ZARA POV
"Stop, get off me, Gerald please, please just stop."
"Stop hitting me." He growled angrily at me.
"Please, I'm begging you, please don't do this, please."
He ignored me, pinning both my wrists above my head with one hand while the other ripped my shirt off, his weight crushing me into the couch cushions.
I cried out, hating that I was crying because it never helped, never made him stop, just made him feel like he was winning.
"Gerald please, I'll do anything, just please don't."
Nothing.
He ripped my panties off and slammed his fingers into me, hard. I bit my tongue against the scream trying to come out while tears ran down my face.
My fingers searched the coffee table beside the couch, quiet, desperate, trying not to let him notice, closing around the TV remote first, too light, then reaching further, I felt something cold, thin and familiar.
The letter opener.
I had left it there three days ago and forgotten about it completely, and in that moment it was the most important thing I had ever touched.
I went still.
He loosened his grip slightly, the way he always did when he thought the fight had gone out of me.
I drove it into his side as hard as I could.
The sound he made didn't belong to a human, he reared back clutching his side, and I grabbed the scissors off the side table and drove them into his shoulder when he reached for me, then hit him across the face so hard my palm split open.
He went down.
I stood over him shaking, both hands bloody, watching him try to get up but couldn’t , and something in me that had been terrified for seven straight years just went cold and decided it was done.
"You little," he started.
I hit him again, and again, screaming as I let everything out on him.
"Zara, Zara, ZARA."
I jerked awake so hard I nearly fell off the chair, both hands gripping my thighs, heart going absolutely crazy, the locker room coming back into focus around me slowly.
The sticky vinyl bench, the vanity lights too bright, the smell of perfume, sweat and cigarette smoke that had soaked into the walls of The Red Room so deep it was never coming out.
Dre was in the doorway with his clipboard, not looking at me directly, as usual.
"You're up in five," he said, and left.
I pressed both hands flat on my thighs and breathed.
"Bad one?" Gia said from the chair next to me without looking up from her phone, already fully beat, rhinestones catching the light every time she moved.
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"Because I'm always fine."
"You were talking in your sleep again Zara."
I didn't answer that, just stood up and checked my reflection in the mirror, full face, lashes, lips done, the costume all straps and shine, my natural hair pinned back tight. The scar above my right eyebrow caught the light the way it always did and I looked at it for exactly one second before looking away.
"You're doing the thing," Gia said.
"What thing."
"The mirror thing, where you stare at yourself like you're looking for something to feel bad about."
"I'm checking my makeup."
"Your makeup is perfect, go make your money," she finally put her phone down and looked at me properly, "how much you got left on your contract?"
"Eighteen months."
"Same answer as last week."
"Eighteen months is eighteen months Gia."
"I know, I know," she stood up and adjusted her straps, checking her own reflection beside mine, "Marcus was looking for you earlier by the way."
"What did he want."
"Didn't say, just told me to tell you he needs to talk before your set."
"He can talk after."
"He said before."
"Then he's going to be disappointed," I picked up my lip gloss, touched up my bottom lip, put it back, "what did he look like when he said it?"
"Like Marcus," Gia said, "stressed, sweaty, straightening things that didn't need straightening, you know how he gets when something big is happening."
"Something big like what."
"Private booking tonight, big one apparently, he's been weird about it all day, won't say who it is, just keeps telling everyone to be on their best behavior," she paused, "he looked at me specifically when he said that part."
"He always looks at you for that part."
"Because I have the most attitude," she said it with zero shame, just fact, "he wants the best girls on the floor tonight, which means you, which means whatever this booking is, it matters to him."
"Private bookings aren't my thing."
"Tell that to Marcus."
"I will."
"Zara," she turned from the mirror and looked at me straight, "don't start with him tonight okay, just do your set, smile at whoever this is, take the money, eighteen months becomes seventeen, that's all."
"I know how it works."
"I know you know, I'm just saying don't let your mouth get ahead of your situation tonight."
"My mouth has kept me alive this long."
"Your mouth has also gotten you two pay cuts and a week off the schedule," she said, "I'm just saying, be strategic tonight."
The music from the floor dropped into something heavier, the bass rattling the thin locker room walls, the crowd noise spiking up with it. I strapped my heels on and stood to my full height.
Eighteen months.
I could be strategic for eighteen more months and be out of here.
"Who do they think it is?" I said, moving toward the door.
"Nobody knows his name, Marcus isn't saying, but Keely heard from one of the bartenders that whoever it is came in a convoy last time, multiple cars, security and everything," Gia raised an eyebrow, "not a regular rich guy situation."
"They're all the same in here."
"Zara."
"They are Gia, rich, entitled, think their money makes them God, same guy every time just in a different suit."
"Maybe," she shrugged, "but this one apparently made Marcus nervous, and I have never in two years seen anything make Marcus nervous."
I pushed the door open and the music hit me full force, lights, noise and the smell of the crowd all at once.
I looked back at Gia over my shoulder, "How nervous?"
She looked at me with something I couldn't quite read, somewhere between curious and warning.
"Nervous enough to clean his office," she said, "Marcus cleaned his office Zara, voluntarily."
I stared at her for a second, then turned back toward the stage.
"Go get ready," I said, "you're on after me."
"Just be careful tonight okay," she called after me, "something feels different."
I kept walking, the stage coming into view ahead, lights bright and hot.
"Something always feels different," I said, "it never is."
