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“ Y ou’re doing what ?”

Wincing, I inch the phone away from my ear as I march down the sidewalk in my heels and a tan trench coat. Perhaps this was a conversation better suited for an in-person visit. “I didn’t want to tell you when I was down there because I didn’t know if it would last. It was one of those spontaneous, split-second decision things, you know? I ran into Queenie a few months ago at a local coffee shop. I told her I was in a rut and feeling antsy, so she suggested it, and I… Well, I thought doing something totally outside my comfort zone would snap me out of this funk I’ve been in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I figured you, of all people, would understand.” I swerve around the corner, inhaling a lungful of engine fumes. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You sound pissed.”

“Taken off guard, not pissed.” Her taken off guard sigh travels through the speaker, but it sounds like a pissed sigh. “Everly, are you sure this is the best route for you to take? You’ve been through a lot. The idea of strange men leering at your naked body isn’t sitting well with me.”

My stilettos clink against metal steps as I enter the club through the back door and make my way down the winding hall. Len greets me outside the dressing room with an endearing wink, and I shoot back a distracted smile. “It’s topless only. Not to mention, you were a stripper for seven years,” I remind her.

“I’m also a mother. Your mother. I can’t protect you when you’re four-hundred miles away, and that industry isn’t always…savory.”

“Everyone has been amazing. Supportive, nurturing, empowering.” Queenie sends me a worried frown from the beauty counter as I veer toward the lockers, but I shake my head, assuring her I’m fine. “And you don’t need to protect me. I’m capable.”

“I know you are. You’re strong and resilient,” she replies. “But you’re also beautiful, vulnerable, and only five-foot-two when you’re not slouching. I’m not worried about the women; I’m worried about the men. The patrons. I’ve had my fair share of disturbing run-ins.” She pauses. “You should carry a weapon with you. Pepper spray, at the very least.”

“I have some. Don’t worry.” Truthfully, I don’t know why I have some. It appeared in my purse the other day, likely courtesy of Queenie.

Mom sighs again as I open my locker and discard my satchel. Then she adds, “What about modeling? If it’s the attention you’re missing, I’m certain Jasper has connections that can re-spark your career. I’d feel better about that avenue.”

My fingers tighten around the phone at the mention of his name. “I don’t want to do modeling. There’s too much…noise.” When I glance up, Queenie is leaning against the far wall, watching me with a glimmer of concern in her eyes. “I don’t want my name in lights, my face in magazines, or people waving cameras at me everywhere I go. Everly Cross—the model—is associated with abduction, a black-market ring, scandal, and divorce. I’m Everly Mayfield now. I’m just…Bee.”

“Bee?”

“My stage name.” Fidgeting in place, I glance at the wall clock, feeling restless as my start time draws nearer. “Listen, I need to go. I’ll come visit you next week and we can talk more about this. Don’t worry, okay?”

“I’ll always worry. You’ll understand when you settle down again and have children one day. The path you choose for yourself isn’t always the path you want for them.”

I stare down at the floor, my throat tightening.

I don’t know if I want to “settle down” again.

After living in a box for two years, all I want to do is live outside of that box. Proverbial, figurative—all of it. I don’t want to be trapped anymore.

But it’s not the time for that conversation. “I get it. I’ll call you later. Give the kitties kisses for me.” Macaroni squawks something indecipherable and likely offensive in the background. “Mac, too.”

Mom’s voice quiets as she whispers, “I will. Love you.”

“Love you.” I disconnect the call and spin around to face Queenie. “Sorry. Mom is unraveling.”

“You finally told her, huh?”

I slither out of my coat and hang it in the locker before closing the door. “I did. She didn’t take it as well as I had hoped she would, given her passion for this industry once upon a time.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Jillian is a free spirit, but her spirit is consumed with you. You can’t blame her for questioning this.”

“I guess.” Part of me knew that, and I think that’s why I waited so long to tell her. “You don’t have any kids, right?”

“Nah. I’m too selfish for that.” She shrugs through a smile. “And I don’t mean that in a negative way, honey, just a realistic way. Some people only know how to take care of themselves, and there’s no shame in embracing who you are and what you want. My life belongs to this stage.” She lifts from the wall and waves a hand at the dancers behind her, who are prepping for their routines. “Besides, my girls are like my children. That’s enough for me.”

Smiling softly, I move into the dressing room and fetch my outfit for the night.

It’s “Career Day.”

The club often sets up different themes to keep things interesting. Holidays are a given, but there has also been a retro ‘50s night, a masquerade, an under-the-sea mermaid vibe, and a nod to the Victorian era. Queenie asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I considered going the entomology route and dressing up as a ladybug or a butterfly, but since I just did the bumble-bee persona, I settled on a scientist instead.

A sexy lab coat, extra high heels, and a pair of bold cat-eye glasses sounded fun.

As I’m finalizing my smoky eyeshadow and securing my short black wig with bobby pins, a knock sounds on the dressing room door. I get up and poke my head out, spotting Len outside with a clipboard.

“You’re almost up,” he says. “Do you have a song in mind for your routine?”

“Oh, um…” I chew on my cheek, pondering the request. “Not really. Surprise me.”

He gives me a once-over, taking in my costume. “You got it. See you in ten.”

“Thanks, Len.”

Ten minutes later, my name is announced as I’m fidgeting backstage with my heart in shambles. All I can think about is him and if he’ll be here tonight—a shadowy face in the crowd, watching me dance, drinking in my curves, my movements, my skin.

Calling to me.

Waiting for me in that VIP suite after the show, so I can peel apart this morbid fascination, once and for all.

I don’t know if he’s Isaac. I don’t know if I’m setting myself up for crushing disappointment, or if the trajectory of my life is about to change.

