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A slate-gray building with a flashing marquee comes into view when I curve around the corner, clutching the strap of my purse in a deathlike grip. The distant aroma of sizzling street food gives off a semblance of normalcy as it mingles with the metallic tang of the auto repair shop across the street.

I glance around, my anxiety a twisted knot of uncertainty lodged in my throat.

God, what am I doing?

Pausing in front of the steel door attached to my new workplace, I raise my chin and drink in the magenta and royal-blue lights. I’m not sure why I couldn’t apply at a restaurant or an easy, carefree desk job. A headset would be weighing me down far less than this glitzy headband gouging my scalp. I squeeze the strap of my purse, my bright yellow nails leaving half-moon prints on my palm.

You can do this. Deep breath. No turning back now.

With a sharp exhale, I yank open the heavy door and am immediately struck with an elixir of lily of the valley, jasmine, and warm amber. It’s a soothing balm to my rattled nerves.

A rust-haired man with apricot freckles nods at me as I traipse through the dimly lit hallway. I likely look just as lost as I feel. “Hi.” I swerve in front of him, visibly flustered. “I’m trying to remember where the dressing room is?”

The man eyes me, heels to hair. “You’re the new hire?”

“I am.” I swallow hard. “I’m Bee.”

He takes the hand I offer in a firm grip. “Fitting,” he says, still giving me a once-over. “Queenie was just asking about you. She’s excited to see what you can do.”

“She told me to get here an hour early. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yep. Take a left at the end of the hall and it’s the first door on the right. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Name’s Len,” he adds before I sweep past him. “If you need anything, I’m your guy.”

The man is huge and intimidating, but his eyes are soft and safe. “Noted.”

I nibble my thumbnail as I send him a nervous smile, then continue my trek down the darkened hall. Voices chatter, laughter rings out. Music thumps in the distance, almost loud enough to override my pounding heartbeats.

An unfamiliar woman greets me like we’ve been friends for years, halting me just before I reach the dressing room. Raven-black hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, the shiny tresses falling over one shoulder. “Hey! Bee, right?” She scans her gaze over me, her teeth flashing white. “Girl, there’s a big crowd out there. Not to freak you out, but Halloween weekend is our busiest next to the Super Bowl. Your tips are going to be insane.”

She’s dressed up like some sort of spider queen as glittery web-like lace spills off her light-brown skin.

“No pressure.” I breathe out a strained laugh, catching a whiff of honeysuckle perfume. “Where’s Queenie?”

“In the dressing room, asking about you every two minutes.” She waggles her eyebrows. “This is such a full-circle moment for her. She says you’re going to make big waves.”

I wring my hands together. The only waves coursing through me right now are riddled with nausea. “Well, thanks for the warm welcome. You look gorgeous.”

“Oh, thanks.” She flips her ponytail over her shoulder and snaps a wad of pink bubblegum. “We’re a family here. Zero competition. We build each other up, like a sisterhood.”

“I love that.”

Smacking me on the butt, she shoots me a wink. “I’m Ariel, the resident shoe hoarder. If you ever need a spare pair of heels, my locker is jam-packed. Help yourself.”

Watching her skip away, I smile at her retreating back before turning toward the door adorned with a silver plaque titled “Dressing Room.”

Here we go…

I push through the doorway and step into the room, quickly spotting Queenie near the beauty counter. One of the girls is helping her pick out a wig. Her golden-brown eyes follow me as I toss my purse into one of the empty lockers and pop it shut, then glance at the adjacent locker that showcases the name Ariel crossed out and replaced with Shoes, Shoes, and More Shoes .

“You came,” Queenie says, puffing on a cigarette, looking regal and composed. “I questioned it.”

Sauntering over to her, I swipe my sweaty palms down my outfit. “The truth?”

“Always.”

“I questioned it, too.”

Crossing one leg over the other, she sends me a smile, her dark-brown skin glowing with beauty oil. “I know.” Then she waves a hand at the girl tending to her wig as she stands from the rolling chair and approaches me like a graceful gazelle. “You look just like your mama.”

My skin warms at the sentiment. “Her hair isn’t as big.”

“No, but her heart is.” Her eyes dance over me with affection. “I have two rules, so listen up, Angel Baby.”

I shuffle on both feet. “Okay.”

“One: always carry pepper spray with you.”

My nose wrinkles. I don’t have any pepper spray.

