Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

“Not even going to say hi?” He smells like smoke and sweat and alcohol. At only eight o’clock in the evening.

I keep my voice steady. “Hi.”

“That didn’t sound very friendly. You got a problem with me? Did I offend you in some way?”

Jesus, I don’t need this. The song’s almost over. If I miss my cue… I shiver. I can’t miss my cue. The hallway behind him is empty. Not that anyone would help if they saw. Ivan is the owner of the strip club, along with a cadre of other illegal shit in the city. He’s gone most of the time, so even though Blue is just a bouncer, he gets free reign. At least he does a decent job of protecting us girls.

Even if he is an asshole.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” I say.

He pulls me closer until my body is almost flush with his—and still I won’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t pay for that. No one does. They pay to touch me, to hurt me. To fuck me. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye, so I don’t.

His mouth is close enough to my ear that I can feel the whiskers when he speaks. “Then why don’t you prove it. Show me how friendly you can be.”

Gross. “I’m up next.”

His hold tightens, and I can already picture the bruises. When I’m at home, in the shower, I’ll wash off the stench of this place, the shame, but I won’t be able to wash off the dark shape of his fingers where they press into my skin. He’s imprinting himself on me, becoming part of me, and bile rises in my throat.

“I’m up next,” I repeat in a whisper.

Even Blue doesn’t want to anger the powers that be. I look up in time to see regret flicker in his eyes. He lets me go. “Later, Honey.”

I flinch even though that’s my name. Not my real name, but it’s what they call me here.

It’s who I am here.

When he steps aside, I hurry down the dark hallway. I’m almost more agile in heels than I am barefoot, from all the practice. There are lights on either side of the hallway, track lighting to make the walk feel glamorous or maybe to make sure we don’t trip in our stilettos. It feels out of place in the strip club, lighting up what is better dark, dusty corners and ambient shame. It reminds me of a landing strip—not in stripper terminology, but a real airstrip for airplanes with lights on either side to guide me. At any moment I could take off. At any moment, I could be free.

I have to believe that. It’s the only way to keep going.

And then I’m backstage, waiting. Trapped. The opposite of free.

I stand behind the curtains. Twenty years ago this area would be filled with stagehands and costume designers and performers waiting for their cue. But now there’s just me, shivering in the draft from the air-conditioning as the final strains of music fade away.

Candy slips back, skin shining with sweat and glitter, smelling of booze and cherries. She’s the prettiest girl here, except for the track marks on her arms. Except for the black eyes she has too often, ones she skillfully covers with makeup.

The opening notes of my song start playing.

“Depressing,” she tells me as she straightens the straps of my bra.

She’s never been a fan of my song selection. Apparently, blues is a downer.

“It has a good beat,” I say even though she’s right. Of course she is. She definitely earns the most of anyone here, and Lola earns more than me too. But if I can’t dance classical, I’ll at least pick something I want to hear.

She laughs. “A good beat? You still think this is about dancing.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling. She has that effect on people, with her slutty schoolgirl outfit and pigtails. With her bubblegum-pop songs that she strips to. Branding, she calls it.

“What’s it about then?”

“About fucking, of course.” Then she’s gone down the hallway, heading toward the dressing room.

My smile falters as I stare after her. What’s more depressing than fucking?

I

manage to push through the curtain only one beat after my cue. Not that anyone here would notice. Like she said, it’s about fucking. About being naked and for sale. Not about dancing. So I drop one foot in front of the other, making my hips pop with each step. A black satin bra. Panties made of black ribbon. It’s dark and sexy—and obvious. That’s fine with me. I’d rather be forgettable. I wish I could forget.