Page 159 of Irreversible

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Queenie clinks her glass with mine as I tamp down my nerves and gear up for my next performance. Another week has rolled by, and I’m still not the fearless topless dancer I was hoping I’d be after two weeks of parading around in front of drooling, dumbstruck men.

My confidence has blossomed, but I wonder if this is something I’ll ever fully get used to and accept. I’ve been wearing wigs during my routines, terrified one of my captors is hiding out in the crowd, making plans to snatch me up the moment I make the darkened trek to my apartment.

But I can’t hide forever.

That’s the whole point of this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Queenie says, swallowing her Lemon Drop shot and placing her glass on the bar counter.

I rub my lips together. “Hope you have a lot of pennies.”

“I have a lot of singles. Better make them some good thoughts.”

A smile flickers. “Does this ever get easier? Were you nervous when you first started?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I hardly remember those first few weeks.”

“Yeah.” I nod, glancing down at my fidgeting knees. “I can’t picture you ever questioning this. You’ve always been secure in who you are.”

“So are you. That girl you think you lost somewhere, the girl who was audacious and bold…she’s still in there.” She presses a firm hand to my knee, ceasing the wobbling. “You never lost her, Angel Baby. She just lost her way.”

I glance up, my eyes misting. “You don’t think people ever change?”

“Change?” Leaning back, she props an elbow up on the chairback and tilts her head. “I think people grow, and people regress. When they grow, they become a better version of who they already are. And when they regress, it means they’re too scared to grow.” She shrugs, pursing her lips. “So, no, I don’t think people trulychange. Not at their core. Not their essence.”

Queenie reminds me so much of my mother sometimes.

It’s a sweet familiarity that has me smiling through the heartache.

“Thank you,” I murmur, twirling the half-empty glass between my fingers. “You always know the right things to say.”

“I don’t know about that.” She barks a laugh. “I just say what I want to say when I want to say it. It’s up to the listener to take what they need from it.”

I swallow back the rest of my Old Fashioned, wincing as it burns a trail of fire down my throat. Plucking a cherry from the bottom of the glass, I glance around the crowded bar, assessing my audience for the evening. I recognize a few faces. One man sends me a lewd look as he runs his tongue over his lips, causing me to slink back in the seat and readjust my long, brown wig.

But before I fully turn to face Queenie again, someone else catches my eye.

I twist around, craning my neck over the sea of men.

My pulse tap dances.

It’s him.

The smoker from outside the club two weeks ago.

He looks away the moment our eyes meet, and I sit up straighter, jerking my head toward Queenie. “Hey. Do you know that guy?”

“Hmm?” She frowns, following my gaze. “Which one?”

“The good-looking one.”

“That’s subjective, honey. My third husband looked like a garden gnome that weathered one too many storms, and I liked him just fine. For a few years, anyway.”

Blinking repeatedly, I feel my skin heat as I gaze across the bar at the dark stranger who’s staring down at his glass of clear liquid over ice. “The one in the black T-shirt. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.”

She peers around me and squints. “No. Never seen him before.”

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