I figure if the universe fought to keep me alive through an abduction, years of captivity, and the subsequent horrors that made my imprisonment feel like a spa-therapy getaway, it’s unlikely I’ll be taken out by some thug lurking behind a dumpster in the alleyway.

But I nod anyway, smiling politely.

“Two…” She gives me a once-over. “Embrace it.”

“Embrace it?”

“Yes. All of it. The highs and lows. The good days and bad days. Don’t let that shame creep inside you. Don’t overthink,” she tells me. “This is about empowerment. Release. Feel the music, the crowd, the movement. Allow it to guide you; allow it to nurture you.”

A fluttery feeling dances across my chest like a defibrillator paddle. Swallowing, I bob my chin while I study her, seeing the love shimmering in her eyes. It’s nice to feel cared about.

Like I still matter.

Giving my hand a squeeze, Queenie returns to her chair as the woman beside her swaps out her wig, fluffing the long ribbons of fire-engine-red hair. “You’re nervous.” She smiles, teeth gleaming stark white against her dark skin. “Embrace that, too. Nerves give you power.”

Nodding, I inch forward, gathering my hair over my shoulder. “I’ve never done anything like this before. But running into you at the coffee shop felt like…fate, or something. I don’t know.”

“Could be,” she says, stamping out her cigarette. “Or maybe it was all you, finally deciding to take life by the shorthairs and pave a new path for yourself.”

“Why couldn’t I start by waiting tables?” My lips twist to the side. “You know, something more palatable. Normal.”

“Normal doesn’t suit you, Angel Baby. You’re a Mayfield.” Her eyes glitter against the atmospheric lighting. “Besides, you’re sick of hiding. You want to be seen again.”

I let her words flow through me as I take a seat in the adjacent chair and glance at my reflection in the bulb-studded mirror.

Queenie is aware of my history.

She used to work with my mother decades ago, often babysitting me when Mom was on the clock. I adored her. She always had this calming aura about her, like she was a warm hug in human form. When Mom secured a different job and moved us both to L.A. for a fresh start, I never forgot about her. She’d visit from time to time, bringing me sweet treats from a San Francisco bakery, and I’d tell her stories.

Queenie loved my stories.

She’s older than me, well into her forties, but she looks ageless and refined. Her black hair is cropped short, nearly buzzed to the scalp, and she’s one of those beauties with perfect bone structure who can pull off the bold look.

Her full crimson lips pucker with regard as she drinks me in from the white chair beside me. “You used to be scared of the dark,” she says, memories sparking between us. “I’d tuck you into bed at night while you cried into your stuffed spider toy.”

I laugh, rolling up to the beauty counter and assessing the collection of makeup products. “Mr. Webs.”

“That’s right.” She swivels her chair back and forth, eyeing me with tenderness. “Remember what we’d do whenever that fear set in?”

“You said I should tell you a story.”

It would distract me. My imagination would steal me away, taking me to sunnier places until the fear subsided, and peaceful dreams eclipsed the notion of boogiemen and ghosts tiptoeing in the shadows.

“You’re scared right now,” she continues. “Your hands are shaking.”

I curl my trembling fingers into fists. “Yeah.”

“So, tell me a story.”

I allow a smile to crest at the familiar prompt as I straighten my spine and reach for the makeup brushes. “All right.”

Inhaling a full breath, I begin spinning a tale that transports us to a bustling cityscape under the cover of night. I paint strokes of foundation onto my skin, setting the stage. The city comes alive in my words, its alleys teeming with shadowy figures and secrets. I speak of a mysterious man, driven by a haunted past, whose steely-brown eyes pierce the darkness like a beacon of justice.

He’s strong, brave.

He’s all hard edges but with a vulnerable heart.

With each sweep of eyeliner, I reveal the web that binds the city’s underbelly. The tension rises as my protagonist peels back layers of corruption. As I apply a shade of deep-berry lipstick, the man confronts the mastermind behind it all—a cunning, eccentric manipulator whose motives remain shrouded until the final act. The room crackles with an air of suspense as my surly hero faces a choice that will determine the fate of the city and his own redemption.

In this moment, our friendship blossoms. My heart comes alive, pumping with remnants of a girl I used to know. Of a girl I miss, desperately.

As Queenie watches me transform, I know that our bond is more than just lipstick and imagination. She’s my anchor, letting me believe for just a few minutes that I have exciting and interesting things to share.

And I suppose grief is interesting.

Heartbreak is full of fascinating complexities.

