Holly sat in front of the vanity, the familiar fluorescent buzz overhead making her skin look a little too pale in the mirror. She leaned in close, steadying her hand as she traced her eyeliner into a perfect flick, then softened it with the smudge of a brush. A tube of deep red lipstick waited beside her, the kind that didn't fade no matter how hot the stage lights burned or how many drinks got passed across the bar. She pressed the colour onto her lips, blotted once, then leaned back to take herself in.
Her hair was already teased high, sprayed into glossy defiance, and she ran her fingers through the strands one last time to make sure every piece fell exactly where she wanted. The rhinestone thong glittered under the light as she adjusted it into place, smoothing the straps along her hips before stepping into strappy silver heels that bit at her ankles, but made her legs look like they'd go on forever.
She'd done this a hundred times, in a hundred variations, but tonight there was a heaviness under the routine. As she moved from makeup to outfit to jewellery, her thoughts kept circling back to Grayson. She pictured him behind the bar, jaw tight, hands quick, pretending like the weight of everything around him didn't bother him, when she knew it did.
It wasn't her problem anymore, she told herself, not really. But she couldn't shake the image of him being with Kane — that dangerous shadow of a man who seemed to own every inch of space he walked into. Kane was the kind of bad that didn't just ruin you; he made sure you thanked him for it afterward. And Grayson, for all his stubbornness, wasn't built for that. Not really.
She regretted her own moment of desperation, the one time she'd caved, let pride slip in exchange for money she needed. It wasn't something she planned on repeating, but she'd done it, and it left a mark. She didn't love Grayson, but once, she'd thought maybe they could have been something. Instead, she'd realized she had a habit of liking bad men, the kind you didn't bring home to meet anyone. Men with sharp edges and smoother lies.
Sometimes, if she was being really honest, she even wondered about that blonde at Elysium, the one with the smirk and the habit of looking at her like he already knew her secrets. She hated him, obviously.
Her cue came, snapping her out of it. She stepped onto the stage with the easy, practised sway of someone who knew exactly how to move for the room's attention. The lights hit her, hot and white, and the low thrum of bass rolled through her heels. She danced slow, sensual, letting each movement pull eyes toward her without ever looking like she was trying too hard. For a split second, she thought she saw him, not Grayson, but someone with his build, leaning back in the crowd, watching. Her pulse jumped before she realized it wasn't him.
Shaking it off, she reminded herself she didn't need to be thinking about Grayson, Connor, or Kane, or anything outside this stage. She needed to focus, to earn, to work. And maybe, she thought with a dry, private smirk, she just needed to get laid by someone who wasn't complicated.
The rest of her set blurred into muscle memory — hips, turns, bends — until the lights dimmed and she was sliding backstage again. In the dressing room, she swapped rhinestones and heels for jeans and a tank, counting her tips with quick fingers. It wasn't a bad night. Not great, but enough. She poured herself a quick drink at the bar before heading out, sipping slow, letting the burn sit on her tongue.
That was when her manager approached. His face didn't carry the usual forced charm; his mouth was set in a line.
"You're done," he said.
She blinked, the words taking a beat to sink in. "Excuse me?"
"Clean out your locker before the next shift."
She stared at him. "What? Why?"
He gave a lazy shrug. "Don't make trouble for me, Hol. Just… don't come back."
Then he walked off, already looking for the next thing on his list.
Holly stood there for a long moment, the noise of the bar suddenly too loud, her drink still untouched in her hand. She didn't know who'd pulled the strings or why, but the hollow in her stomach told her this wasn't random. Not at all.