~Rebecca~
The word popped into my head like an intrusive thought.
"Hmm," I said aloud.
"Hmm what?" Maya's voice floated from the kitchen.
I spat, rinsed, and wandered into the living room. Maya was stirring a pot, Dre was still glued to his phone, and I was having a mild existential crisis.
"I'm thinking about quitting," I announced.
Maya looked up. "Quitting what? Life? Because same."
"My job."
Dre finally glanced up. "The billionaire boss job? The one that pays your rent?"
"Yes, that one," I said, flopping onto the couch. "I can't do it anymore. He's horrible. Like, actually horrible. Today he called me pathetic."
Maya winced. "Ouch."
"So I'm thinking…" I hesitated. "Maybe I could, you know. Strip."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Maya pointed her wooden spoon at me like a weapon. "Don't you dare."
"Why not?" I shot back. "It's good money. Flexible hours. I get to be in control for once instead of fetching coffee for Satan."
"Rebecca—"
"I'm serious!" I sat up. "I've been researching it. There are clubs, private gigs, all kinds of options. I could make in one night what I make in a week at Martinez Corp."
Dre snorted. "Yeah, and also maybe get murdered."
"Thank you, Dre, very helpful," I muttered.
Maya set down the spoon and crossed her arms. "Becca. Listen to me. Stripping is dangerous. You don't know who you're dealing with. And you—" she gestured vaguely at me, "—you can barely handle your boss yelling at you. How are you going to handle drunk men grabbing at you?"
"I'll figure it out," I said stubbornly.
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "You're insane."
"I'm desperate," I corrected.
And I was. Desperate enough to open my laptop and start searching.
Exotic dancer jobs NYC. Private entertainer. Strip clubs hiring.
Most of the listings were sketchy as hell. But then I saw something…..different.
It wasn't on Indeed or Craigslist. It was buried in a forum I had stumbled onto, the kind of place where people posted things they didn't want traced. Dark web-adjacent. Definitely not legal-looking.
A single post:
Private auditions. Discretion guaranteed. Tryout fee: $1,000. If approved, contract and payment terms negotiable. Serious inquiries only.
There was a link.
I clicked it.
A message box popped up, asking for my email.
I glanced over my shoulder. Maya was back to cooking, muttering something about me being hardheaded, and Dre had his headphones on.
Screw it.
I typed in my email and hit send.
Then I closed the laptop and tried to pretend I hadn't just potentially signed my death warrant.
~
I was brushing my teeth again, yeah stress brushing, a new hobby, when my phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, toothbrush still in my mouth, and stared at the screen.
An email. From an address that was just a string of numbers.
Audition available tonight. 9 PM. Address attached. Come alone. Wear something…..appropriate.
My heart stopped. No way.
"Holy shit," I whispered around the toothbrush.
"What?" Maya called from the kitchen.
I spat, rinsed, and walked out, phone clutched in my hand.
"I got a response," I said.
Maya looked up. "A response to what?"
"The…..thing. The audition thing."
Her eyes went wide. "You applied?"
"Kind of?"
"Rebecca!"
"It's tonight!" I said, my voice pitching higher. "Like, tonight tonight. In two hours."
Dre looked up. "That's sus as hell."
"Extremely sus," Maya agreed, abandoning her cooking to march over to me. "You are not going."
"I have to," I said. "The tryout fee is a thousand dollars. A thousand. Just to audition. If I get approved, who knows how much I could make?"
"Or," Maya countered, "you could get kidnapped and sold into a human trafficking ring."
"Dramatic much?"
"I'm being realistic!"
I looked at the email again. The address was in Manhattan. A nice part, actually, thankfully not some creepy warehouse in Brooklyn.
"Look," I said. "If I get kidnapped, you know where to find me. I'll send you the address."
Maya groaned, her eyes filled with worry. "You're going to die."
"Probably," I admitted. "But at least I'll die with my rent paid."
Dre shook his head. "You're crazy, Rebecca."
"Thanks, Dre. Love you too."
I went to my room and tore through my closet, looking for the sexiest thing I owned. Which, admittedly, wasn't much. I settled on a black bodysuit I had bought for a Halloween party two years ago and never worn again, paired with fishnets, a leather jacket, and boots that made my legs look longer than they actually were.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane.
But I was doing it anyway.
I grabbed my phone, sent Maya the address, and added: If I'm not back by midnight, call the police.
Her response was immediate: I HATE YOU.
I grinned, pocketed my phone, and headed for the door.
"Wish me luck!" I called.
"I wish you sense!" Maya yelled back.
Too late for that.
I stepped out into the night, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, and absolutely no idea what I was walking into.
But hey.
At least it wasn't fetching coffee for Cassian Martinez.