Dancing was like taking a shot of cheap whiskey - it burned going down but gave you that warm, foggy high you chased. As I swirled my hips around the pole, the rowdy hollering from the drunk jackasses blurred into white noise. The sweaty air in the club was as thick as Miller Lite backwash, but at least it dulled my senses to this miserable existence.
Those hungry eyes devouring every sway of my hips felt like a hit of pure adrenaline straight to the veins.
I lived for that electric charge of being admired, no - worshipped - by hundreds of lust-starved men. As I arched my back and ran my hands slowly down my body, a storm of catcalls and whistles whipped around me like a flash tornado.
I soaked it all in like a desert cedar drinking a summer rain. Their raucous shouts and applause were intoxicating. More than just the easy cash stuffed in my garter sacks came to escape into fantasy for a few blissful hours.
And I was their tantalizing oasis.
Working that pole with a ferocious grind, I could almost taste the longing radiating off them in waves. Sweaty hardhat regulars straight off the construction site, chugging down Budweisers to drown out the shrill voices of their old ladies bickering back home.
Out-of-town schmoes with beer guts hanging over their belts, looking to cut loose and cheat on their nagging, ball-busting wives they got trapped into marrying way too young. For just a few hours, they could pretend I was the smokin' hot mistress they deserved instead of the shriveled-up shrew waiting back in Keokuk. Mouth-breathers and mouth-breeders salivating over the idea of touching something as gorgeous and forbidden as me.
Oh, I gave them one hell of a tease too. Sliding my thong down with a smoldering look over my shoulder. Running my fingers through my dark tresses in that way that drove men wild. These moves were sharpened to surgical precision from years of stripping - each hip roll and hair toss calculated to lap up their desire like a cat with cream.
At the end of the day though, not a single one of those Romeos could ever put a ring on this femme fatale's finger.
Hell, I'd racked up five broken engagements by 20 - more icicles from exes who claimed they lacked the love I deserved or were "disappointed I wasn't as sexy as they thought."
Whatever.
I didn't need a husband holding me back. Not when I was the sluttiest entertainer on the entire Miami Strip.
As I dismounted the stage in a sultry crawl, I blew a stream of kisses into the crowd, watching grown-ass men scramble like bargain hunters at a stock clearance sale.
Let them have their fun dreaming about this wildcat. Just don't ever expect me to be put in some golden cage...
***
I plopped down on the ratty damask couch in the dressing room, eyeing Nat as she chopped out a few lines of that premium-grade coke on the battered makeup counter. My bestie had kicked that habit a few months back, but some days the emptiness still hollowed her out until she caved for a bump or two.
"You want a taste, Iz?" Nat offered, already shoveling a nostril-full up her substantially abused snout. I shook my head, even though a little pick-me-up sounded decent right about now.
Nat sniffed hard then let out a relieved sigh, the tension melting off her shoulders. "Ughh, I really needed that. This new guy I've been seeing is driving me up the freakin' wall!"
Here we go again. I rolled my eyes as Nat launched into another rambling rundown of her latest "ick's" douchey behaviors - forgetting their dates, only calling for late-night hookups, all the typical fuckboy nonsense.
"Why do you even bother with these clowns?" I groaned once she finally stopped for air. "We both know damn well none of them will put a ring on either of our fingers."
Nat just gave me a hollow look, suddenly more somber and lucid than that high could sustain. I braced myself, knowing the brutal truth that was coming.
"Please, Iz. We're damaged goods," she said with a defeated shrug. "Deep down, you know we don't deserve an actual good man. Why bother kidding ourselves?"
I felt those harsh words like a slap across the face, because they rang with an ugly honesty I could never admit out loud. We were both too fucked up inside, mere shells of the bright-eyed girls we used to be.
But then Nat's expression twisted into a foxy smirk, one sculpted from years of seedy strip club wisdom. "But who gives a shit? There's always gonna be some schmuck out there willing to wifey up a hot mess like us."
"Come again?"
Nat let out a cracked laugh. "You know the types, babe. Those desperate dipshits who lower their standards so far into the gutter, a literal hooker or freaking Virgin Mary 2.0 would be an upgrade for them. As long as we're warm bodies to crawl inside, they'll eventual throw us a ring just to lock it down."
I chuckled, but I wasn't amused.
I was scared.
My therapist had tried explaining it to me once, something about objectification and lacking a sense of self-worth beyond my looks.
All that psychobabble didn't change the fact that from the moment I first started stripping at 18, I accepted that my body was the only valuable asset I had to offer.
Sure, the weekly sessions helped keep me from unaliving myself on the really dark nights. But at the end of the day, no amount of talky-talk could fill that endless void carving me out from the inside.
