’m performing and dancing I’m not Collins Weston, a poor girl from a poor town who has a knack for finding herself in shitty situations. I’m Stardust, an aerial artist, an exotic cage dancer who people wait in long lines to pay to see six nights a week.

The song kicks up in intensity as the guitar and bass join in on the music, Creed’s words about deep betrayal of that love seeping into every fiber of my being as I begin to climb the silks again to get into my next set. I use all of my core muscle to hold myself steady as I begin wrapping each end of the silk strategically around my body. Around my hips and using my legs to wrap them around my thighs, I’m able to hoist myself to a seated position nearly at the top of the silks. I pause, looking out at the crowd, being above the intensity of the spotlight allows me to make out the forms of some of those watching, men and women alike. Some are on their feet, waiting in anticipation, while others watch from over their whiskey glasses with piqued interest.

The music cuts into a tense moment of silence. I wink and blow a kiss right before the beat drops into the intensity of a powerful chorus about how forgiveness will never be a mercy given. In that same moment, I tip my head and drop back, and I begin to unravel and spin out, stopping a mere foot from the ground below me. The crowd collectively gasps before bursting into applause.

I smile to myself as I pull my body upright and plant my feet on the ground once more. The rest of the song plays out as I push through to finish the choreography. After several more drops, spins and poses, I’m breathless. Several men rush to the edge of the stage, tossing wads of cash I’ll never possess, knowing Tank will rob me of almost all of it. I purposely stand toward the back of the stage so that no one can reach me. I’m blinded by the spotlight but I can’t shake the feeling of an intense set of eyes on me. My eyes comb over the tables as I smile and wave, settling on the table front and center. I can’t make out their faces behind the spotlight, but I know the burning stare is coming from that table. I can feel it.

Just as the curtain closes, I let out a small yelp when I run into Tank with a giddy Brandi standing behind him. I flinch when he raises his hand to me, but instead of the hit I anticipate, he brushes the red wig back behind my shoulder almost reverently. It makes my skin crawl.

His breath still reeks of pussy and vodka when he speaks. “You’ll be needed for four private dances, immediately. Same group for all four. Room three.”

Fuck. I grab my shoulder and massage the tender muscle there. “Um, okay. I’ll be there in thirty. I just need to change and ice?—”

“What part of ‘immediately’ did you not understand?” he spits as he grabs my left wrist, jerking me like a rag doll and I have to bite my tongue to avoid screaming out in pain. Tank has always been a mean bastard, but he’s never been physical before. It fucking terrifies me because now that he’s showing his true colors, the chances of my escaping his debts seems impossible now.

Chapter 16

Collins

Tank’s eyes flick to my shoulder for a second before coming back to my face. “Get to room three. Four lap dances. They paid a lot of fuckin’ money for you and you’re going to deliver. They want to snort coke off your tits? You deliver. They want a happy ending? You fuckin’ deliver, or we’ll be having a chat. Feel me?”

“Tank, if Star can’t dance, then maybe I can?—”

“I didn’t ask your fuckin’ opinion, Brandi. Get your ass in my office and wait for me on my desk.” Her face flushes a bright red as she turns on her heel and leaves. Guess I know where the smell wafting off of his face is coming from, then. He turns to me once more. “Room three, Star. Now. Jett will escort you.”

I heave a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding once he’s out of sight then flinch at the sudden feel of something cold coming down on my shoulder, followed by Jett’s hand touching the small of my back. I look down to see a bag of ice wrapped in a paper towel resting on my shoulder. I reach up to hold it in place as we start to ascend the stairs to the private rooms.

“I’m sorry, Star.” He murmurs as we pass the first two rooms. I glance up at him and though his face is stony, giving no emotion away, I see the regret in his eyes when he looks down at me.

I place my hand on his bicep, offering him a small smile, offering reassurance I don’t feel. “Don’t be. None of this is your fault, Jett.” I reply, stopping in front of room three. Jett does a quick sweep of the room before looking down at me, his brown eyes filled with pity. I fucking hate that look.

“It’s not your fault either. I just wish—” he rakes a tattooed hand down his face. “Look, I’ll be right out here if you need me. These fuckers try to do anything you don’t want, they touch a single fucking hair on your head without your consent, just yell. I’ll fucking be there. I’ll get you out.”

Fuck, Collins, just let me get you out… Somewhere safe… With me.

All of Creed's words echo around my head at Jett’s proclamation. A wave of grief mixed with guilt swirls in my gut. There’s nothing I regret more than rejecting Creed’s offer… his plea to get me somewhere safe. I was so angry and headstrong in the moment that all I could think was that I had to do things on my own because the only person I could rely on was myself. But it was too late. I’d made my choices and now with the debts I’ve landed myself in, I believe I’ll never see Creed or Asher again.

I shake my head to try and clear it of all thoughts. Literally. I don’t like to feel anything when I have to give private dances. Their paying for my private time doesn’t feel like a job, it feels like prostitution, even when there’s no sex involved. It’s different in these rooms than it is on stage. The men are hungrier, hornier, bolder with their attempts to try and touch me without consent.

Just as Jett ushers me through the doors to get in place before the clients walk in, I rush to give him a quick hug, squeezing lightly and releasing him before he has a chance to hug me back. “Thank you, Jett. I’ll be okay. Really.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but I leave him at that and close the door behind me and move behind the partition to wait for the people who paid for four private dances.

A few nerve-racking minutes later, I hear the lock to the door click open and the sounds of the hallway filter in as several sets of footsteps file into the room. I can’t see them behind the partition and the lighting has been turned down and switched to red—fucking cliché red— so low it’s nearly blacked out in the room, I can barely see my hands in front of my face, so I’m not sure I could make out their faces anyway.

Their voices all blend together as they talk excitedly over one another. I hear the leather of the couches groan when they each take a seat, now waiting for me to start the show. Before I turn on the music, I hear Jett’s low growl of a warning from across the room. “You four paid for a dance but that’s it. It doesn’t give you permission to touch her in any way, shape, or form with or without consent. You give her any trouble; your asses will be dragged from this club by whatever skin you’ve got left on your back when I’m finished with you.” A flush creeps up over my face at his protective words. There’s nothing but silence in the room before Jett barks at them, “Am I understood, gentlemen?”

A collective, “yes” rings out from the direction of the couch. Jett is a scary motherfucker who looks to be in his mid-forties and stands well over six and a half feet, with some gnarly scars scattered across his face and arms. He’s gentle as can be with the girls who work here but he can make a grown man piss himself with a few words.

The door clicks shut and my anxiety spikes a bit. Private dances never get any easier because despite Jett’s warnings, some men just don’t give a shit and I end up violated one way or another anyway before he has a chance to remove them. These reedy men steal a little more of my soul each time, leaving me feeling emptier than before.

I jump when I hear one of their voices booming across the room at me, “Don’t be shy, sweetheart! We already know how fuckin’ talented you are. We just wanna see those ti—ow, fuck, the fuck, man?!” One of the men slurs.

“Shut the fuck up, T.” Another voice says, the words deep and husky. A niggling in my brain sparks at the familiar voice.

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