Page 3 of The Last Dance

The lights were blinding. It took two steps to adjust and then you did what you were trained to do: find your mark, hit your pose, and make every person in the room think you were dancing just for them.

If you did it right, it felt less like performance and more like hypnosis. I liked that part of it. I liked knowing I could control the temperature of a room with nothing but the slow roll of a shoulder or the bend of a knee.

But my eyes kept cutting back to Parsons.

He watched the whole set without blinking, hands folded, one finger tapping the rim of his glass. I tried to ignore him. Failed. The song ended and the lights went down. We bowed, exited, and I ducked the long way around to the dressing room.

Inside, the room stank of body spray and nerves. I grabbed a towel, wiped down, and checked my phone. Nothing new. I expected that. I had three contacts in my phone, none of them social.

Carmine breezed in, grinning. “Hey, you going out after?”

“Nah,” I said.

“Lame,” he said, but with a kind of affection. “You want a lift? Zain’s leaving early.”

I shrugged. “I’ll walk. Need the air.”

Carmine hesitated, then said, “If you’re worried about that guy, just say. Manager can kick him.”

I smiled, but it was a lie. “He’s fine. Just gives me the creeps.”

Carmine nodded. “Yeah. Hey, come to my set, will you? I need someone to hoot and holler.”

“Deal,” I said.

He left, and I sat for a second, listening to the thump of the next song through the wall.

The jar in my backpack was already half-full. I didn’t know what I’d do when it was full. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

I toweled off again, made a face at my reflection in the mirror, and headed out.

On my way past Parsons’ booth, I pretended not to see him, but he had left something under his empty glass: a folded card, edges crisp, my stage name written in tight, upright script.

I picked it up and didn’t stop walking.

Once out of sight, I opened the card. Inside, a verse: “Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.”

No phone number this time.

I slipped the card into my waistband, where it scratched cold against my skin. Then I went back to the floor and smiled for the next guy who was lonely.

* * * *

The hallway to the back bar was just wide enough for a single human, which meant every trip was an exercise in forced intimacy. It was also the only place in the club where you could hear yourself breathe, the music a distant, muffled heartbeat.

I was halfway down the corridor, towel still damp around my neck, when Parsons stepped into the far end and stopped. There was no mistake about it. He’d been waiting for me.

I kept moving. My best chance was to let him see I wasn’t afraid, even if my heart was trying to wriggle out through my ribcage. He didn’t block the way like a guy starting a fight. He just stood, hands in pockets, eyes fixed. Calculated. Polite.

“Iren.” He said it like a password.

I gave him a polite smile. “We’re not supposed to talk to customers back here.”

He ignored the script. “I’ve been praying for you.” His voice was always soft. I’d heard softer, but not in a context like this. “God has a plan for you. I’m only supposed to help you see it.”

I wanted to laugh, but that would only escalate. “Thanks, but I’m late for a set.”

He moved aside—almost, just enough for me to think I could squeeze past. I tried. As I did, he caught my wrist, right above the bone. It wasn’t a hard grip, but it was final, like a paperweight on a letter. His fingers were cold, dry. He didn’t squeeze. He just held on.