I leave my empty glass and duck down the neon-lit hallway, slipping into the dressing room's perfume and sweat. The other girls are mid-change or fixing makeup, some cursing at mascara wands, others laughing too loud.
Rhea is at the cracked mirror, stabbing bobby pins into her sea-green wig. Her shimmering silver outfit is cut low and high in all the dangerous places. She's been at Daisy longer than I have—everyone knows it. She gives me a sidelong glare as I slip behind her to my little cubby. Rhea's glare is a live wire. I keep my head down, feeling the electric prickle between my shoulder blades.
Just keep your head down. I start adjusting my own outfit—a red vinyl number with breast cutouts, paired with holo-tattoos glinting across my legs. I'm reapplying dark lipstick when I catch Rhea's reflection. She's still staring, sharp-eyed with something between envy and disdain.
"You think you're hot shit, don't you?" Rhea spits suddenly. The room goes quiet except for the thump of bass. Brushes hang midair, a couple of girls eyeing us, the rest pretending not to listen.
Here we go... "What are you talking about?" I ask, keeping my tone flat. I know better than to provoke her. Rhea's mood swings are part of the floor show.
She turns to face me with crossed arms. Her jaw clenches under heavy makeup. "Stairways to Heaven," she almost hisses. Ice pricks the base of my neck. How the hell does she know about that? Rhea steps toward me. "Yeah, I heard," she says. "That fancy suit with the gold tie? I saw him cozying up to you last week. Heard him drop that name."
Shit. My throat goes tight, pulse hammering in my ears, a flush running up my neck. I can almost feel my neural feed glitch with panic. "Rhea, look..."
She cuts me off with rised hands. "I tried, you know," she snaps, voice raw. "I tried contacting Stairways to Heaven myself. Sent messages on every blackline channel I could ping through my comlink." She laughs, bitter. "They never answered. Not a byte. And then you…" Her eyes flick over me, head to toe. "Little Lyra waltzes in, bats her eyes and they're interested. You think you're better than us? You think you're getting out of this hellhole on a corporate leash and we're not good enough?"
My cheeks burn. I dig my nails into my palm, forcing a calm I don't feel. I want to disappear, maybe shrink into the sequins at my feet. "I don't think I'm better than anyone," I say quietly. It's true. I never wanted Gold Tie's interest. It scares me. But how do you explain that? She'd never believe it.
Rhea's eyes glisten under the flickering lights. She's on the edge of screaming or sobbing. "I've been dancing here six years," she growls. "Six goddamn years. You've been here, what, a few months? I gave everything. No one offered me shit but lousy tips and a backache. Now some suit's gonna sweep you off? What am I, yesterday's trash?"
Behind her, a newer girl hovers nervously, ready to intervene. The rest keep their eyes on their mirrors, no one wants in on Rhea's drama. My pulse skips. I open my mouth, close it again. The desperation in Rhea's eyes makes my own throat tight. This isn't really about me, it's about what she never got.
"Rhea…" I start, softer. I want to reach out. But she wipes her eye, smearing eyeliner, furious at herself for slipping.
"Forget it," she mutters, voice hard. "Just…watch your back, Lyra. Those people? They chew girls like you up. Think this place is bad? Stairways to Heaven'll spit you out worse." She snatches her lace shawl and storms out. "And when they do, don't come looking for sisterhood."
I flinch as she shoulders past, a trail of perfume and frustration left behind. The door swings shut, silencing the music for a second. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Hands tremble. I brace them on the counter, blinking hard at my reflection. My reflection holds, but a tremor flutters beneath my skin, like a spiderweb just split.
I meet my own eyes in the glass, jaw tight. My fingers tap the counter once, the sound sharp. Rhea's shape passes behind me, her hunched shoulders, the glint of tears she's trying to hide. I look away first, leave the hopes and grudges right there in the mirror and get back to work.
I draw a shaky breath, finish getting ready, adjust the strap of my top, force my face into that sultry mask. Show time. Emotions off, armor on. Before I head out, I whisper to no one, "I don't think I'm getting out either, Rhea." One last look at the mirror and I slip out to the floor.