But I try to shove my real-world baggage aside as I step into my alter ego named “Bee” and pretend to be somebody else.

I hope it will last.

The guilt I carry is powerful and all-consuming. Sometimes it feels like a deadly infection with no cure, only growing more terminal with each passing day.

It starts as a painful ache in my chest, something like a tickle. A warning spasm. Then it spreads to my bloodstream and blackens my vital organs. Before I know it, it’ll travel to my heart, and once it reaches my heart, I’m a goner. It’ll only be a matter of time before I’m shriveled up on the cold ground, that once-flourishing heart dead and lifeless.

I close my eyes and swallow down the feeling.

I can’t let that happen.

“I liked that story.” Queenie is newly adorned in a chestnut wig with spiral curls and honeyed highlights. “I think it’s my favorite one yet.”

A genuine smile blooms on my lips, only to fade the moment I stand from the stool and glance at the wall clock.

It’s showtime.

And that’s the damnedest thing about guilt. It infects everything within reach, anything it can sink its teeth into. Even a tiny, innocent smile.

Even a fairy tale.

October used to be my favorite month, but now it’s just dead leaves, gray skies, and apple cider donuts that taste like dirt. It’s that time of year when my ghosts come out to play, dancing in a graveyard of grief while I howl at the moon.

I want to crawl back into my coffin until November.

But I worry it’ll just be another October.

The lights are blazing, causing my skin to dampen with sweat as I stare out at the crowd. My heart rate doubles as a jackhammer, pounding relentlessly in my chest.

This is a mistake.

I’m not cut out for this.

The music starts, and I’m a deer in headlights, frozen to the stage as my hand curls around the pole. Patrons whoop and holler, fists pumping in the air, strobes blinding me and making me dizzy.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to be sick.

Dollar bills flutter at my stilettoed feet. Piles of them. I force a timid smile and aim it at a middle-aged man with one of those handlebar mustaches who just tossed me a one-hundred-dollar bill.

Can they see me shaking?

Are they privy to the terror in my eyes?

I’m used to men gawking and drooling as they watch me pose and bat my lashes, but this is different. This is taking it to a new level—one I was undoubtedly not prepared for. I try to remember my practice runs, though they did little to quell my anxiety.

Swallowing, I close my eyes and try to center myself. A Halsey song is playing—an over-produced rendition of “Bells in Sante Fe.” The music has my insides buzzing, giving me a zap of courage that allows me to zone out and perfect my routine.

Orange and purple lights douse me in colorful heat as I slither out of the bumblebee bralette and let the sparkly piece of fabric fall to the stage. The crowd goes wild. I latch on to the applause and lower to my hands and knees, arching my back, swinging my head, while my thick mane of fake blond hair flies all around me and an added tinsel kit causes the wig to shimmer against the strobes.

This gentlemen’s club features topless performances only, so my black lace underwear stays firmly in place. Closing my eyes, I throw my head back then pull to my knees, cupping both breasts in my hands. More catcalls, more whistles and cheers. I glide back up to my feet and strut down to the front of the stage, dancing and swaying, tangling my fingers in the synthetic hair as I scan the crowd.

When I glance out into the sea of lights and obscured faces…

I notice a man.

I notice a lot of men, but one stands out.

I’m not sure why he snags my attention as he stands off to the side, watching me dance. His arms are crossed, one hip parked against the wall a few feet away. Two long legs are tapered in dark denim, and a gunmetal-gray Henley looks like it’s glued onto him. Muscles bulge against the thin fabric, twitching in time with his stubbled jaw. The man exudes intensity. Something heady and almost…alarming.

I can’t see the color of his eyes through the strobe lights and a cloud of smoke, but I feel them dig into me like a pickaxe.

My breath hitches.

Gazes locked, I squeeze my breasts then drag my fingertips up my chest, my collarbone, and through my hair in an upward, sensual glide. I bite my lip as I stare at him.

He stares back, unflinching. Unblinking.

Unreadable.

The girls gave me a rundown on the types of men who watch us dance—they’ve been labeled. Ariel rattled them all off to me as we sat together behind the stage, waiting for our respective cues.

The Hotshot: They think they’re too good-looking and respectable to pay us. The hot ones are the cheap ones.

The W.O.G. : Wrinkly old guys. They usually respect us too much to get a lap dance, but they tip well when we’re on stage.

The Rookie: They’ve never been to a strip club before. Rookies are usually the most fun and make the job that much more enjoyable.

