He said he liked that I made him wait.
Apparently, he likes that this woman won’t.
I pull out my phone and type out a text.
Liv: I can’t do this anymore, Adam. I want to break up.
After I hit send, he glances at his phone, shakes his head as if he’s the one who can’t believe me, and follows the woman through the curtain.
My chest squeezes. I told myself I’d let him off the hook if he convinced me what happened with the blonde was a one-time thing.
But it’s not.
That callous dismissal of my text burns more than the jealousy. I’ve always tried to be the daughter my parents want, the girlfriend Adam needs, and none of it matters.
“‘I Love Rock and Roll,’” starts up, its catchy hook emanating from the speakers.
The MC shouts for Cherry one more time.
“Liv?” Kat’s peeling off the sticker and holding it out, her eyes imploring. “Do it for me?”
I’m not the girl who takes her clothes off when she’s angry.
I’m the one who makes the other person feel comfortable, especially if they’re the person who screwed up.
But the crowd’s sneering faces blur together, and that cork in my chest is back in place, the contents of the bottle under more pressure than before.
I take the sticker and press it to my sleeveless white D&G tank top tucked into denim shorts.
When I start through the crowd, there’s a wave of cheers. Each step is more confident than the last.
On stage, the bright lights are familiar, even if the audience of drunk and leering townies isn’t.
The last time I danced for a crowd was years ago. Before…everything.
I catch the eye of the beautiful guy at the bar. He’s not leering. He’s watching as if I’m the only person in this bar worth looking at.
The awareness is back, a tingling that cuts through my numbness. I’m borrowing from the conviction in his eyes.
I stop in front of the pole, then reach back to wrap my hand around it. My back arches, and cheers go up.
I have what Kat calls “a great rack.”
I call it “destroyer of dreams.” When I turned sixteen, my boobs came in, and my ballet instructors crossed my name off their lists.
Tonight, no judgmental ballerinas are watching, and no beer bottles trip me up.
I lift my leg behind me in an arabesque. My fingers grab my stiletto, and I tug it toward the back of my head.
The more the crowd cheers, the deeper I go into the music. Into my own head.
The rhythm is low in my gut, and my feet move without instructions.
The tension feels raw and real and true.
I catch his eye again. His nostrils are flared, his jaw tight. For an instant he sees me, unlike everyone else in my life.
I pop my feet wide and sink into the splits.
It’s not until I start to roll out of the pose that the sticky floor registers.
I’m barely up to standing when the woman in the uniform is over to me, grabbing my hand and lifting it high.
“Our winner!” She passes me a check. “We have a tradition. You know what it is.”
I don’t notice the buckets at the side of the stage until two women dump them over me.
The shock of cold drowns me in a wave that steals my breath.
It’s not water. It’s vodka.
I’m soaked from my shoulders to my toes. My nipples are hard points through my shirt. The only thing still dry is the check in my fingers, its amount less than the price of my alcohol-drowned outfit.
The shock eats into my power trip from being on stage as I stumble down the steps.
“That was epic, Liv!” Kat bellows when I reach them.
Jules bites her lip. “Are you okay?”
“Totally.” My arms fold over my chest and the wet fabric sticking to my skin makes me cringe. “I’m going to the car for a sweater. Happy birthday. Cherry.”
I pass the check to Kat with a wink. She tries to give it back, but I refuse, pushing through the crowd to the exit.
My white Audi is conspicuous in this parking lot. Most of the rest of the cars are more like the Dodge pickup between my car and the club, though there’s a beautiful black Mercedes on my opposite side.
I glance back at the club as I fish the keys from my bag.
That’s when a group of guys emerges from the door. Adam’s one of them, and another guy pulls out a vape pen as they laugh.
“How was it?” one of the other guys asks.
Plink.
I sink to my knees to follow the keys I’ve dropped.
It’s dark, and I fumble around under the edge of the car. My eyes burn, a tear escaping down my cheek.
The crunch of gravel behind me makes me freeze. “This the after-party?”
I swipe at my face because crying in front of other people is a sign of weakness. When I turn, my heart stops.
It’s the guy from the bar. The beautiful one who watched me.
Up close, I’d peg him at late twenties, maybe thirty. He’s tall and broad, dark hair grazing his jaw until he shoves it back impatiently.
“I’m not here to perv on you. I’m heading out.” He glances at the pickup truck. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t driving drunk.”
“I’m getting a change of clothes.”
His gaze drops to my chest. My nipples are still sticking through the shirt. “Good call.”
He starts toward the hood, probably to round to the driver’s side of his truck, but I grab his sleeve.
“Don’t leave. That’s my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend,” I amend, the word I’ve never used before echoing in my ears. “If you move your truck, he’ll see my car.”
The gorgeous man looks between the Dodge and the Audi.
“Just...wait until they finish their vape?” I plead.
He doesn’t respond but doesn’t move either.
I unlock the car and lean into the back seat, rummaging for my sweatshirt. My fingers sink into the soft fabric of the hoodie.
“What are you doing here?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Came to town for some unfinished business.”
He’s facing the other way to either give me privacy or stand watch.
I tug the sticky shirt over my head, wadding it into a ball and dropping it on the back seat.
“I meant at a strip club. You don’t look like the type to ogle tits and drown your sorrows.”
The low rumble of laughter behind me makes my skin tingle. “You don’t look like the type to shake your tits to forget your problems.”
I pull on the sweatshirt and shift back out of the car, the hood still up around my head. “So what’s your excuse?”
I catch sight of my reflection in the passenger mirror—smudged makeup, hair plastered to my head except for a chunk that’s gotten pulled out to hang alongside my face. But the man turns back to me before I can even think of trying to fix it. “I hate doing what people expect.”
“So you didn’t ogle my tits?” It’s not like me to tease a stranger. Blame it on the vodka fumes.
“I’m a man who appreciates beautiful things.”
The heat in his eyes steals my breath. It’s like he’s talking about watching fireworks or a once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.
He does a double take at the logo on my chest.