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Q ueenie clinks her glass with mine as I tamp down my nerves and gear up for my next performance. Another week has rolled by, and I’m still not the fearless topless dancer I was hoping I’d be after two weeks of parading around in front of drooling, dumbstruck men.

My confidence has blossomed, but I wonder if this is something I’ll ever fully get used to and accept. I’ve been wearing wigs during my routines, terrified one of my captors is hiding out in the crowd, making plans to snatch me up the moment I make the darkened trek to my apartment.

But I can’t hide forever.

That’s the whole point of this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Queenie says, swallowing her Lemon Drop shot and placing her glass on the bar counter.

I rub my lips together. “Hope you have a lot of pennies.”

“I have a lot of singles. Better make them some good thoughts.”

A smile flickers. “Does this ever get easier? Were you nervous when you first started?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I hardly remember those first few weeks.”

“Yeah.” I nod, glancing down at my fidgeting knees. “I can’t picture you ever questioning this. You’ve always been secure in who you are.”

“So are you. That girl you think you lost somewhere, the girl who was audacious and bold…she’s still in there.” She presses a firm hand to my knee, ceasing the wobbling. “You never lost her, Angel Baby. She just lost her way.”

I glance up, my eyes misting. “You don’t think people ever change?”

“Change?” Leaning back, she props an elbow up on the chairback and tilts her head. “I think people grow, and people regress. When they grow, they become a better version of who they already are. And when they regress, it means they’re too scared to grow.” She shrugs, pursing her lips. “So, no, I don’t think people truly change . Not at their core. Not their essence.”

Queenie reminds me so much of my mother sometimes.

It’s a sweet familiarity that has me smiling through the heartache.

“Thank you,” I murmur, twirling the half-empty glass between my fingers. “You always know the right things to say.”

“I don’t know about that.” She barks a laugh. “I just say what I want to say when I want to say it. It’s up to the listener to take what they need from it.”

I swallow back the rest of my Old Fashioned, wincing as it burns a trail of fire down my throat. Plucking a cherry from the bottom of the glass, I glance around the crowded bar, assessing my audience for the evening. I recognize a few faces. One man sends me a lewd look as he runs his tongue over his lips, causing me to slink back in the seat and readjust my long, brown wig.

But before I fully turn to face Queenie again, someone else catches my eye.

I twist around, craning my neck over the sea of men.

My pulse tap dances.

It’s him.

The smoker from outside the club two weeks ago.

He looks away the moment our eyes meet, and I sit up straighter, jerking my head toward Queenie. “Hey. Do you know that guy?”

“Hmm?” She frowns, following my gaze. “Which one?”

“The good-looking one.”

“That’s subjective, honey. My third husband looked like a garden gnome that weathered one too many storms, and I liked him just fine. For a few years, anyway.”

Blinking repeatedly, I feel my skin heat as I gaze across the bar at the dark stranger who’s staring down at his glass of clear liquid over ice. “The one in the black T-shirt. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.”

She peers around me and squints. “No. Never seen him before.”

“He was here my first night, watching me dance.”

Queenie sends me a perplexed look. “So was I, along with half this place.”

“Yeah, but…it was more than that. I saw him outside the club when I was leaving. There was something about him. I tried to talk to him, but he stormed away. He was kind of intense.”

“The silent type—a rare breed I can appreciate.” She lifts off the stool and slaps a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Hesitating, she glances down at me. “Did you feel unsafe? This isn’t a cry for help, is it?”

“No.”

“You sure? Say the word and I’ll have Len drag his ass out of here if?—”

“I’m fine, Queenie. Promise.” It’s true. Maybe my intuition is all wrong, but, despite the dark intensity rolling off him in waves, I never felt true danger. I still don’t. “It was just an odd encounter, that’s all. But…in an intriguing way, I guess.”

“Well, try talking to him again. Maybe he’s just what the doctor ordered.”

“What’s that?”

“A quickie with a hot stranger. Looks like he’d do the trick.” Squeezing my shoulder, she leans in and adds, “That’ll chase away your nerves real fast.”

My skin hums with warmth, my insides buzzing. I haven’t had sex in years. The closest I came to intimacy was that night with Isaac through the wall.

The dirty talk.

Chloe and Nick.

And I suppose that makes me a hypocrite, considering the situation with Jasper and Allison. I thought my husband was dead, so I crossed a line with the man on the other side of my wall. But I thought I was going to die, too. It was my only form of solace at the time. Human connection.

I can’t feel guilty about it; there’s no room for any more self-blame.

My cheeks burn when the stranger slowly looks up again, his explosive eyes settling on mine. They look angry. Piercing.

Energy crackles in the air. A strange feeling unfurls between my ribs, clawing and poking.

No.

Stop it.

It can’t be him.

That wouldn’t make any sense.

I’m searching for something that isn’t there because I need it to be there. I need it to be him so I can relieve myself of this self-inflicted grief.

