You Don’t Own Me

My name’s Madison Trent, and I help run a place called Barely There. It’s split right down the middle: nightclub on one side, upscale gentlemen’s club on the other. Most nights I’m behind the bar or making sure things don’t go sideways on the floor, but I also help choreograph our dancers’ routines. I’m twenty-six, with the kind of body you get from years of dancing—long, lean legs, a strong core, muscles that show up in the right light. My hair’s a dark golden blonde, and my eyes are hazel, which, I’m told, catch the light in a way that keeps tips coming.

Bart Taylor owns the joint. He cuts a striking figure: broad shoulders, sleeves of tattoos, always looking like he could break up a fight with a single look. To most people, Bart’s intimidating—hell, he is intimidating. But with me, he’s decent enough. I figure it’s partly because he wants to get me in his bed, not that I make it easy for him. I’ve got bigger concerns than office flings.

Like my grandmother. She’s my whole world. She raised me; now it’s my turn to take care of her. Alzheimer's is stealing her away, piece by piece. She’s still stubborn as ever, but watching her fade is brutal. She signed her house and car over to me before things got really bad, and every paycheck goes to her nursing home fees. Bart knows about my situation—he’s met Gran a couple of times—so he lets me work whatever hours I need. Doesn’t give me grief if I have to bail early or pull a double.

Most of the time, I stick to the nightclub side, slinging drinks, keeping rowdy crowds in check, and making sure the music and lights hit just right. But then, I work at the gentlemen’s club. It’s not sleazy; it’s high-end, and the tips are insane, especially when I dance on the bar. That’s when the regulars really pay attention.

Tonight, Bart’s standing by the door between the two sides, flexing his arms so the tattoos ripple and the suits take notice. He catches my eye and calls out, “Maddie, I need you on the other side.” There’s always something going on at Barely There, and somehow, I’m always in the middle of it.

I ask, "Why?"

“Because there’s a couple of massive parties tonight, VIP is slammed, and people keep asking for you,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the crowded room. I raise an eyebrow. People requesting me? That rarely happens. I just look at him, waiting for more.

“A few guys over there want you to come by, so go,” he says, waving me off like I’m late for some appointment. “I know you’re not looking for a man, but go have a good time—hell, maybe even let loose for a little bit.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Eww... no way. I’m good, thanks.”

He grins, teasing. “Don’t tell me you’re chasing girls now?”

I roll my eyes. “Nope, that’s your territory, remember?”

He laughs, but he’s persistent. “Why not just have some fun?”

I lean in, voice low. “Because I value my freedom. No man’s ever going to own me.”

He whistles. “Damn, you’ve been through it, huh? Most guys would kill for a no-strings thing. They’re not gonna try to run your life—it’s not worth the headache. Guys like it easy.”

I shrug. “If that’s true, then I haven’t met those guys. Everyone I’ve dated has tried to control every little thing about me. After Adam, I just decided I was done.”

He shakes his head, but he drops it. I slip away to get changed because I know he’s going to swing by later, pretending to check on me, but really just hoping to gawk at the VIP crowd. I slide into my favorite black dress—revealing enough to turn heads, but not so much that I feel exposed. My thigh-high boots have a killer heel, sharp enough to dance in or jab at anyone who gets too close.

My friend Kiki finds me behind the bar, her wild dark hair bouncing as she walks. She’s got curves that don’t quit and a voice that always carries. “Girl, you look dangerously hot tonight. Seriously, you should think about stripping—you’d make at least twice what you do now.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Thanks, chica, but that’s so not me.”

The music is pounding, the lights are wild, and I am behind the bar, sliding bottles and spinning glasses like I own the place. The crowd’s energy is infectious, and the tips start rolling in. I catch glimpses of the VIPs craning their necks, waiting for a show.

Bart gives the MC a look, and suddenly, the whole VIP section is pouring out, crowding the dance floor. My cue comes on—the opening chords of “You Don’t Own Me” by Lesley Gore.

There’s a hush, just for a second, and then the spotlight hits me. For the next few minutes, I’m free—nobody’s girl, nobody’s problem. Just me, the music, and the rush of being seen.

That song? It's basically my anthem. I set the dance floor on fire with my moves. But I kept my clothes on, obviously, but trust me, I've got the moves that no amount of clothing can inhibit. Years of classical training in just about every style will do that for you. By the end, bills and business cards were raining down over the bar, and I couldn't help but take a bow before scooping them up. I stashed everything in the lockbox in Bart's office while he covered my shift for a bit.

When I got back, Bart told me to head to the VIP room. I pushed back—I'm not the main act, after all—but he handed me a couple of bottles and told me to go play bartender for the VIPs. So, what else could I do? I went.