Married to a Stripper

Chapter 5 – Amber

Backstage snapped back around me like a trap. Sequins everywhere, mascara tear tracks, someone swearing at a zipper that ate their skin. I tied my robe tighter and pretended my hands weren’t shaking.

Megan slid into my orbit like she’d been orbiting there the whole time. “You okay?”

“Fine.” I lied.

“Who was Suit?”

“Another asshole.”

“You don’t look like you hate him.”

“I don’t have to hate everyone to charge them.” I checked my lash glue like it mattered. Truth: I was replaying his voice in my head, the way it cut clean. A voice like that didn’t ask. It marked. So why offer me?

“Amber, you’re up in two,” someone yelled.

“Copy,” I called back, and stood too fast.

Megan’s fingers found my wrist, squeezed once. “Watch for the creep with the baseball cap front row. He’s a groper. I’ll swing wide to your side if he moves.”

“Thanks.” It came out softer than I meant it to. Megan’s warning grounded me more than my own reflection ever could. Maybe that’s why I let her close, because she makes me feel human when the stage turns me into meat.

—

The stage burned like it always did. I stepped into the light and let the heat lie to the audience about what it was doing to me.

First bar: walk. Second: spin. First grip on brass: cold bite, then the slide into muscle memory. Arch. Hook. Invert. Hair flick. I could do it in the dark by now. Sometimes I did in my head to fall asleep.

My thighs screamed when I held the flag long, toes pointed, hips racked. Bills fluttered. Howls rose. Hands reached. I kept my eyes on the back wall, always the back wall, because looking into faces turns this into intimacy. It isn’t. It’s a transaction.

Tonight I made a mistake. I glanced down.

Front row, baseball cap. Megan was right. His hand was already under his waistband, elbow jerking, breath heaving through his mouth. He stared at my crotch like a man who wanted to crawl inside and live there.

The smell hit me, rank sweat, stale beer, that sour tang of desperation. It made bile rise sharp in my throat. I swallowed hard, nausea burning its way down. My skin crawled, every hair standing on end.

The music didn’t stop. Neither did I.

A different guy tried to tag my ankle when I slid down the pole. I snapped my heel sideways without looking; he yelped. Security didn’t see. They never do until tips hit the floor.

I climbed again and let the ache burn my focus down to a needle. Split. Drop. For half a second I saw a suited shape in the shadows, back row, still as the glass he probably owns. My chest seized like a fist had wrapped around my lungs. Then I remembered: he’d already left. Men like that don’t hang around for applause.

I finished clean. Bowed because bows are armor. Scooped the bills and didn’t count them. Hands shook once; I pretended they didn’t.

—

Back in the dressing room, I dumped the money on the counter and hated the way it looked—dirty under bad light. Megan came in behind me, scanning my arms for new bruises like it was routine. It was.

“You good?” she asked again.

“Breathing.”

She tipped her chin at the mirror. “You’re thinking loud.”

I smiled without teeth. “It’s noisy in here.”

Noisy in my head, too. Not just because of him. Because what he offered was oxygen. Because I’m so used to holding my breath, the first inhale hurt.

That’s what danger feels like when it dresses as rescue.

My phone buzzed in my bag. Unknown number. A text previewed: Tomorrow. 8 AM. Address.

I didn’t open it. I hit the ear icon. The app read it out in a neutral voice. I don’t read fast. Letters slip. I learned a long time ago that letting a phone speak for me keeps me from looking stupid.

“Work?” Megan asked.

“Something like that.”

“From Suit?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

She nudged my shoulder again. “Be careful, baby. Suit or not, careful’s always smart.”

After too many sets, the shift finally ended. The night slapped me with cold and the reminder that the city doesn’t care if you’re tired. I lit a cigarette and hated it and took another drag anyway. The smoke burned, and for a second it was better than thinking.

If his offer’s real, it’s a key. If it’s not, it’s a joke I’ll have to swallow dry.

Either way, I’m so goddamn tired of men counting out what I’m worth in singles and sweat.

I pocketed the phone and listened to the app play his text again like I was trying to memorize a threat: 8 AM. Address.

Maybe this is hell. Or maybe tomorrow I’ll trade one prison for another. The difference will be whose name is on the lock.

If he’s serious, I’m done dancing for men who touch themselves in public and call it appreciation.

If he’s not, I’ll make sure he regrets letting my name into his mouth.

Either way, eight o’clock comes fast.

8 AM. Address. I’m going.