After the Last Dance

*Lia's POV *

"Could you take off a little more?"

Lia pinched her shoulder strap and flashed the old man on the couch a sweet smile.

"Of course, sweetheart. Twenty more."

He grinned and ducked his head to fish through his wallet.

Good. That was tomorrow's breakfast sorted. If he felt generous enough, she might even splurge on two strips of bacon with her eggs.

But then the wallet hit the floor.

Lia looked down. Before she could count the bills peeking out, the old man slid off the couch too.

"…That's not on the menu."

She reached out to steady him, the smile still fixed on her face—until he looked up at her, one corner of his mouth drooping, nothing but slurred, shapeless sounds pushing past his lips.

Her smile froze.

"Sir?"

His right hand hung limp at his side, perfectly still.

Shit.

All she'd done was take off a jacket.

At 1:17 a.m., Lia was on her knees in a private room of a strip club, fumbling to dial 911. Twenty minutes ago she'd been arguing with the manager over whether her eighty dollars should be docked for the house cut. Now she would happily hand back every cent of it, throw in a heartfelt smile for free, if only this old man would sit up and tell her he was joking.

He couldn't speak anymore.

The dispatcher said the ambulance would need time.

Lia gave the address and room number, checked the man's condition as instructed, and pounded the wall with her free hand.

"Somebody! There's a man down in here!"

The music next door got louder.

She yanked the door open and caught a passing bartender by the arm.

"Someone collapsed in here. Get security."

The bartender poked his head in, and his face drained of color faster than hers had.

"Find Ray."

"You find Ray."

"I can't leave the floor."

Lia looked at his empty tray.

He looked at it too, tucked it under his arm, and scurried off.

She called Ray.

He hung up. She called again. He hung up again.

On the third try she just texted: Client in the private room, possible stroke. Already called 911. Get here now.

Ray's reply came fast enough.

"Whoever took the client handles it."

Lia stared at the screen, so furious her scalp tingled. Half an hour ago he'd been telling everyone this was his place, and everyone did what he said.

A head poked out of the room next door.

"Something actually happened?"

Lia turned.

Gold chain around his neck—the same man who'd been stuffing bills down her top on the floor earlier, telling her he loved a girl with attitude.

Right now, she had plenty of attitude.

"Get in here and help."

He saw the old man on the ground, and the gold chain swung as he recoiled.

"No way I'm touching that."

"Weren't you just telling me you'd take care of any trouble I had tonight?"

"That's completely different!"

Of course it was. When he was sitting down and she was stripping, everything was fine. The moment he had to lift a finger, suddenly it was a whole different story.

He glanced both ways and lowered his voice. "Listen to me—while he's still breathing, get out. There aren't even cameras in here."

Lia said nothing.

She wanted to leave. God, she wanted to.

She even knew the route: grab her jacket, take the staff stairwell, slip past the dumpster by the back door—the one that had been broken for two weeks—and skip clocking out entirely.

When she'd applied here, the posting said beverage server.

After she started, Ray withheld her first two weeks' pay and told her to "help out onstage, just for one night." At the time, the motel she was staying at had given her until noon to pay up; they'd already packed her bags for her.

One night became another, then another.

The beverage server job quietly turned into stripping. And by now, Ray was still sitting on eight hundred and sixty dollars of her wages.

She really could not afford to add a dead body to her already disastrous résumé.

"Miss…"

The voice came from behind her, so faint she almost missed it.

Lia turned around.

The old man was struggling to tug the hem of his shirt down.

His pants were wet, the stain seeping into the carpet. He was trying to cover it, but only one hand would obey him.

He saw her looking and averted his eyes.

"Sor—" The word wouldn't come out whole.

Something caught in Lia's throat like a stone.

"Don't apologize." She walked back and draped her jacket over his legs. "This carpet's filthier than you are. Trust me, you're not making it worse."

Gold Chain was still hovering in the doorway. Lia whipped around and smiled at him.

He tensed immediately. "What?"

"Help me get him up."

"I already told you—"

She raised her phone and aimed it at him.

"You don't help, I start recording. Your call—walk out on your own, or let the folks at home see where you've been volunteering tonight."

His hands moved faster than his brain. He slapped both palms over his face.

"You're insane!"

"Desperately. One hand is all I need."

He cursed his way over but finally helped her lift the old man. At the doorway, Lia asked him to support the other side.

"Just lend a hand."

"You said that last time!"

"And you did such a great job. One more hand."

The elevator doors were plastered with an out-of-order notice. Gold Chain saw the stairs, went pale, and dropped his arm to back away.

The old man's weight yanked Lia half a step sideways; her shoulder nearly slammed into the wall.

"Hey!"

Gold Chain bolted back to the other room. By the time Lia turned around, the door had already clicked shut.

