Page 1 of Up In Smoke

CHAPTER 1

Jesse

I thinkI might finally have gotten myself into trouble I can’t get out of.

The problem is, I’m not sure I even care.

Why should I? I’ve got another few hours left on this god-damned shift. But at least the music is louder than most of my thoughts and the dollar bills are flying. As per usual, Dom has kept me supplied with vodka and TJ gave me a bump to snort as soon as I got to the dressing room, hungover and grouchy. Through the haze, I make sure I get my ass on stage when I’m supposed to and then work the rabid crowd in between.

This is my life. The same shit every night over and over andover.But seeing as that’s not likely to change anytime soon, I find it best to stay barely conscious and just keep on swimming.

It’s not as if I dreamed of ending up in a sticky strip club, shaking my booty for cash to pay my bills. But c’est la vie, right? You live with the cards you’re dealt. If I felt like I had any other options, I’d have explored them by now.

Or at least I’d have bled them dry or run them into the ground already like I’ve done with everything else in my life.

Dancing at Four By Four was only supposed to be a temporary gig until I got my shit together. But a couple ofmonths turned into a couple of years way too easily, and now I don’t even have the energy to imagine what I could be doing instead. It’s just this windowless cave of cracked leather booths and faded carpet that gives me some sense of stability. I guess in the dark with the disco lights reflecting off the mirror balls, it doesn’t feel quite as shabby and depressing.

The cocaine and booze help considerably when I’m telling myself that particular lie.

I have to assume whoever picked the name for this place was looking for something tough and manly to convey that it would in fact be dudes and not chicks taking their clothes off on the podiums. But that also gave them the bright idea for our opening hours as well. So from four in the afternoon until four in the morning, I’ll usually be slinking around in the shadows, shedding glitter and fending off wandering hands as I try and make enough in tips to pay my rent at the end of each week.

By this point, I don’t even feel like I’m nocturnal. It’s more like time rarely has meaning in my life. A watch wouldn’t really go with any of my skimpy outfits, we keep our phones locked away backstage, and it’s not like there are any clocks on the walls. I mostly try and count the numbers until it feels right to check the hour with one of the bar staff who are allowed their phones in their pockets. Then if I can, sneak out for something to shove down my throat that’ll give me enough energy to get through the last few hours. After which, I crawl home, sleep with three eye masks on to block out the relentless LA sunshine, haul my ass back out of bed to try and run errands or do some chores, before finding myself back here to repeat the cycle.

At least I get Tuesdays off, I guess?

The tail end of a shift can be the most dangerous. When my adrenaline starts to wane and my head aches from the constant assault of thumping beats and hard liquor, my thoughts wander places they shouldn’t.

To ‘What The Hell Am I Doing With My Life?’ Street and ‘What’s The Point In Anything?’ Avenue.

That’s about where I find myself in this moment. So I weave my way through the crowd toward the back door, hoping TJ has another line going spare to wake me the fuck up.

Nobody tips melancholy strippers.

Hands reach out and touch me as I pass by. Most of them are gentle or excitable strokes, but as I’m not wearing much more than metallic briefs, naturally I get a couple of douchebags pinching or grabbing my ass. All I can do is grit my teeth and keep walking. Oakland, our boss, is very clear about how much he hates us making a fuss. “What the customer wants, the customer gets!” he always cries cheerfully as he rakes in fifty percent of what we earn.

I’ve always drawn the line at actual prostitution, but I long ago accepted that I’m not really a person anymore when I step inside this place. I’m a meat Popsicle. A Ken doll. A blank canvas for lonely housewives, recent divorcees, bachelorette parties, and giddy twinks to project their fantasies onto.

Almost none of them ever remember me as Jesse Silverman, child star of the hit TV show, ‘Leroy Puck, Boy Detective.’ Christ, we ran for five seasons. My face was on lunchboxes. I’ve been to the fucking Oscars.

Once I wasn’t a boy anymore, the character had to go. They came up with a spin-off a few years back with a girl instead to keep it fresh. I half-heartedly hoped they’d invite me back on for a cameo. But my reputation was way past ruined by that point. ‘Dumpster fire,’ I think is the term most commonly used. Not exactly the kind of branding anyone wants associated with an aspirational kids’ TV show.

That was an entire lifetime ago. This is all I know now. Damn, I must be in a bad way if I’m torturing myself by stumbling down memory lane. Nothing good will come of it, so the best thing is tojust shove it back with all the other emotions I keep hidden in a box somewhere around where my heart used to be.

The dressing room is as chaotic as usual, but I find TJ quickly enough and he already knows what I’m after. “You owe me,” he says, but he still lets me shake a little powder onto the back of my hand regardless.

“I’ll hit you back next week, I swear,” I tell him sincerely before inhaling the small line. I stamp my foot and blink a couple of times, then let out a relieved whoop as the rush goes straight to my head. “You’re a lifesaver, dude. Honestly, they should write songs about you.”

He rolls his eyes and smacks my butt. “Yeah, yeah, cowboy. Just make it through tonight first, then worry about next week.”

My motto in life.

I’m grateful that my choreographed group numbers are done for the evening. Sensibly, Oakland schedules most of them around peak hours, usually ten until one. After that, the crowd is typically more interested in lap dances and private booths, so our solos can be whatever we want. I’m more of a ‘crawl around on the floor and gyrate’ kind of performer rather than tricks on the pole, so normally I just wing it to whatever song they put on for me.

I’ve probably got about twenty minutes until I’m next up, so I make sure my face is wiped clean of any lingering powder, then begin wandering through the crowd, hoping to catch the eye of any enthusiastic tippers or someone looking for a little one-on-one time.

Except what grabs my attention is the booth to my left. Our newest dancer, a sweet kid named Fen, comes tumbling out, almost falling on his ass as he waves his hands in front of him. “Th-thank you, ma’am,” he shouts through the gap in the velvet curtain. Presumably whoever is on the other side can hear him over the music. “But I don’t…I just…I’ll be right back…uh…”

I scowl and march over to the guy. “Are you okay?” I demand.