The gold-tie man again. This time he's not alone. Beside him slumps another figure, tall, face hidden in shadows. Goldtie's eyes lock on me instantly. His grip tightens on the seat. No one else around even watches us but I'm aware of him more than he even knows. The music pulses between us as I twirl, hips swaying and I feel the weight of that stare. My chest tightens in a familiar pinch of nerves and something… else.
My mind staggers. Who the hell is he? Why's he here on these slow nights? Maybe he has money to burn. Maybe he's nothing more than a man who enjoys overpriced whiskey and my performance. The creak of the floor beneath my boots is the only sound louder than my thoughts. I shoot him a sarcastic smile, offering a silent taunt, but he just sips his drink and tilts his head. The other guy remains still as a statue, face turned slightly, watching with an unreadable expression.
The song switches to something harder; the bass kicks again. I plant my feet, running the pole between them, arching my back. Velvet's eyes burn into the audience, pulling every gaze to me. But I can't shake the inkling that I'm not dancing for the small crowd tonight.
I'm dancing for the eyes in the gold tie. The light on stage sets my sweat-damp skin ablaze and I feel heat trailing down my spine. Cold sweat forms at the small of my back even as heat floods my face under all this neon.
Somewhere in the back of my skull a warning siren wails. My foot scrapes the stage floor as my mind recalculates. Part of me wants to bust a grin and wink, play with the gold-tie man, see if I can wring a few creds out of his attention.
But another part kicks me in the teeth. She remembers the black card, remembers the weight of something...maybe something bad tied to it. She remembers bodies, broken deals, the reason she doesn't want to play in that world.
So I swallow and keep dancing. Velvet never hesitates. Hips pulse. Arms coil and uncoil through the air. Velvet's laugh is pressed behind her lips.
My eyes flicker with edge. If anyone new is watching, she performs flawlessly. She throws in an extra bend at the waist, a smile at a space that only she sees. Sweat beads along my brow and it's not from exertion this time.
I can feel the shift like a change in gravity. The air between us tightens. The music blares too loud inside my skull. Every spot on stage glistens and burns. My heart hammers so loud I can't hear the other dancer's music over it. The gold-tie man doesn't move but I sense something in his demeanor.
Nothing changes outward. I spin again and again, each turn a blur of neon and leather until my throat is raw. The beat drops deep. Velvet's eyes cut through the haze. But behind them, Lyra is caught in curiosity.
I keep dancing, feet sliding lightly on the stage. The second figure beside the gold-tie is barely a shape, a bodyguard maybe. He leans in, mutters something. Goldtie tilts his head up once, eyes glittering. He orders another drink but never takes his gaze from me. My cheeks heat under his stare.
Sweat drips off my nose; it feels like I'm being tested. Has he seen too much or not enough? Has he decided I'm worth something or nothing yet? The song fades to its last bars. The crowd's mostly empty, leaving just the two of them and me in this half-light.
I dip low for a final flourish, closing out the set. Velvet bows, cool and knowing. Applause trickles in, weak but sufficient. Velvet strides offstage but my eyes never slip from the booth. He watches me, still composed. He stands up as I pass, every inch the man with the golden tie—suit neat, whatever foreign scent he wears lost in the club funk.
"Good set," he calls out. It's not for me though. I rush to the dressing room, breathing hard. I lean against the wall; the air smells of sweat and glitter here. My chest is tight and not just because I'm wound into a corset.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror: Velvet gone, just Lyra. Baggy, tired eyes, a bit of blush smudged on my cheeks. I rest a hand on the glass, as if splitting myself in two. There he was again. In the dirty mirror of my life, another reflection has appeared, golden edges and all.
Tonight I danced and watched. Right on cue, the clock reads midnight now. I light cigarette, the ember a glow against my trembling fingers.
I exhale a plume of smoke and slip off my heels, feeling both a whisper of relief and a thrill. Velvet goes to sleep. Lyra keeps the secret for another night.
Days pass…
I slide onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar, letting the throb of synth bass and neon lights wash over me. The Chrome Daisy is half-empty this early in the night, just the regulars and die-hards sipping their neon cocktails under the holo-flowers drifting along the ceiling.
My feet already ache in my thigh-high boots and I haven't even done my first set yet. I sigh and rub a spot on my ankle, watching the reflection of my tired eyes in the mirrored shelf of liquor bottles. Another night, another credit chip short, the same old Cinderella story, minus the fairy godmother.
Mace notices me and pours a drink without asking, a weak whiskey on the rocks, just the way I need it on a slow start. He's polishing a glass with one cybernetic hand, the mechanical fingers whirring softly. With a curt nod, he slides the drink over. I raise it in a mock toast before taking a sip; it burns just enough.
"Thanks, Mace," I mutter over the rim, trying to force a smirk. The liquor settles warm in my stomach, a small comfort against the chill of anxiety I carry into every shift.
Mace leans in a little, lowering his gravelly voice. "That gold-tie man's been bothering you, kid?" he asks, eyes flicking toward a shadowy booth in the corner.
I follow his gaze discreetly. Sure enough, there he is Mr. Gold Tie, the same slick stranger from last week, lounging like he owns the place. His suit is crisp, charcoal with a subtle pinstripe and the metallic gold tie glints in the club's low light.
He's nursing a drink and watching the dancers on stage with a predatory kind of calm. Just seeing him makes my shoulders knot up. I play it off with a shrug. "I can handle guys like him," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Part of the job, right?"
Mace isn't convinced. He sets down the polished glass and gives me a stern once-over. "Men like that… I've seen 'em before," he says quietly. His cyber-hand taps the bar in a slow rhythm. "Big promises, big money. They look at girls in places like this and see something to use. If he steps out of line, you let me or Big R know." Big R—short for Big Roman—is the bouncer built like an armored truck at the door. The thought of Roman tossing Gold Tie out on his ass makes the corner of my mouth twitch in a half-smile.
"I will," I lied. We both know I probably won't. In this line of work, you learn to smile and tolerate a lot. Complaints are for girls with safer options. I take another sip instead and savor the burn. "He tipped well, at least," I added bitterly. "Guys like that always do… at first."
Mace grunts, unconvinced. "Just be careful, Lyra. That's all." He moves off down the bar to tend another customer, leaving me with the rest of my whiskey and the pulsing drone of the club.
I sit there a moment longer, rolling my stiff neck and trying to shake off the conversation. Of course Gold Tie is bothering me. The way he had slipped a card into my garter last week with a wink, whispering about 'Stairways to Heaven'... It's been eating at me. I haven't told anyone about that card, not even Mace. It's hidden in a crack under my mattress at home.
Stairways to Heaven… Whatever the hell it really is, the name sounds almost comically dreamy for this town. And if it's so great, why does it send a creep in a gold tie to stalk dancers at grimy clubs? I snort and shake my head. Men like that don't give anything for free.