Page 154 of Irreversible

Swallowing, I close my eyes and try to center myself. A Halsey song is playing—an over-produced rendition of “Bells in Sante Fe.” The music has my insides buzzing, giving me a zap of courage that allows me to zone out and perfect my routine.

Orange and purple lights douse me in colorful heat as I slither out of the bumblebee bralette and let the sparkly piece of fabric fall to the stage. The crowd goes wild. I latch on to the applause and lower to my hands and knees, arching my back, swinging my head, while my thick mane of fake blond hair flies all around me and an added tinsel kit causes the wig to shimmer against the strobes.

This gentlemen’s club features topless performances only, so my black lace underwear stays firmly in place. Closing my eyes, I throw my head back then pull to my knees, cupping both breasts in my hands. More catcalls, more whistles and cheers. I glide back up to my feet and strut down to the front of the stage, dancing and swaying, tangling my fingers in the synthetic hair as I scan the crowd.

When I glance out into the sea of lights and obscured faces…

I notice a man.

I notice a lot of men, but one stands out.

I’m not sure why he snags my attention as he stands off to the side, watching me dance. His arms are crossed, one hip parked against the wall a few feet away. Two long legs are tapered in dark denim, and a gunmetal-gray Henley looks like it’s glued onto him. Muscles bulge against the thin fabric, twitching in time with his stubbled jaw. The man exudes intensity. Something heady and almost…alarming.

I can’t see the color of his eyes through the strobe lights and a cloud of smoke, but I feel them dig into me like a pickaxe.

My breath hitches.

Gazes locked, I squeeze my breasts then drag my fingertips up my chest, my collarbone, and through my hair in an upward, sensual glide. I bite my lip as I stare at him.

He stares back, unflinching. Unblinking.

Unreadable.

The girls gave me a rundown on the types of men who watch us dance—they’ve been labeled. Ariel rattled them all off to me as we sat together behind the stage, waiting for our respective cues.

The Hotshot:They think they’re too good-looking and respectable to pay us. The hot ones are the cheap ones.

The W.O.G.: Wrinkly old guys. They usually respectustoo much to get a lap dance, but they tip well when we’re on stage.

The Rookie:They’ve never been to a strip club before. Rookies are usually the most fun and make the job that much more enjoyable.

The Ball and Chain:Typical married man. Most of the time, they talk to us more than they care about seeing our tits, because they think we’re more fascinating than their wives.

We also get an assortment of bachelor parties, frat boys, and stags, who are a cross between nervous and eager.

But this guy…

I can’t place him.

His gaze devours me, and I swear it simmers with something other than lust.

It looks like?—

Anger.

A hotshot with a chip on his shoulder, apparently.

I whip back around and move toward the pole, curling my calf around it and flinging my body into multiple rotations as my hair follows. The crowd claps as the music fades out, and I finish my routine with a megawatt smile and send a little wave into the flashing lights.

For a moment, I’m on the runway again.

Everly Cross: the next big thing.

Photographers clamor to get the perfect shot. Models glare at me with envy. Industry bigwigs watch with interest as I strut around in the latest fashion trends.

My husband smiles at me, proud and adoring.

I am loved.

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