across his pants, darkening the fabric like ink.

"Shit!" The client stood up, embarrassment staining his throat, his face. "Shit, shit. You must think I'm such a fuck-up. You probably think I'm inexperienced, don't you? Do you think I'm a fucking virgin? You can tell me. I'm a pathetic excuse for a man. I didn't mean to. Shit."

The dark, trembling glare he shot her way was almost threatening.

As though he wanted her to tell him what she truly thought.

But Mavis only let a sensual smile curve her lips. "I think," she whispered, tracing her fingertip over his chest, "that you're a powerful man . . . in need of a woman."

This wasn't the first time a man had come prematurely in her presence.

All she had done was let her hips sway, undulating like the summer wind in a field of yearning flowers. She had let the warmth of the velvet music embrace her, and her head had tilted. She knew what she was doing―exposing the bare column of her sweat-kissed throat, the smooth expanse of the valley between her breasts. She knew what it took to bring a man to his knees.

His wavering mouth formed her name. "Valentina."

Or, at least, what he thought was her name.

There was a certain kind of power in being a woman. There was victory in knowing that all she was desirable―and there was triumph is being able to use that to her advantage. Men with too much wealth, too much money. Men who were willing to stare at her, mouths parted, and tuck folds of money into the lace of her bra. All it took was the roll of her hips, the sweet temptation between her thighs, and men would grovel for her.

She liked feeling powerful. Even if she was a lesbian.

"Come on," she whispered, letting her words unravel like silk. "Let's get you cleaned up. I know someone who can take care of you."

"Take . . . care of me?"

She lifted his chin with a single finger, and she tried not to shiver at the rough stubble that grated against her skin.

He was a handsome man―perhaps in his late forties, with a suit that reeked of obscene wealth. The CEO of a company, and all it had taken to make him come was her ass on his lap.

"My friend Ruby," Mavis said softly. "She'll be more than happy to take you to a room in the back."

"What about you?" said the man roughly. "I want you."

"I don't offer myself in that way," Mavis said simply. Better to set boundaries―and fast.

He took a threatening step towards her. The stain on his pants was drying, and she casually, slowly let her eyes flick to it.

An ember of shame darkened his neck.

Good, she thought.

"Ruby is waiting," Mavis said, and she pulled him gently through the velvet curtains. He had paid for a lap dance, and that was all he was getting. "You don't want to disappoint her, do you?"

Once they were out of the curtained room, she could see him more clearly. The music was louder. His eyes were black with violent desire.

"I want you," he repeated.

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

As swift as a viper, his rough hand snaked out and tightened over her wrist. Rough enough that she knew the delicate skin would bruise later.

"I―Want―You."

Mavis tried to yank her hand away, but his grip was too strong. Fear churned like acid in her stomach, and she fought the urge not to black out. Remembering his touch on hers.

Her throat constricted. "I said―"

"Is there a problem here?"

A breath shuddered out of her. Mickey. The six-foot-four, three-hundred pound bouncer, with cords of muscle bulging from the back of his neck.

The man's hand tightened for a fraction of a second. And then he released her.

"That's what I thought," Mickey said.

"Can I still see Ruby?"

Before Mavis could answer, Mickey did it for her: "Yeah, she's right outside." And he picked up the man as though he was featherlight, dragging him towards the back entrance, where Mavis knew there was nothing but empty parking lot.

"What are you doing?" Ruby hissed, appearing as though she had been summoned. "Valentina, you have a show in five minutes."

"Is Cruiser looking for me already?"

"He's been looking for you for the past twenty minutes! Get onstage!"

Mavis spared only thirty seconds in the changing room. Reapplying her makeup―so natural to her now she could do it without even glancing in the mirror. Strapping on her five-inch platform heels.

"How does my ass look?" she whispered to Amber.

"Shake it, baby!"

The power walk was her favourite part of walking onto the stage. Beneath her clicking heels, the sleek walkway glittered with the neon light of the club. Sitting at her feet, watching her with hooded eyes from the rows up front, she could see men and women alike.