The night grinds on. I climb the stage again, heat prickling across my bare skin as the strobe lights scatter my shadow across the floor. Music throbs through the soles of my boots, through my ribs. I grip the pole, slide and swing, every movement smooth and practiced hips rolling, a smile flickering just long enough for a credit toss. Sweat slicks my back; I feel every greedy eye. Inside, my mind drifts, counting beats, counting bills, feeling myself slip further away with every spin.
A few lewd jokes shouted from the crowd, a few leers, the usual shower of cred-chits and folded bills at my heels. I gather them up with practiced seduction, every wink and lick of my lips calculated to draw just a little more. It's a performance; inside, I feel like I'm watching someone else, some other Lyra up there giving them what they want.
Later, I even managed a private dance for a half-sober corpo-type, the kind of bland salaryman who frequents places like this to live dangerously for five minutes. I let him think I'm into it, trailing my fingers along his collar and brushing my lips close to his ear as I straddle his lap in the VIP booth. His hands twitch at his sides; he's itching to touch me, but he knows the club rules – look but don't grab unless you pay extra.
I can smell his cheap cologne mixing with the stale beer on his breath. My mind floats somewhere above it all, counting the seconds. When it's over he leaves flush-faced and I'm a few creds richer, but somehow I feel a little poorer in spirit. Lewd when appropriate, Lyra, I mock myself silently. Anything for the rent, right?
Around 3 AM, the club is winding down. The crowd has thinned to a few stragglers and hard-luck cases clinging to their last moments of neon bliss. I'm bone-tired, sitting in a corner nursing a bottle of water and waiting for the final call.
That's when I notice Big Roman and Mace exchange a look near the bathrooms. Roman's massive frame blocks the hallway as he speaks into his comm piece. Mace's face is drawn tight with the kind of frown he saves for real trouble.
Curious, I haul myself up and drift toward them. I catch a glimpse past Roman's shoulder, someone is slumped on the tile floor of the men's bathroom, half-hidden by the door. A pale arm in a dirty jacket sleeve sprawls out into the hall.
My stomach sinks. I recognize that jacket. It belongs to Jim, a quiet regular who usually sits at the end of the bar, nursing one drink all night. He always tipped me a couple of creds even if I never danced for him specifically. He was harmless.
Now he's looking very still.
Mace sees me and steps into my path, gently but firmly redirecting me back toward the bar with a hand on my shoulder. "Go on, Lyra. Get your stuff. Don't need you back here," he says, voice soft but urgent.
"What happened?" I ask, even though I already know. My eyes dart to the half-open bathroom door. I can make out the scuffed floor, one flickering fluorescent light inside and Jim's lifeless hand.
Mace's lips press into a thin line. "Overdose," he says under his breath. "Chombatta took a bad hit on something. Probably black lace or heaven help him, maybe that new street junk." He shakes his head. "Med crew's on the way."
Something twists in my chest. Not shock but a heavy sadness, grim and familiar. Jim. I never even knew his last name. He was here almost every night, quietly drinking and watching the dancers, searching for something in the lights. Now he's just another body on a cold tile floor. Another soul this place chewed up and spat out.
Around us, the club carries on in its own little bubble of obliviousness. The final songs still play and one of the girls is half-heartedly finishing her set on stage, unaware or pretending not to notice what's happening in the back.
A couple of patrons have realized something's wrong – I see concerned looks, whispers. But there's no big panic, no screams. It's almost routine. The bouncers know the drill: clear the area, call the medics to quietly cart off the latest victim. Try not to make a scene; overdoses are bad for business.
I bite my lip hard and blink away the sting in my eyes. No one gets out of this place clean. I don't know where I heard that... maybe Big Roman said it once or one of the jaded old dancers on a bad night. It rings in my head now with cruel certainty. You either leave the Chrome Daisy in debt, in handcuffs or in a body bag.
"Goddammit," I whisper, not sure if I'm cursing Jim for giving in or the world for driving him to it. Maybe both. Maybe myself, too, for being part of this circus.
Roman catches my eye and gives a small shake of his head, a silent nothing you can do. Mace squeezes my shoulder and releases. "Go on, hun," he repeats gently. "We'll handle this."
There's nothing else to say. I nod and turn away, heart heavy and head to the back to collect my things. The music from the stage transitions into a tiny recording of some exit announcement. The club's shutting down for the night. The dancers move listlessly, ready to go home and wash off the sweat, glitter and despair. Another night over.