Page 64 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"The ballet world doesn’t know what it’s missing," Crystal said, her voice softening. She was the only one who knew the whole truth. The only one I fully trusted here. "Everything good?" She asked next, the question loaded as her eyes dropped to my wrist.

I nodded. "Yep, everything’s great."

She smiled, then turned back to the task at hand: layering on stage makeup that seemed garish under normal lighting. I went to my own vanity, sitting down to face the three-paned mirror which reflected my face from different angles. I stared at myself, searching for changes that might signal who I was becoming. My hair was the same ginger, though looser now, freed from the severe bun I'd worn for years. My hazel eyes were perhaps a bit sharper, more aware of the world's harsh realities. The freckles dotting my nose and cheeks hadn't faded, though they were currently hidden beneath thick foundation. I usually did my first makeup steps at home, finishing the job at work.

I leaned closer to my mirror self, examining the face that used to appear in arts sections of newspapers and on Imperial’s website. "Rising star of the ballet world," articles once called me. Before my body failed me. Before surgeries. Before two years of rehabilitation had ended with rejection from the company that had promised to welcome me back with open arms.

"You're doing it again," said a voice beside me. Jade, one of the newer dancers, slid into the next seat. "Staring like you're trying to solve a mystery."

I smiled, caught. "Just checking if I've grown horns yet."

"From working here?" She laughed while applying false eyelashes with surgical precision. "Honey, if anything, this place has been good for you. You look healthier than when you started."

She wasn't wrong. I'd gained a little weight since moving to Seattle. Not much, but enough that my collarbones didn't jut out quite so sharply. My muscles had changed too, developing differently from working the pole. Stronger thighs, more defined arms. A dancer's body still, but built for different movement, different expression. Still though, when the scale moved up five pounds, then six, I’d cracked down. The worries had flooded into my brain, almost drowning me. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the harsh reminders from my teachers over the years.

A heavy ballerina makes a bad partner.

Lifting a whale’s bad for the back.

Primas should be dainty, light on their feet.

"Tonight's going to be busy," Jade continued. "A bachelor party and a frat house."

"Good," I said, beginning my makeup routine. "I could use the money."

"Couldn't we all," she replied, standing to adjust her bedazzled bodysuit.

I watched her move, noting the confidence in her stride. We were all performers here, just as I'd been on stage. Different audience, different choreography, but the essence remained the same: tell a story with your body, create a fantasy, get paid.

Shifting focus back to readying myself, I rifled through my belongs for the pitch-black liner. As I slipped the dark point over my lids, I wondered, not for the first time, if I'd want to return toballet if given the chance. The answer used to be simple without hesitation.

Yes, in a heartbeat, without question.But now...

Now I knew what it felt like to dance without the constant fear of not being perfect. I knew the wild freedom of improvisation, of feeding off an audience's immediate reaction. I'd discovered muscles I never knew existed, strengths I hadn't recognized in myself.

Ballet had been my religion, my identity, my past and future. Its loss had nearly destroyed me. But in the darkness of Club Midnight, dancing for hungry Alphas, existed a version of myself that I was beginning to appreciate.

"Five minutes, ladies!" The floor manager's voice cut through the chatter.

I stood, unzipping my hoodie and pulling off the loose sweatpants to reveal the deep blue corset and thong beneath. The outfit had silver accents that would catch the light when I moved. I stepped out of my comfortable shoes and traded them for mile high heels.

Crystal appeared beside me, adjusting my shoulder strap. "Ready to make them fall in lust, Lucky? I’m feeling a thousand-dollar night brewing.”

I smiled, feeling the familiar pre-performance flutter in my stomach. Some things never changed. "I’m always ready."

With a final glance at my reflection—not searching for changes this time but meeting my own eyes with determination—I turned from the mirror and followed Crystal out of the changing room. The drowsy club was full awake now, music pulsing through the walls. I was on first tonight, not ideal. I preferred having time to work the floor before taking the stage. It helped me check out my options and home in on a target. Private dances were where the real money was at.

Standing behind velvet curtains, waiting for my cue, I flexed my feet inside the cage of the impossibly tall stilettos. Maybe this wasn't the dream I'd had as a kid donning her first tutu. But I had to admit, there was a wild sort of freedom in this new life.

A freedom that made me feel like I could fly.

When the strains of the music rose and fell.

When all eyes were locked on my body.

When I felt admired without having to be flawless.

When the song shifted, I pushed through the curtains and stepped onto the stage, my heels striking the polished floor with deliberate, exaggerated steps that showed off the length of my legs. The corset hugged my body like a second skin, silver accents instantly snagging the overhead spotlights. I'd learned quickly that in this world, entrance was everything. The first impression set the tone for what would follow. Who would watch. Who would want. Who would toss money at me. So, I made each step count.