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Then I take the time to let go of the night before.
I’ve got too much going to let my feelings about the subject fester and grow. All things considered, the night was amazing, and I decide to hang onto the fun and pleasure I felt. I won’t think of it with regret or as a mistake, but as one night with an old friend.
Everything else I let wash down the drain, so by the time I step out and wrap a towel around myself, I’m refreshed and ready to move on.
It’s important to focus on what matters now, not what could have been. I’ve got other dreams, too. Such as my job. Sinner’s Lounge is one of the hottest places in the city, and I’m lucky to have landed a job there. Although, given everything that happened at the place a few months ago, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. A night life magazine dubbed it a “bumpy past,” but trust me, it was way more than just bumps. A shootout resulted in a couple of deaths, apparently getting rid of some bad guys, but unfortunately, an innocent person lost their life too. Pippa was concerned when I told her I got the job, but I assured her that working there isn’t particularly dangerous anymore. Along with their renovations and reopening, they’ve done a massive security upgrade. They’ve got multiple bouncers at the door, plus a private security team.
The most important difference, however, is that Sinner’s Lounge used to be a strip joint and is now a burlesque club. Stripping and burlesque share a few similarities: both require the utmost physical control. Contrary to popular belief, a professional strip dance is an acrobatic performance—just like a burlesque routine. One of the reasons I adore burlesque is the clothing, with its 1950s touches, and the overall meticulous presentation. Additionally, in burlesque, there’s no need to remove all clothing, which appeals to me. Not because I’ve got any hang-ups about my body, but because I’ve always held the belief that revealing less adds a touch of allure. And let’s not fool ourselves; a well-danced burlesque performance is pure seduction.
Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it plenty of times that I should opt for a gig as a cleaning lady instead of displaying my body “like this.” From my parents, for instance, who severed almost all contact with me because they believe that dancing on a stage is akin to prostitution. They (and plenty of others who came in and out of my life) didn’t understand that I can no more give up dancing than I can give up breathing. Heaven and hell, I can’t even do the most mundane things without incorporating a few dance moves. Cha-cha-cha while cleaning? A couple of taps under the table during sewing? Perhaps a solitary tango in the shower? That’s my thing. When I’m not dancing, I’m thinking about dancing.
I’ve been a dancer for years, and Sinner’s Lounge is by far the nicest place I’ve ever danced. Not to mention the clientele lands on the rich side, which means huge tips. I haven’t been there for long, but with the money I’m making, I’ll be able to afford my own dancing studio sooner than anticipated.
That’s what I decide to focus my energy on: my dance studio.
It has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, and now that it’s almost within my grasp, I won’t let anything stop me from achieving my goal.
When I emerge from my bedroom dressed in comfy clothes with my wet hair in a messy bun, Pippa glances up from her laptop.
“Oh, there was one thing I forgot to tell you earlier. Rex came looking for you this morning.”
“Egoistical poser.”
“Yeah. He said you owed him money, and then something about his car being towed. I don’t know. He was babbling so fast, so I sort of tuned him out.”
“Crap.”
In addition to the “Rex situation,” I’ve got a competition at Sinner’s Lounge coming up in the next few weeks that I’m stressed about. Not just because I want to create the best choreography, but also because my outfit isn’t ready yet. I’m envisioning a 1920s-inspired black costume with a daring low back coupled with fringe, sequins, and feathers, and accessories like long gloves and beaded necklaces that capture the lively spirit of the Roaring Twenties. While I’ve nearly finished sewing it, there’s still that elusive element. Typically, my costumes evolve alongside the choreography, but this time, under all the pressure, the perfect idea hasn’t struck me yet.
The competition is to celebrate the official reopening of the club, which enjoyed a soft opening a couple of months ago. It’s not only a way to let the general public know that we are open for business again, but also to give the dancers incentive. Like I said, they have to make up for a “bumpy past.”
The winner will win five thousand dollars and their choice of shift for the following month. Both of those things I could really use. As a newbie, I tend to get the leftover shifts that nobody wants. If I could choose, then I could get earlier shifts and use the prize money and whatever I’ve got saved to start my dance studio search. Then I can dance in the mornings and run classes in the evenings until the studio gets off the ground. It’s a plan that I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into.
“I figured he was bullshitting,” Pippa gives me a knowing look. “Do you really owe him something? Do you need help?”
I refocus, realizing she’s still talking about Rex. “No, no, it’s all right. I had to borrow his car, and of course, it died, so now he’s blaming me for it getting towed. Granted, it’s my fault, but only slightly. I probably should have called him instead of just sending him a text.”
“Hey, don’t take on a responsibility that’s not yours,” Pippa scolds. “He better than anybody else knows how shit his car is. The old piece of junk. If he’s so worried about it, he shouldn’t have lent it out in the first place.” Pippa turns her attention back to the laptop. “If he took better care of his car, it wouldn’t die all the time. How is that your problem? After all the financial support you’ve given him over the years, he owes you money.”
Opening the kitchen cabinet, I begin pulling out the ingredients I need to make cookies. Ah, chocolate chips. Is one package enough? Hmm. I take the second one out too, just to be safe. The higher my stress level, the more chocolate goes into my cookies. At some point, I’ll bake cookies that are ninety percent chocolate. Thinking about Rex definitely makes my stress levels skyrocket. “You’re right, it’s not my problem. And honestly, I get helping with the towing fees, but apparently that’s not enough for him.” I pause, replaying her words in my head. “Wait, you said he came by this morning?”
Pippa nods.
“Dear God. He must have run over here the second he found out.” Incredulous, I grab the stack of mixing bowls from under the sink.
“Any excuse to muscle back into your life. Why did you ask him for the car, anyway? You know how he gets.”
“I know I shouldn’t have asked him, but I was desperate. I told him I’ll pay him back for the towing fees. He’s doing fine on his own now, anyway, so not sure why he needs the money right this second.”
“You know why he needs it.”
I sigh as I pull the eggs and butter out of the refrigerator. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Say it out loud,” Pippa says, her voice sharp.
I’m immediately reminded of all the reasons why I broke up with Rex. In the beginning, we got along really well. He was sweet, charming, open-minded. He was cool with the fact that I’m a dancer at a former strip club, at least he was at first. No dumb jokes about bedroom acrobatics from him. And he was more generous than other men I’ve dated, even though his bank account wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams. I appreciated the way he cared. Supporting him here and there? That didn’t bother me at all. But as time rolled on, things shifted. Suddenly, he was all about the money. The generosity he once showed began to carry hidden conditions and expectations, and he began trying to steer things in a way that suited only him. Our relationship went from caring to terribly messy when he tried to mold me into something I was not. Hindsight is always 20/20, but even I’ve got to admit that my decision to be with Rex wasn’t a shining moment—unlike my decision to give him the boot: When he started making passive-aggressive comments about my dancing from the comforts of my couch, I put an end to it really quick. Needless to say, he didn’t take it well.
“I mean it,” Pippa insists.
