Page 32 of Off Balance

I feel overheated and overstimulated by so many people. I'm ready to go home, but for once, the other dancers in the company aren't treating me like an outcast. This is my chance to befriend my coworkers, and hope that it carries us into the next production.Drinks are handed out to the group of us standing at the end of the bar, pink fruity concoctions that smell like kerosene and coconuts. I don't want to be a party pooper by refusing it, so I keep it in my hand to look sociable, eating the fruit garnish because I’m starving. I take a small sip now and then, slowly nursing the drink while the rest of the party goers do shots and chug drinks, getting wasted the way I used to all the time.

"Is it true you used to be an exotic dancer?" A dancer named Katie asks. Her valley girl tone is lowered conspiratorially, but it’s still loud enough for the entire group around us to hear.

I flush, unsure of what to say at first. I'm not ashamed of that or any other job I've ever had, but most of these people were born with silver spoons in their mouths and can't imagine what it's like to have to do whatever it takes to make ends meet. And they certainly wouldn’t understand enjoying what they would consider a low-class job.

Laughing like her question doesn't bother me, I correct her in my fakest sassy-boy voice. "Actually, I was a go-go dancer. Not that there's any shame in working a pole, if you know what I'm sayin'!"

Ugh, I hate myself right now. Everyone's laughing though, so maybe clearing the air with a little humor is the way to go.

"But that's where you met Emile?"

“Excuse me?”

“You met Emile when you were stripping, or go-go dancing, or whatever it’s called.”

Seriously, what is up with the third degree here?

"Technically, I met him at the club I used to dance at, yes. I performed a contemporary piece at a talent night at the club I worked at, and he approached me. He gave me his card and said I should audition."

A few of the people in the group side eye each other, and I see more than one smirk.

"Why do I feel like I'm the butt of an inside joke here?" I say, trying to laugh off the bad feeling I’m getting. The snickers and side glances get to me even though I try not to let them.

“I earned my spot in this company,” I say, feeling defensive.

“Oh, we know you did,” Katie says to snickers from the people around us.

My skin is flaming and I’m at a loss for words. It doesn’t take much to work out what they’re implying, which I already knew everyone thought. Hearing it straight to my face is both horrific and a weight off my shoulders.

Another girl from the chorus chimes in. "We just heard the story differently, is all." She looks pointedly at the bruise on my neck, pursing her lips, and I attempt to cover it with the collar of my shit.

"Well, considering there were only two people here in attendance, I cannot for the life of me imagine where you're getting your intel from." I take another sip of my overly sweet cocktail before deciding I've had enough. "You know what, I'm gonna go." I put my half full drink on a table and walk away from the group. My stomach roils with nausea, and I'm off kilter.

Their giggles and whispers follow me, the sound amplified and echoing around in my head.

Where is Emile? I think I might be having a panic attack or something.

I stumble towards a door that leads into a dark hallway with black lights. The walls and floor are moving like a carnival funhouse.

I moan as nausea cramps in my stomach, pulling my phone from my pocket to text Emile and let him know something's wrong, but I trip and run face first into the wall. A laugh echoes off the walls. Did I trip, or was I pushed? I spin around to see who's there, but my head doesn't stop spinning. I can’t text like this; I need to call.

I press the call button from our recent text thread, but my phone flies out of my hand when I'm shoved into a dark corner from behind. "What the?—"

"Heath sends his regards, slut."

Something cold and wet is poured over my face and clothes. My vision gets too fuzzy to recognize any faces. Everyone's blurred and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open.

"What's going on over here?" comes a stern voice.

"Emile?"Thank God he’s here.“I don’t feel so good.” My words are slurred, and the nausea is making its way up my throat.

"For the love of?—"

I don't hear another word. Vomit bubbles up my throat and spews down the front of my shirt. And then I black out.

CHAPTER 8

DOM

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