Page 8 of Bad Wolf

“I…I…” I search her sweet face and know there’s no way out.

She’s the nicest out of everybody here. The most senior, the oldest of us girls. She needs me, and I need the money, because my dad still hasn’t managed to fix up after ruining my life.

And I’ll have to talk to her about my solo. There’s no way I can do it. Right now though, I do the only thing I can. I try to compose myself. I grasp for a large imperial purple fan that’s placed on the props table and wave it in front of my face.

There’s no time. No time to do anything. It’s literally showtime. I know it.

Even if I hate it. Even though I feel like I might throw up any second, I can’t lose this job and they won’t recognize me, right? It’s dark and I barely even look like the eighteen-year-old they all knew, especially with the fake eyelashes and heavy stage makeup.

Right?

Closing my eyes, Iwillthe panic to dissipate. Deep, calming breaths, a few gulps of water. I take my place on the matte black stage and then the house lights are going down, the curtains are drawn, and the crimson, atmospheric stage lights are coming up, casting the ten of us in sultry, fiery shadows.

The lights burn so bright I feel like I might pass out, and it takes everything inside me to keep it together.

Here goes fucking nothing.

Don’t choke, don’t choke,I inwardly plead as our DJ, and MC announces that tonight, our guests will be treated to an uninhibited and provocative extravaganza of song and dance as the house band rasp and tinkle on their instruments.

The group I now know is Knox and his family, let out a rowdy chorus of catcalls, whistles, and claps as the music starts. Beyoncé’s version of “Fever” fills the room, and the boys grow silent.

Hopefully they’re all trashed and don’t look too closely.

Muscle memory does its job as the chords and notes infiltrate my ears, my body reacting to the rhythm and beat. I start to get lost in the song, moving where I need to go. We’re in time, in step, and the boys are captivated.

After the second chorus, I’m feeling more with it, so instead of staring at the back of the room, I let my gaze wander for the first time, over the little crowd. Smiling and winking, as one should when performing burlesque, I make eye contact with one of the guys I don’t know and then another.

Feeling braver, I move on to someone I do know, the baby of the group, Jason. He hasn’t recognized me, which is good, very good.

Until, in my peripheral vision, I see Troy cup Knox’s ear and whisper, making his head snap up so fast I fear he’s just given himself whiplash, and then time slows down.

The music starts to distance itself from my ears, the girls disappear from beside me, while a scowl pulls at his mouth, and of their very own volition, my eyes lock with his cobalt blues, and hold.

Knox is seated close enough to the stage for me to see the tension immediately set in his thick muscular shoulders and neck.

Some semblance of reality seeps back in and with a flurry of motion, the song comes to an end. Within just a few seconds I manage to exit stage right. Right into the bathroom, where I proceed to lose what little I have in my stomach.

I manage to stumble out of the stall, swilling my mouth with water from the faucet and then gargling with the random bottle of mouthwash I find in the little vanity kit we keep in here.

I climb up onto the cracked veneer of the counter and rest my head against the cool mirror, counting to ten. How the fuck am I supposed to go out there for another two performances?

Hell knows. Hell. Knows.

Trinity comes to find me with guilt written across her face. She ushers me out and into a makeup chair to start altering what I already have on to match my next costume. Numbly, I get ready for my Alice in Wonderland routine, and then I’m in the middle of the stage again.

I go through the motions, never missing a step or a cue. Some of the guys in the audience laugh at the comical parts, but if I’m honest, I’m not even present.

The night draws out achingly slowly, and of course, before I know it, Trinity is fussing around some more, making sure I’m well enough to perform.

She slicks white, grey, and black across my lids and applies onyx-black glitter to my lips. She helps me into my final dress and then I’m minutes, minutes away from the closing act, and all I can think is how fucked up all of this is.

I need to change my song. I cannot sing this song in front of them. In front ofhim..

We lip-sync a lot of the numbers, it’s how we do it. But this is all me. Allmyvoice.

I’m the closer. The final act.

But the song they make me sing, the song I’ve honed over this past year? It’s mine. My therapy. It’s only supposed to be for me.