It was just as terrifying as the first time.

But that was what she liked about it: the fear. It kept her on her toes, it kept her performing at her best.

And when she danced, she forgot.

She forgot she was a broke twenty-three year old living in a rundown condo. She forgot she was a waitress by day and a stripper by night. She forgot she was a lesbian, dancing for the pleasure of men.

And most of all, she forgot about him.

Even if it wasn't the music she had once performed to at the School of American Ballet. Even if it was solely for the purpose of people to ogle the skimpy, sequined lingerie she had adorned herself with.

job?"

Mavis straightened. Sex appeal, she reminded herself. This interview was about her sex appeal. "That's right," she said in a soft, throaty voice.

Being attractive was about being confident.

Even if she wasn't confident, she could pretend.

"You look a little young."

The interviewer was a man in his late fifties. Silky white hair, a square jaw. He was wearing a suit with a red tie, and he surveyed her with narrowed eyes.

It made her feel bare, vulnerable.

Was the softness of her curves visible? Did he think the beauty marks freckling her arms and chest were too many? Did he see the slight half-moon of her stomach―she had nicknamed it Waffle―through the thin, sheer blouse? Was she pretty enough? Desirable enough?

"I'm twenty," she said confidently.

She was sixteen.

"And you want to work at Inferno," he said, leaning forward with a question in his gaze. "You want to be a dancer."

"Yes," she said simply.

"What makes you think I should hire you?"

Sex appeal. Was it working? Did he see it?

Maybe she wasn't doing this right. Maybe she wasn't sexy enough. Maybe he thought she was too ugly, too chubby, too naïve.

"I . . . I don't know," she stammered out.

He leaned back, the curiosity in his eyes shuttering. A flame, snuffed. An opportunity blinking out.

"I see," he said, and he was already shuffling through his papers. "Well, thank you, ah, Maeve―"

"Mavis."

"We'll see about the job. Hopefully you'll receive a call in the next two weeks. If not . . ." The silence trailed off, and she realized he was waiting for her to leave.

Mavis stood up, trembling.

She clutched the hem of her shirt with white-knuckled hands. The interviewer was still looking distractedly down at the papers.

She didn't even feel herself walking away. Her hand was on the door knob, the door was opening, and she―she couldn't breathe.

She couldn't afford to lose this job.

You're not her anymore. That girl.

Don't run away this time.

Before Mavis could think about it, she had turned around. She didn't doubt herself―she just let the dance lessons, the ballet classes take over. She strutted back to the desk, her chest out, her chin tilted.

With poised fingertips, she trailed her skin over the chair she had been sitting on. Leisurely. Luxuriously.

I can't lose this job.

You can't lose a job you never had, said his voice.

But she wanted this. She wanted this more than anything she had ever wanted in her life, and she needed it. She needed this really badly.

She wasn't alone now. She wasn't the only person she had to take care of.

"You should hire me," Mavis whispered boldly, recklessly, "because I am good at this. Because I was the top student at the School of American Ballet for five years. Because I have passion, and I . . . I can be anything you want me to be."

The interviewer's eyes were dark and glittering with . . . what?

"Please," Mavis said softly, and this time, she knew the sex appeal had worked. Just like Robin had said it would.

"Thank you, Miss Griffon," he said.

Is this it? Is it . . . is it over?

"Thank you," Mavis said breathlessly. Her chest deflating. A stupid attempt at confidence . . . what had she been thinking? Draping herself over the chair was going to persuade a man?

"Oh, and Mavis?"

Her hand was on the doorknob. She was already slipping out of the room when she looked back.

There was a glint in the interviewer's eye.

Her phone buzzed. Without looking down, she knew what the name plastered on the screen would show: MY BABY GIRL. She had probably just woken from naptime.

She steeled herself, preparing herself for disappointment.

"Monday morning. Be ready for work. And wear red―it's your colour."