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And I will never willingly walk away from the only three people in this world who mean anything to me. He’ll have to kill me first.

“Girl, they just announced you,” Scarlett says as she wipes away her makeup and prepares to end her shift.

“Shit,” I mutter, pushing from my seat and blinking away the memories that have plagued my waking – and sleeping – moments for the last four years.

Sliding my feet into my platform stilettos, I jog from the locker room, a sultry smile plastered on my face as I climb the stairs and step onto the stage.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever pictured myself getting naked for strangers for a living, but I have no choice.

No. All choices about my life and future were taken away from me by Dima Sidorov and his merry band of cocksuckers.

Now, I’m forced to live under the radar, to make only cash to pay for everything. Which, of course, means I use burner phones, live in a shitty and shady as fuck apartment, and drive a beater.

But I’m alive. Maybe not whole, definitely not happy nor healthy, but I’m still alive.

And so are they.

I pray every night they haven’t fallen to the same violence we saw our whole lives from both our families.

What they must have thought when I disappeared.

I refuse to think about it, even this many years later.

Focusing on a group near the stage, a few young guys who look as though they’re celebrating a birthday or maybe a bachelor party, I superimpose different faces over theirs. I picture Kato, Brixton, and Maddox sitting there watching me, hunger in their eyes, the same hunger, desire, and love I saw every time they looked in my direction from the day the four of us realized we were and would always be far more than friends.

I suppose I’m ignoring the men and women at my back and on either side, but they’re still getting a show of my ass swaying.

Lowering onto my knees, I crawl toward the small party, my lips parting as I let my lids droop a little and put on my best ‘come fuck me’ expression I can muster. Because no matter how hard I pretend, no matter how hard I push my imagination, my heart and body know the guys elbowing each other and snickering will never make my heart race the way my husbands did.

Not husbands. We were never able to make it official, but they were it for me. They were all I wanted.

My soul mates.

And then they were ripped away from me as I clung to the fantasy of the life we planned by my fingernails.

Hell, I was clinging to my own life at that time, too. But I would have gladly given anything to keep them safe.

And had.

Which puts me right here on this stage in the middle of Georgia, far from the streets and crime and brick buildings of Cedar Springs. Letting everyone in my past believe I’m dead, simply to keep the three men who carry my heart alive.

Four songs later, I step off the stage for the last time tonight. And, thankfully, I have the next two days off. Not that I do much more than sleep or watch TV on my days off, but at least I won’t be pushing my muscles and feet to their limit before heading home to scrub off the glitter, shame, and disgust of what I’ve become.

I tried waitressing when I started out on my own, but the only places willing to take me on without an ID or a pile of paperwork didn’t earn me nearly enough to eat, let alone rent a place to stay. And I was tired of sleeping in abandoned buildings, under bridges, or anywhere else I could get a few hours rest without the cops or some pervert finding me.

Most people have heard of rags to riches…I fell the opposite way and, in the beginning, even rags would have been a luxury.

But at least I now have a roof over my head, a car to get me to and from the club or grocery store, and some furniture I found on the curb or in second hand stores. Far cry from the luxuries I’d known growing up, but the sacrifice was well worth it in my eyes.

I’ve gathered the loose bills from the stage, by far one of the most demeaning things aside from spreading my legs for strangers, and make my way through the club, my bare tits bouncing and swaying with each step. Unlike most of my coworkers, mine are all natural.

“Amber,” Eric calls out as I pass by the bar.

I hate stopping for any reason when there’s literally nothing between me and wandering hands but air, but I’m still low man on the totem pole and have to play nice unless I want to find another club.

I kind of like it here. It’s on the classier side, the security is tight and walks us to our cars at night, and everyone minds their own business. Not a single person who works here has ever asked me about the scars I’m careful to cover each shift.

“Yeah?” I call out, only barely slowing my steps in hopes of pulling on my sweats and heading home.