Page 111 of Ewan

“Xenia.”

“Look, Xenia. The owner said a lot of things, but he’s not here running this place. He likes his money way more than he likes your requests. He gave me a free hand to run his club as I see fit. Occasionally he suggests someone like you, but he won’t despair if I toss your ass out. So be a good girl, go backstage, pick up acostume, and come back. Wear heels. And put on some makeup. You look like a mouse.”

I bite my lips so hard I taste blood.

“Sure, Master,” I say, unable to push back my revolt.

“You need to stop doing that. If you can’t deal with me, how will you deal with someone who had three drinks too many? I thought you wanted to make some money tonight.”

“Obviously. I’m not here for the entertainment.”

“Good.”

“And I’m getting paid cash.”

He weights his answer for a second, my heart beating fast. He studies me as if pondering whether to make me fill out a 1099 form and get all my information––and why do I see blackmail in my future?––or whether to let me remain anonymous, get a wad of cash, and buy myself a nice gift since Christmas is around the corner.

Do I look shabby to him?

“Yeah. Sure, cash. Make sure you’re not getting on anyone’s nerves.”

He wanted to say anyoneelse’snerves.

I bet he did.

He tugs at the door and invites me out. Nice.

“You have five minutes. I don’t have the entire night. Besides, you need to get on the stage in like…”

He glances at a digital clock on his desk.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, and my face drops.

“Am I the first dancer to go up on the stage?”

“What do you think? You’re not the star of the evening, for sure. I have better––”

He stops when I shoot him a death glare.

“I mean more experienced dancers.”

“I was a cheerleader,” I protest.

“You sure were. And I was a priest. That doesn’t mean shit. Go. And make sure your shorts sit right and don’t cut into your pussy. It’s not a good look.”

My cheeks are aflame.

I wasn’t like that back when I was a cheerleader. I couldn’t be. ‘Unfazed' was my middle name.

But something fucking happened to me.

I’m more, I don’t know, sensitive? Getting easily outraged? I’m getting old?

That’s it.

Or am I blushing because this guy I don’t even like talks to me like this is making me think about sex?

And not having it, mainly?

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