Queenie disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with my stare down as I study the unnerving mystery man. He looks away a few times, but his eyes always trail back to mine. There’s a pull. A magnetism.

Reining in my courage, I set down my glass and stand from the stool, smoothing out my purple-sequined dress and fiddling with my fake bangs. The man stiffens. I keep watching him, keep making sure he doesn’t run away from me again.

I want his name. His voice.

Confirming or disproving.

I circle behind the bar stools as he tosses a wad of cash on the counter. My eyes are locked on his profile while everything around me blurs. I move, dodging people and leering glances along the way.

But the moment I’m about to reach him, a hand grabs me by the arm.

I jump in place, pivoting around and coming face to face with an older gentleman with silver glasses to match his thinning hair.

“Excuse me, Miss. I couldn’t help but notice you sitting over there. Are you performing tonight?”

I blink at him, startled. “I… Yes, I’m sorry, I have somewhere to be?—”

“What’s your name? You’re very beautiful.” His focus dips to my cleavage. “Striking, really.”

Wrenching my arm free, I rub away the insidious tickle left from his touch. Then I turn around, noting that the occupied stool is now empty.

He’s gone.

Dammit.

“I-I have to go.” Flustered, I stalk away, pushing through a slew of small groups, trying to uncover where he disappeared to. But he’s nowhere to be found. Disappointment filters through me after I make three laps around the club, coming up empty.

That disappointment follows me on stage an hour later.

It weakens my steps, drains my enthusiasm, and tightens my smile. I pick apart the crowd, searching for him in the ocean of eager faces, but he’s not there. I feel like I’m going crazy. Losing my mind. The patrons don’t seem to notice my missteps and disenchanted eyes, and I leave the stage with over three hundred dollars in tips when the song is over.

But the pocket money does little to fill the holes inside me.

As I veer off to the dressing room to freshen up and discard my cash, Latte catches me by the elbow. “Hey, Bee. You have a private dance in the champagne room. He prepaid for an hour.”

“Really?” My gaze drifts over to the staircase leading up to a row of private rooms. The past few nights, I’ve had to work my ass off to earn a private dance in the champagne room. They’re not cheap, so there’s often a lot of schmoozing and forced connection-making on my end. “Wow, okay. About time a bit of good luck landed in my lap.”

“Now, all you gotta do is land in his.” She winks. “Go take five to freshen up. He’s in the pink room.”

“Ball and Chain?” I wonder. Married men generally know what they want because they know what they’re not getting at home.

Her muted cocoa lips twist to the side. “Don’t think so. No ring,” she says. “He was kind of intense. Really hot, though. Enjoy the change of scenery.”

Hot and intense.

A shiver creeps down my spine.

No.

It’s probably not him.

That guy clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Before Latte skips away, I ask her, “Description?”

She pauses. “Hmm. Dark hair, kind of shaggy on top and shorter in the back. Didn’t catch his eye color because I was too busy counting the veins in his arms.” She fans herself. “Vein porn is real.”

My heartbeats kick up speed. “Tall? Muscular build?”

“Rugged, built, sexy, and pissed-off.” Nodding, she flicks a finger in the air. “That would be the guy. Have fun.”

She scampers away.

My nerves tangle into a sticky web as I falter for a beat, then swerve into the dressing room to fix my hair and lipstick, slap on a fresh coat of deodorant, and dab some pheromone-infused oil onto my pulse points. I make a quick pitstop at my locker and slip the wad of cash I earned into my wristlet.

Five minutes later, still wearing my brown wig and violet slip dress, I make my way up the industrial steps to the row of five VIP suites. They go by color: pink, purple, red, black, and white.

The pink room is made of pure velvet, from the walls to the sofa benches, and even the beaded curtain. Magenta and carnation tones glitter under vibrant chandeliers, and I inch the shimmery skirt of my dress down my thighs as I clear my throat.

Anticipation dances through me as my breaths flounder. Exhaling deeply, I turn toward the pink room and approach the entrance.

The beads flutter in front of me, almost like someone just walked through them.

I frown.

Stepping forward, I inch back the curtain and peer inside the room.

Nothing.

No one is here.

The room smells like roses and vanilla, lightly illuminated by wax warmers as I enter, but the residual aroma of smoke and sandalwood tickles my nose. Heady masculinity.

Confusion snuffs out the adrenaline spike, slackening my shoulders as I step back out of the suite and look around, scurrying over to the opposite staircase. I lean over the balcony, curling my fingers around the iron railing as my eyes take in the loud, overflowing room.

My stomach pitches.

I spot him—moving swiftly along the perimeter of the club, pulling something out of his pocket.

I want to call out to him, but I don’t have a name. I want to scream, shout, beg for him to return, to tell me who he is and what he wants.

Stop running.

Stop hiding.

But he doesn’t look back.

Holding on to the railing, I inhale a shaky breath, my eyes misting over. Two syllables fall out in a choked whisper as I watch him shove through the side door and disappear into the night. “Isaac?”