I stop mid-stride and pull out my cell. I need to cancel tonight. Cole’s number sits heavily in my palm. I should never have agreed. He’d been so persuasive and kind. It’s astonishing the effect the simple kindness of a stranger can have when you feel like there’s no hope. For five minutes while I sipped my coffee and he made small talk I forgot to be stressed. It was heaven. I press call and am immediately transferred to my payment line. The robotic voice announces that I don’t have sufficient credit to make a call, and I’m being diverted. I don’t have the money to load anything onto my cell. My face flushes with the shame of not being able to afford something as menial as a telephone call. I can’t cancel this evening now unless he decides to contact me.

The coffee I finished begins to churn around in my stomach, mixing with a healthy dose of apprehension and weakness to form a sickening dread that I don’t seem to have control over any aspect of my life. Mom always used to tell me that a fairytale only ends when you’ve finished reading the story and close the book.

I think life just closed my book.

I make it to Reveal twenty minutes before my audition time. I look around at the building, taking in the huge black double doors and the red Broadway-style signage that blinks out the name of the club. There’s nothing on the outside to give away what is happening on the other side of those mammoth doors. No windows, no posters, nothing. Just a thin red strip of carpet under the awning and a brass railing with red rope. It looks far classier than I was imagining, but then I had let my imagination get the better of me. I was expecting a frontage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the back streets of Amsterdam’s red light district.

“You here for an audition?” a woman asks, walking past me and throwing the door open.

“Oh, um, yeah. Hi, I’m Robyn,” I offer, taking in all of what must be five feet nothing of her. She’s like a tiny little pixie with cropped blonde hair, flat biker boots, and huge boobs.

“Oh, Lucy’s friend? I’m Annie.”

“That’s me,” I answer as I walk through the door she’s holding open and into the club. “Wow, this place is impressive!”

“It doesn’t look like much empty, but it comes into its own in the evening,” she says happily. “Follow me.”

I do as she asks, winding my way around the circular tables that are adorned with tiny little Tiffany-style fringed lamps. I feel like I’ve stepped off the sidewalk and right back into the twenties; it’s all very Gatsbyesque. The dread that was sitting heavily in the depths of my stomach begins to subside. I’ve danced from the age of six. Ballet, tap, modern, street and anything and everything in between. It’s more than a passion; it’s an obsession bordering on insanity. If I couldn’t dance, I would cease to exist. People may call it dancing—I call it living. It’s raw, ardent expressionism, each movement distorting reality so radically that you have no choice but to feel every emotion it pulls from you.

I’ve danced almost everything, perfecting my craft, but never burlesque. My mind has always attached the style to my preconceptions around stripping. I used to think I was above it. What I do is art, and I couldn’t find the art in taking my clothes off and shaking my ass for money. After watching every YouTube clip I could find on burlesque, I have to concede that my biases are…well, simply bullshit. There’s a definite art to it, and in truth I’ve danced in music videos wearing perhaps the same amount of clothing. My eyes travel the club: the air of opulence and a distinct lack of a pole on the stage is doing wonders for my frayed nerves.

“You’re actually the first here; this is going to be a group audition. Feel free to get on stage and stretch or whatever. I’ll fetch the bossman and the others should be here soon.”

“Okay, thanks,” I shout as she exits through a large black door in the far left corner of the room that reads Private. I’m hoping it leads to an office, and not a seedy backroom for “Private” dances.

I climb onstage as I hear Annie bellow, “You’re such an ass!” as she marches back through the door with a face like thunder. My eyes widen, and she smirks at me on approach.

“You love me really, cupcake!” a deep male voice retorts, and it echoes through the room.

“I do,” she whispers to me. “But I’d rather swallow razor blades than let him in on that.”

I’m not sure how to respond. So far this isn’t exactly how I pictured this morning panning out.

I place my bag at the corner of the stage to start warming up my muscles. I have my back turned when I hear heavy footsteps and a deep raspy voice say, “Ah, you must be Miss Spears, I’m Za—” his words die as I turn to face him. Then I want to die. Literally, right here and now.

“Zane,” he finishes with the widest grin I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.

“Shit!”

I don’t mean to cuss out loud, but it’s the first thing that enters my mind and slips without warning from my lips. Now he’s laughing, a deep, amused belly laugh, and I really don’t see the funny side of this. Of course it’s him, why wouldn’t it be? The universe fucking hates me.

“We meet again,” he croons, as Annie plays eyeball tennis frantically between the two of us. She looks confused for a second before it morphs into a scowl. I guess she likes Zane. I’m also willing to bet that she’s put two and two together and come up with twenty-five. My insides twist and I contemplate walking out. If I leave now I’ll probably save myself a little humiliation. He’s not about to offer me a job, given that the last time we met I knocked him down, vomited in front of him and he carried my drunken ass home. If the saying is true and you really do only get one chance at a first impression, mine was irrevocably the worst.

“What’s up, guys?” A cheery redhead bobs into view and we all turn to look at her.

“Lauren! Morning darling, this is…Robyn, isn’t it?” Zane asks, and I nod, too numb from embarrassment to form actual words.

“Fresh meat! Yeah, I’m Lauren. I’ll be taking you through the audition routine as soon as everyone’s here,” she says looking around the empty room. “Excuse me while I go out back and get changed.”

She doesn’t wait for any kind of a reply before heading behind the curtains with Annie hot on her heels.

“I should maybe just go,” I mumble as I walk towards my bag.

“Whoa, hold on. Why?”

“I don’t know, Zane, maybe because I can’t take any more embarrassment today?”

“Look, Robyn, I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable, laughing. That was wrong and not very professional. I was just a little—shocked. If you’re worried about the other night, then don’t be. It’s forgotten. Cross my heart. Just go stretch, and when the audition starts I promise it’s me seeing you for the first time.”

I blow out a long breath and thank him. His eyes are sincere and he’s giving me a break. I appreciate it more than he’ll ever know. I need this gig desperately.

My life is kind of depending on it.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not getting it. What count do we come in with the kick ball change?” Katie, another of the auditionees, asks as we’re getting into position ready to start. Lauren, Annie, and Zane are all seated front and center as Rae cues us in with the music. She’s the dancer we’re all hoping for a shot at replacing. The girl is like a mini Hitler. Her attitude is completely no-nonsense. If you missed something, well then tough shit.

“It’s on the four,” I tell her as we begin. We’re arranged in a chorus line, each wearing the Basque and French knickers they provided. The piece we’ve rehearsed is a typical Vaudeville-style performance. The dancing itself is relatively basic, and I’m not worried. It’s the acting and exaggeration that has my pulse racing. Thirty seconds in and I’m feeling good. I know the steps, my movements are sharp, and I manage to pull my gloves off without slapping anyone in the eye. I can do this.