Page 5 of Bad Wolf

The club itself is nothing to scoff at though. It’s actually a really decent bar. A cross between a speakeasy and a cocktail bar. Its opulent and lavishly decorated interior is a nod to a classier time. Rich, dark woods, thick full drapes, crushed velvet, leather, mirrors, and low lighting create a space that screams elegance.

But it’s the scotch that’s the same age as me, and the satin, beads, feathers, gems, and jewels that attract only the wealthiest of clientele.

Let me tell you though, money doesn’t always equal class, my friends. No, this club is usually frequented by dried-up, old-money, businessmen who smoke cigars aplenty and drink the pricey, aged scotch.

Or douchey, leery, coked-up assholes rolling in their trust funds, and I fear tonight won’t be much different.

The whole place has been bought out by a group of guys who are in some kind of sports franchise, so it will just be them.

Meaning, they probably want to get up to all manner of disgusting things without getting snapped by the paps.

Whatever. I’m here to dance, pick up my paycheck, and then leave as fast as humanly possible.

I’m a dancer and I’m pretty good at it. I chose burlesque—neo-burlesque to be exact—because it’s got less of a seedy vibe, and it can be really funny. Not to mention super sexy.

Mainly though, I chose it for the outfits.

Personally, I think they’re the best type of costume. The ones the girls in the cabaret shows wear are classics. Beautiful and dazzling with ginormous headpieces, and strippers, well, bless their hearts, nobody’s really taking much notice of what they start out in.

Burlesque costumes, however, are something else entirely.

For our first dance tonight, we’re all in red—a gorgeous satin, fitted and tailored by Joan, our in-house seamstress, with tulle skirts and the obligatory suspenders and stockings.

I’ve got two group dances and one solo number during this set, and it would really make sense to not wear this makeup to begin with, since after the opening act I need to change into something a little more fun and whimsical.

The last is a lot more dark and eerie. Just call me the chameleon queen.

“God, Raaaaaave. Hurry up. Focus, please. We all need to use the mirrors,” Chrissy whines.

Then she turns to Pearl and stage whispers, “How can someone so pretty be so strange?” She’s not the worst in the group, and I hear the rest mutter their catty remarks. They mainly leave me to it because I can sing and dance well enough to not embarrass them.

What they don’t know is, I was one of them until my life imploded and came crashing down around me, leaving me with nothing and no one. They’ll never know of the girl I once was. Popular. Cool. Captain of my school dance squad—for college apps mainly but still, Captain!

Imagine how weird they’d think I was if they knew about my nearly perfect SAT score, that I retained information like no one’s business.

If they knew I’m a crowned prom queen. Or the fact that once upon a time, I dated the hottest boy in my graduating class.

These girls would be eating that shit up for breakfast! Except I never ended up telling them because they’d never believe me, so why bother?

I don’t fit in here and never have. They see me squirreled away with a different book every night, or hanging around here on my days off and they think I’m weird.

What the hell else am I supposed to do when the cable is cut off? It’s here or the beach.

You see, this wasn’t supposed to be my path. It’s not even a shadow of where I’m supposed to be now. But when I was eighteen and desperate, I came in every night for two weeks and watched and studied the girls on stage.

After, I would research everything I could about moves and routines, skits, and popular songs that would fit this type of dance, and then I relentlessly begged the stage manager for a shot while waving my ID around. Finally, he gave in.

Although nervous, I managed to belt out “I Put a Spell On You”—don’t judge—and I was hired. So, for just over six years, I’ve begrudgingly come to work every night. Yep, every night. Not a day off for this girl in over half a decade.

Taking care of my body and health is my top priority, along with making as much money as possible, and I am frickin’ tired. I work long nights and practice hard because if nothing else, I’m a perfectionist when it comes to my craft.

The rest of my life, however, is a total shit show. I hum agreeing with my thoughts as I cap the lid on the tub, so I don’t waste the sparkly glitter. It’s expensive.

I know I sound bitter about things, and generally, I am, but I really do like the color and would hate for it to spill.

Just because I don’t like the gig doesn’t mean I don’t like the glam.

With that done and Chrissy practically heaving me out of the seat, it’s time to go through my pre-show ritual. Something I’ve always done, because I once knew a boy who taught me the importance of preparation before putting yourself out there.