A Lady Doesn't Tell

Lilly

Calling that man intimidating is an understatement. Stacy asked him to take care of me, though, and I guess having a man like that in my corner would be a real asset.

Kevin helps me onto the stage, and I’m more than ready to dance.

Something I figured out quickly at Thrive was that I’m somewhat of a natural on stage. I can shut out the world, turn on my blinders, and feel the music like I’m the only person in the room. I transport myself from this world, where I’m a pathetic runaway with nothing to my name, to another, where I’m a powerful force of seductive, sexual energy—a goddess of the night.

Men would bow before me to witness my enchantments.

I take a deep breath as the song finishes and run one hand up the cold metal of the pole. Closing my eyes, I hear the beat of the next song begin and imagine I transform into a flame, dancing with the fire that burns within my soul.

My body moves without me thinking about it. My hips follow the beat as I circle the pole, one hand gripping the metal while the other trails slowly over my body. The room disappears around me. I don’t see the men watching or the money landing on the stage. For these few minutes, none of them matters.

This is the only place where being watched somehow makes me feel invisible.

After about three hours, Kevin comes back to let me know it’s time for a break. He says I can head down to the dressing room to eat if I want, but obviously, I haven’t brought anything, and I think he already knows that.

“Well, there’s a two-drink limit when you’re working, but they’re on the house,” he says. “You’re more than welcome to stay up here at the bar. There’s some fruit we usually use for the drinks in the mini fridge. We rarely touch it, so help yourself.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, half embarrassed, swallowing my pride.

I pour myself a rum and Coke and slice into an orange that has my mouth watering. The rum is cool and refreshing as it trickles down my throat. I settle on one of the stools, trying to zone out the room.

“Hey, Violence, right?”

I hear a man speak from my right as he walks closer and gestures to the seat beside me. He looks to be in his late fifties. Well-built, like the rest of the men up here. There must be steroids in the water or something.

From afar, you’d think he has a full head of hair, but up close, I see he’s completely bald. Instead, tattoos line his scalp and creep down onto his face. His neck and hands are inked, too. He looks like he could snap my neck in a heartbeat.

But his smile is warm, something I’m not used to.

And, like all the other men here, his suit screams: I have money. A lot of fucking money.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the stool next to mine.

“Yes, of course. Please,” I say, keeping my voice polite.

Which it most definitely isn’t.

I dislike small talk and talking in general. Why does he need to be in my space? But I’m not about to say that. I need this job.

And apparently this orange, too.

I can’t stop myself from devouring it. I’ve grown too comfortable with semi-decent eating habits, and now I’m suffering for it on two sugar packets and nerves.

“You’re an absolute dream up there, darling,” he says. “And your demeanour off stage, too. Most girls can’t help but hang out with the guys up here. Nagging in our ears and trying to get into our beds. You’re a welcome change. Something akin to how a woman should behave.”

“No offence, sir, but I couldn’t care less for your bed or the money dripping off you. I’m just here to earn my own cash and eat my free orange.” I pause. “And you’re wrong if you think I behave anything like a fucking lady should.”

Shit.

It just comes out. Word vomit when I should’ve smiled and shoved it in a vault.

He throws his head back and laughs.

“Haha! And a sharp tongue too. I guess that’s why they call you Violence, right?”

“Hmm. Something like that.”

“Would there possibly be another reason for the name?”

I raise an eyebrow and drop the last orange peel onto my plate.

“Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. A lady doesn’t tell her secrets.”

“Well,” he says with a grin, “that may be exactly what my club is looking for.”

He slides a white card across the bar towards me. It’s blank except for an address.

I’ve seen these before.

Underground fight clubs.

It’s been a long time, but I know the signs. My father owned one and trained me to fight before I could even walk. I turn the card between my fingers, staring at the address as old memories threaten to push their way forward. The smell of sweat, blood and rubber mats. My father’s voice telling me to get back on my feet whenever I hit the ground.

I push it all away.

“When?” I ask.

That’s all I need to know.

Good, fast money. That’s what I need.

“I knew I was right,” he says, eyes glittering. “I could see the fire in your eyes. Mondays and Fridays. 2 a.m. to 5 a.m.”

“And the password?”

He smirks.

Testing me and seeing if I know how this works.

I do.

But I’m not about to explain how or why.

“Firefly,” he finally says.

“Admission cost?”

“For you, Violence, I’ll cover your first round. Win that, and you’ll have enough for the second and some to keep for yourself. Just tell Benji at the desk that Ronaldo has you covered.”

He downs the rest of his drink, then turns to leave. But he pauses again.

“Oh, and this,” he adds, pulling a thick stack of bills from his wallet and dropping it onto the bar. “A tip. For being such a lovely lady to watch tonight.”

I nod and smile like I should’ve done in the first place. I pick up the money and go to tuck it into the cup of my corset along with the business card, but then I see the amount.

Holy shit.

There has to be at least $500 here.

I’m definitely eating all those biscuits tonight.

If Ronaldo’s fight club is anything like my dad’s… maybe I can get back on my feet faster than I thought.