The Ball and Chain: Typical married man. Most of the time, they talk to us more than they care about seeing our tits, because they think we’re more fascinating than their wives.

We also get an assortment of bachelor parties, frat boys, and stags, who are a cross between nervous and eager.

But this guy…

I can’t place him.

His gaze devours me, and I swear it simmers with something other than lust.

It looks like?—

Anger.

A hotshot with a chip on his shoulder, apparently.

I whip back around and move toward the pole, curling my calf around it and flinging my body into multiple rotations as my hair follows. The crowd claps as the music fades out, and I finish my routine with a megawatt smile and send a little wave into the flashing lights.

For a moment, I’m on the runway again.

Everly Cross: the next big thing.

Photographers clamor to get the perfect shot. Models glare at me with envy. Industry bigwigs watch with interest as I strut around in the latest fashion trends.

My husband smiles at me, proud and adoring.

I am loved.

I force back tears as I step off stage and own the new life I’m building for myself.

I did it.

And I’m pretty sure I killed it.

Adrenaline soars through me, harnessing my smile, as Queenie greets me behind the stage in a tiny back room. I race over to her, hooking my bralette back into place, out of breath. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit, indeed.” She props her shoulder against the wall and grins. “I’m impressed. It’s rare a new dancer delivers such a flawless routine on her first night.”

I’ve always enjoyed dancing. Generally, it was in front of my full-length mirror while Coldplay poured from my playlist and my tarantula silently judged me from his terrarium, but it’s always been a part of me. I’m becoming more like my mother every day.

Ariel gives me a high-five, while Latte, another fellow dancer, lifts her hands with spirit fingers. I already feel a kinship. A new family unit.

“That was terrifying,” I breathe out, feeling wild-eyed and dazed. “But liberating in a way. I felt…human again.”

“You looked so confident up there.” Ariel tightens her ponytail, gearing up for her own routine. “A total pro. You’re going to outshine all of us in no time.”

I swallow, nodding my thanks. “Good luck. You’re going to do amazing.”

“Yeah, I got this.” The DJ announces her, and she takes off, sweeping past me.

Queenie takes me by the hand and leads me back to the dressing room. “Let’s get you changed. I just had you scheduled for one dance tonight. When can you come back?”

“I’m free all week.”

“Fabulous. I’ll work on your schedule. Can you be here tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

I spend the next twenty minutes changing into athletic shorts and a tank top while I scrub the makeup off my face, listening to the roar of the crowd from down the hall.

Queenie approaches as I grab my purse out of the locker. “Do you need a ride home, Angel Baby?”

“No, I’m good. I walked.” I give her a firm hug before turning around. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

The October night air is warm and fragrant as I make my way out through a side door. My street shoes clap against the metal steps, rattling in time with my pulse. I’m still feeling the high, the confidence. The telltale buzz of new beginnings.

As I turn the corner, there’s a man leaning against the weathered brick, smoking a cigarette.

I falter.

Our eyes meet through the glow of an overhead streetlamp.

Slowing my steps, I squeeze my purse strap, glancing around at the still-lively street as cars whiz by and people gather in small groups.

My attention flicks back to the man.

The same man I noticed watching me.

He lowers the cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke up toward the sky before settling his dark eyes on me. He doesn’t speak.

“Hey. I saw you in the club.” I’m a few feet away, but I feel the heat emanating from him. Something potent.

I wait for his reply, for the sound of his voice, but his mouth snaps closed. Jaw tight, he just stares at me, wordless. A muscle in his cheek jumps as his eyes roll over me.

He’s incredibly attractive.

Stunning, even.

My skin prickles with goosebumps. I wonder if he heard me over the heavy bass seeping out through the main door. Chewing on my lip, I take a cautious step forward.

I clear my throat, peering down at my sneakers before glancing back up. “I’m Bee. Do you?—”

He turns and stalks away.

I frown, rooted to the sidewalk, watching the shadows dance across his retreating back.

Okay then.

Forcing my frozen feet to move, I focus on the uneven cracks in the pavement to guide me away.

I glance back once, over my shoulder.

The man is gone. Vanished into the night.

My heart pounds harder as I quicken my pace, breaking into a jog until I turn the corner.

But he lingers.

Even after I’m tucked inside my apartment, reheating a plate of leftovers and withdrawing to my bedroom with a glass of red wine…

I can’t shake the feeling that those eyes followed me home.