Page 3 of Malachai
"Still no."
"—He's offering twenty thousand—"
"I don't care if he's offering a million."
"—Just to see you dance behind closed doors. Just one dance. No touching."
I pushed off the doorframe and took one step into the room. Just one. Enough to let him know I wasn't scared of him. Enough to let him know I never would be.
"I don't do privates. I don't fuck for money. My stage is my sanctuary." I cocked my head, let my eyes go flat. "If he wants to see me, he can buy a front-row seat like everybody else."
"He's a dangerous man to say no to." Dutch's voice dropped into something that was almost a plea. Almost a threat.
I smiled. It wasn't warm.
"Then it's a good thing I'm a dangerous woman."
I turned my back on him.
"Don't regret this," he warned.
I didn't answer. Just walked.
The hallway was dim. The air was thick—hairspray, sweat, desperate ambition.
The energy back here was pure battery acid. You could taste it on your tongue. You could feel it crawling under your skin.
"Look at her."
Mercedes's voice sliced through the locker room before I even made it through the door.
"Thinking she's the Queen of fucking Africa because she won't go to the back." She was sprawled on the cracked vinyl couch, one leg crossed over the other, acrylic nails tapping against her phone screen like she was bored. But she wasn't bored. She was venomous. "You ain't nothing but a glorified gymnast, Midnight. Eventually the money dries up for girls who won't play the game."
The other three girls in the room laughed. It was hollow. Rehearsed. The kind of laugh you do when you're scared of the woman talking and hoping she won't turn on you next.
I walked straight up to Mercedes. Invaded her space until she had to lean back against the vanity, until her perfume—something cheap and cloying—filled my nose. Until she could see every freckle on my face, every rhinestone still clinging to my skin, every ounce of I don't give a fuck in my eyes.
"The difference between us, Mercedes, is that I'm the game." My voice was quiet. Soft. The kind of soft that cuts deeper than screaming. "You're just a player getting played."
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
"Keep my name out of your mouth before I decide to take your sets too."
She went quiet.
I didn't bother showering.
The stalls were filthy. The drains were clogged.
I pulled on my silk joggers and my oversized hoodie. I tucked my long blonde hair away. Hiding Midnight.
The adrenaline from my set was fading. My hands were starting to shake. From the crash. From the space between being worshipped and being alone.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the side exit.
The parking lot was a graveyard of luxury cars and broken dreams.
I hit the remote on my key fob. The lights of my Maybach chirped in the distance—