She stood there, chest heaving, genuinely tempted to kick that door off its hinges.

The old man's head sagged heavily against her.

Lia clenched her jaw, shifted him onto her back, and kicked off her heels.

The stilettos bounced twice and rolled into the corner. She babied those shoes on any normal day, but normal had left the building.

"Sir," she panted, "you'd better live, because you are the most expensive trouble I've ever carried."

By the time she reached the ground floor, her calves were shaking badly.

His weight bore down on her shoulders. The side seam of her dress had split open at some point, and cold air crept up her bare legs.

Someone at the bar let out a whistle.

"Lia, you wore him out?" The man raised his phone and aimed it at her.

Lia looked up and recognized him instantly.

He was the type who folded a one-dollar bill thick enough to pass for a hundred when he slipped it to her.

"Landscape mode, sweetheart," she gasped, every word unsteady. "Make sure you get the club name and Ray in the frame. Ray loves free publicity."

The camera panned obediently. The manager, who'd been watching from the door, went white and lunged to block the shot.

"Stop filming! Put that phone down!"

"Ray, I thought you loved getting something for nothing!" Lia shouted at him. "Open the door, you idiot!"

Ray glanced at the old man. This time, the door opened fast.

Lia leaned against the frame and practically fell outside.

One bare foot splashed into a puddle at the curb—the cold made her gasp. A taxi glided past; the driver spotted the old man's lolling head and didn't even tap the brakes.

But a black sedan pulled over a few steps away.

The window slid down.

"Lia?"

She recognized the man inside, and before her brain could retrieve his name, her mouth had already deployed the most useful word she knew.

"Boss. I need a favor."

His gaze swept from her bare feet to the old man.

"Your client?"

"The hospital's client now. Just need a ride to hand him off."

The car door opened. The man and his driver took the old man from her. The weight lifted from Lia's shoulders so suddenly she nearly sat down on the pavement.

She steadied herself against the car, and the name finally clicked.

Victor. Ray's rival. Looked like he had money. Beyond that, she had no idea.

The last time she'd seen him was right after she'd cracked a bottle over a customer's head.

The guy had grabbed her and wouldn't let go, saying he'd paid so he could touch whatever he liked. She'd snatched up a half-full bottle of whiskey and smashed it across his skull.

Victor had been right there. He didn't applaud. He didn't intervene. He just watched her for a long time.

"Get in," he said now.

Lia climbed in, gave the driver directions to the hospital, and leaned over to check on the old man.

His eyes were still open. Only then did she let out the breath she'd been holding.

Victor handed her a tissue packet.

"Your dancing the other night was impressive. Quite the performance."

Lia wiped her face, catching his meaning. "The second act was a mess, though. All I had was one bottle, and once it was smashed, the show was over."

"I'm serious."

"Sure you are."

He glanced at her and finally smiled.

Lia couldn't smile back. Her fingers were still trembling—she could barely tear the tissue wrapper open and had to bite one corner to rip it.

"How about a change of scene? I run a club too." Victor paused. "I need a dancer who can own the room. Whatever Ray's been paying you, I'll double it."

"Don't start quoting numbers." She looked up immediately. "I'm dangerously close to saying yes to anything right now."

"Need money that badly?"

She looked at the old man. Then down at herself.

Victor followed her gaze around the car.

"I can advance you."

That shut Lia up for a full two seconds.

In those two seconds she tallied up rent, groceries, and—before she could stop herself—a new pair of shoes. Then she reined it in.

"Let's get him to the hospital first."

The car stopped at the ER entrance. A gurney rolled out. Lia jogged alongside, answered a barrage of questions, and finally dug an ID out of the old man's wallet.

Walter Reed.

Respectable enough name. The evening he'd put her through, though, was anything but.

Victor handed her a business card on his way out. Lia took it without a quip.

"Thank you. Really."

He nodded and left.

A nurse brought a blanket. Lia wrapped herself up and caught her reflection in her phone's black screen.

Eyeliner smeared. Lipstick gone. The left false lash was clinging on heroically; the right one had fallen in the line of duty somewhere on the stairs.

Her phone buzzed.

Someone had sent a video: her, barefoot, an old man on her back, mouth wide open in a shout at the club entrance.

The caption read: Last dance of the night—nearly danced the customer to death.

Laughing emojis were already piling up underneath.

Lia tapped the reply box, typed three words, and deleted them.

If she tried to explain, she'd probably start crying before she finished the sentence. And that would be the real loss.

Ray texted right on cue.

"Lia, after tonight don't bother coming back. You're fired."

Lia stared at the message and let out a disbelieving laugh.

Two days ago, when she'd handed in her resignation, he'd flat-out refused—said she couldn't leave, not even one day early.

Now he was happy to let her go.