A part of me says it’s him.

A part of me says he’d never do this.

Isaac wouldn’t tease me like this; he wouldn’t unstitch all my newly threaded pieces with games and disappearing acts. If he’s alive, then he knows how much I’m hurting and how much I’m missing him. And the Isaac I know—the real Isaac—would take me in his arms at last and hold me while I released myself from this final, painful burden of thinking I sent him to his grave.

I just don’t know which part of me is right.

The crowd goes wild when I grace the stage and school my face into a flirtatious smile. As I pluck open the first button on my lab coat, a song starts to play.

The claps and whistles are background noise. Sound drowns out as my eyes search and scan. So many faces, none of them are his. I try not to let my dismay show as I strut forward and undo another button while dollar bills are tossed at my feet.

Music seeps into my ears.

At first, I don’t recognize the song. The singer’s voice is synthesized, the melody garbled, and I’m too zoned out to register the tune. A deep, erotic bass sets in, prompting my body to swing and sway as I reach for the pole.

But then…

I hear it.

Awareness punches me in the chest.

Until it becomes all I hear.

Freezing in place, I curl my hand around the pole, my knuckles going white. My heart ricochets between my ribs like a pinball in a rusty machine. My pulse pounds in my temples, my ears, my throat.

It’s a cover of “The Scientist.”

I can’t breathe.

Everything around me blurs. The crowd, the lights, the clapping hands. It’s a slow-motion swirl of debilitation. I feel my legs shaking, my breaths coming quicker and shallower.

The song plays, my mind reels back in time, and something inside me snaps.

Withers. Dies.

I can’t catch air as I gaze out into the sea of formless faces. Confusion washes over the crowd and the applause falters as people stare and look around.

I blink over and over, trying to scrub the fog from my eyes as my chest caves in and my airways tighten to smothering. The Timekeeper’s voice echoes in my ears like a sinister lullaby.

“It’s your favorite song. I thought this moment was deserving of a soundtrack.”

I’m there again.

I’m in that sterile room, forced to make a decision as Isaac struggles with his binds and begs for me to choose him.

To trust him.

To save him.

And then, as my vision fights for clarity…I think I see someone.

The Timekeeper.

He’s moving through the mass of people, stalking toward the stage. He tracked me down. He found me. Two mismatched eyes twinkle with devilish joy as he straightens his bowtie and watches me from the edge of the platform. His arms extend like he’s waiting for me to run to him.

Like he wants me to come home.

No…

The world distorts around me. My hand shoots up to clutch my neck as my oxygen locks up, sticking in the back of my throat. I scratch and claw. Panic infiltrates me, body and mind, and then the image of my captor transforms.

In a blink…he’s gone.

It’s just a regular man standing there, staring at me as I fall apart.

I’m losing my grip on reality. It was a smokescreen, a destructive mirage. It wasn’t real, but the room is already spinning.

Funneling. Pinwheeling.

My legs give out, and I collapse.

A thud resounds in my ears as the back of my head meets the stage and the distant hum of worried voices reverberates through me. My eyelids flutter, unconsciousness teasing. I’m vaguely aware of footsteps approaching, hard soles slapping against the platform as a figure bends over me.

Len?

No. Someone else.

I’m being lifted into the air.

Hauled up and carried away.

Two arms encircle me, firm and protective, one draped underneath my knees and the other cradling my back. I stagger against a hard chest as dizzying lights streak across my vision. I blink. I blink again. A face looms above me, dark hair bathed in magenta lights. I’m a sock puppet in his arms as my wig comes undone and flutters to the floor at his feet. We move, weaving through people, through outstretched arms.

“Bring her to the dressing room!”

“Call an ambulance.”

“Is she breathing?”

My head lolls, my eyes unable to focus. Soothing heartbeats pound against my temple as I nuzzle against the man’s chest, breathing him in.

Sandalwood. Smoke.

I’m placed onto a couch, my limbs soggy noodles. But my hand reaches out, latching onto the collar of a leather jacket. “No…wait…”

People clamor around me.

Dancers. Len. Queenie.

“Get her some damn water!” Queenie shouts, landing on her knees beside me.

The man.

I need the man.

He’s still here. My hand is clasped around his lapel, forcing him back to me. Keeping him close.

I try to focus, try to see his face as my breathing steadies.

An image comes into view: two dark, stormy eyes attached to a familiar face, scruff along his jawline, and brown, disheveled hair.

His hand strokes my cheek.

Just a graze. A fleeting, tender touch.

The gesture douses me in warm tingly peace as I slowly twist my head to the side and blink up at him, knowing, believing, with every tortured piece of my soul?—

“Isaac,” I breathe out.

His expression changes. He glances around, face hardening as his jaw tics and his muscles clench. He straightens, then backs away gradually, like he doesn’t want to go. His finger curls around a lock of my hair before he releases me.

I watch him retreat.

“No…” Another wave of panic threatens, clogging my throat as I try to pull myself into a sitting position. “Come back…”

I struggle against the new hands that reach out, holding me down. Then I watch, helplessly— heartbreakingly —as he turns on his heel and bolts through the open door, the image of dark-wash jeans and two black boots disappearing from my periphery.

“No.” Tears gather in my eyes as I slump back to the couch. A glass of water is pressed to my lips. I sputter and choke while emotion carves new holes in my heart.

“Everly.” Queenie presses the back of her hand to my sweat-damp forehead. “Hey. Talk to me, Angel Baby.”

I curl into a ball and sob.

“Oh, honey…” She wraps her arms around me and holds me tight as I shatter into pieces.

But they’re not the arms I want.

It’s not her words I need.

It’s just another wall I can’t break through.