As Nat continued justifying how we could still lock down a desperate loser, I tuned her out and instead turned my thoughts to my usual numbing agent - alcohol. Maybe if I pounded enough cheap vodka after our shift, I could finally black out into beautiful nothingness for once.
The neon lights of the strip clubs and dive bars slowly faded in the rearview as I trudged along the deserted sidewalks. I clutched my thin jacket tightly, wishing I could just disappear inside it - trade this fragile frame for something stronger, something that couldn't be so easily broken.
Those catcalls and whistles that had washed over me like an electric storm just hours ago now felt like a distant echo. Up on that stage, I was a fantasy made flesh - powerful, untouchable, adored. But out here on these dimly lit streets, I was just Isabella again. Alone, vulnerable...and so very tired.
I flinched at every sudden noise - the wail of a car alarm, the crash of a dumpster lid slamming shut. My heart jackhammered in my chest as I strained to hear any approaching footsteps over the thudding of blood in my ears.
God, just get me home safe...
"If it ain't my little payday."
The gravelly voice was like aluminum safety dragging down my spine. I didn't need to turn around. I knew that sneering tone better than my own heartbeat.
"D-Dario..." I choked out, frozen in place. "What are you doing here?"
"You know damn well what I'm after, you ungrateful bitch." His footsteps slowly closed the distance between us. "That cash your abuela left you. I want every last cent."
Abuela's life insurance money. The one inheritance that was mine and mine alone - my only hope of finally escaping this nightmarish existence. I thought I had carefully covered my tracks, kept it all hidden...
"I-I don't have it," I stammered, hating how meek I sounded. "That money's locked away safe, you'll never-"
The blinding explosion of pain detonated before I even saw his fist draw back. White strobed across my vision as I crumpled to the grimy pavement, tasting copper. That familiar metallic tang filled my mouth, a sickly warmth seeping over my lips.
Dario's stubbled face appeared in my bleary sight, twisting into a sneer. "Don't play fuckin' games with me, girl." Rancid whiskey fumes wafted over me as he grabbed a fistful of my dark locks, jerking my head off the ground. "You think I don't know about that fancy Swiss bank account your granny set up?"
Swiss bank...? But how could he have possibly...?
Gloria must've told him.
He pulled harder, yanking my head back at a brutal angle until stars danced across my vision. "We can do this the easy way," he hissed, spittle flying from his twisted mouth. "Give me them account numbers, nice and easy-like. Hell, maybe I won't even bust you up too bad this time."
"P-please...don't do this..."
It was like I was eight years old again, trapped beneath his suffocating bulk in that dingy trailer. I choked on the memory, bile burning the back of my throat. God, why was this happening again? How many times would this monster haunt me before death finally took me?
"Aww, what's the matter, preciosa?" He sneered down at me, giving another vicious tug to my hair. "Don't you remember all the good times we used to have back in the day, just you and me?"
My jaw hung slack as I writhed on the filthy pavement. How many times had that smug, wrinkled face twisted into those same revolting expressions of pleasure while stealing away pieces of my innocence?
I retched, years of repressed horrors unleashing in a gut-wrenching torrent. It all came spewing forth - the shame, the hopelessness, the self-loathing spackled across every inch of my being in thick, weeping layers. And there he was, glowering down with the same vile, insatiable entitlement that had mutilated my youth.
I didn't know when the screaming started. Maybe it was me howling, thrashing against the unforgiving concrete like a madwoman possessed. Or perhaps the tortured cries echoed from someplace deeper, some primal dimension of purest agony.
Dario reared back, eyes widening briefly at my unhinged outburst. But that moment of shock melted into his trademark sneer of dark amusement.
"There she is..." He chuckled, voice dripping with paternal condescension. His free hand moved to unbuckle his belt, the harsh clink of the buckle like bone-shuddering knell. "That's my little spitfire. Always did love it when you put up a fight..."
No. Not again.
That sickening wheezy laugh crackling through his yellow teeth. "Shoulda paid up when you had the chance, you worthless..."
But his insult was cut off by a deafening bang that shattered the night. Dario's eyes went wide with shock before he slumped forward, his dead weight crushing down on me.
I shoved his limp body off with everything I had, gulping down air in ragged gasps. My heart was pounding out of my chest as I whipped my head around, trying to spot where that gunshot came from.
That's when I saw him - those same piercing blue eyes that had bored into me at the club a week ago. The man who'd wrapped his calloused hand around my throat and whispered a hot threat in my ear.
But this time, instead of leaving me shaken, he was holding a smoking pistol. A ghost of a smirk played across his chiseled face as he gave the gun a little twirl.
Something murderous glinted in those icy blues, like I was his next target.