My stomach is no longer churning. The second those snaps popped open, numbness took over. I’ll gladly take it, because I have another minute and a half of this song and that vest wasn’t the last thing that needs to hit the stage if I want this job.

And so I push away the catcalls and shouts as I continue with my well-practiced moves and I let my mind drift elsewhere. To the valleys of Tuscany, where I could run a small vineyard. To the African hills, where I could watch lions bask in the hot sun; the Swiss Alps, where I could fly through the air on a snowboard. I don’t know how to snowboard. But maybe one day, I’ll learn.

By the time I reach up to tug the strings of my bikini top, to let the scrap of material drop, fully exposing my br**sts to the cool, air-conditioned room and the cheers and whistles, I’m tanning on a private beach in the Maldives.

I’m anywhere but trafficking drugs. Or stripping on this stage.

Anywhere but in my shameful life.

It isn’t until I’ve escaped backstage—my body shaking as the rush of adrenaline fades—that I’m able to breathe again. I did it. I made it through my first strip show. I swallow the revulsion bubbling up. I just stripped on a stage. I just stripped in front of a club full of men. They may not have touched me, but . . .

I have the bikini top on in seconds and yet I feel the need to curl my arms around myself, to hug my own body. And I wish Ginger were here, because I sure could use her friendly comfort again right now.

By the looks of the black-haired woman in an electric-blue leather outfit glaring at me with a crooked smirk, I’m not going to get it from her. “You’ve never been on a stage before, have you?” Her eyes skim my body as I quickly do up the snaps on my vest.

I take a deep breath to steady the wobble in my voice and appear confident. “Not in Miami. Why?”

Raising one eyebrow at me, she mutters, “No reason.”

A rare sting bites my eyes. I wasn’t good. I was bad. I was up there, on the stage, thinking that I might be doing okay but I wasn’t. I reeked of amateurism. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to burst out in mortified tears before I can control it.

I will not cry in front of her, or anyone else.

“Next up is . . . China!” Terry’s voice calls out over the system as the first notes of “Like a Prayer” comes on. With a smirk, the woman—who I assume is China—brushes past me to take to the stage. I fight the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

I’m fully dressed again, running down the steps, and making my way out into the bar area, when I realize that I didn’t pick up a single bill off the tip rail. “Shit!” I curse, tears now scorching my eyeballs. I just stripped for free. A trip to hell . . . for nothing!

I blink several times to keep from bawling in the middle of a strip club and, when I’ve refocused, clear-eyed, I see a fistful of money, attached to a tall, attractive blond smiling bouncer, in front of me. “Here . . . You may want this.” I’m not sure if it’s because I just stripped in front of a crowd or the conversation with that bitch—who is now stalking around the stage like she owns the place—or the way this guy is smiling at me, but I just stand and stare at him, utterly speechless.

“I’m Ben.”

Ben is my knight in shining armor.

It takes me a few moments to gather my wits. Ben waits patiently while I do. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me,” I say behind red cheeks, muttering a “thanks” as I accept the wad of bills. “Wow.”

“Yeah, you did well for your first night.” He takes in my frown of confusion and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just . . .” I cast a sidelong glare at China in time to see her dress hit the ground as she blows a kiss at a short, bald man. She doesn’t waste any time. “I didn’t think I did very well. I didn’t really interact with anyone.” I did exactly zero interaction.

Ben’s head nods in agreement. “You’d definitely make a lot more if you threw out a few winks and smiles. But Penny’s isn’t your typical club, and a lot of these guys will pay for a good show. That was a good show.”

“Thanks, Ben.” I like this guy already. Even though his attention has shifted from the stage to my chest, where it lingers with a small, knowing grin. I cross my arms over my chest and the grin only widens. I realize there’s no point covering myself. He has probably committed to memory exactly what’s beneath my clothes, as has most of the crowd. Mercifully, Ben turns and strolls toward the main bar. I trail him as he leads me to the area where Cain was standing, my head ducked slightly so as not to attract anyone’s attention.

I think I’ll collapse on the floor if someone says a single word to me.

I need a happy verdict tonight. If I’m going to do this, it has to be at Penny’s. My gut tells me so.

Now that I’m off the stage, the place doesn’t seem quite as threatening. The lights aren’t as bright, the music isn’t as distorted, and I’m no longer alone. There are girls everywhere. There must be forty girls on the floor right now. My eyes roam the club to take in the sleek, simple yet sophisticated furniture and fixtures that I didn’t notice earlier. The style, the atmosphere, all exude the bit of Cain that I’ve seen. Classy, masculine, yet with an edge of something uncertain.

Speaking of Cain . . .

I glance around, looking for him in earnest, and catch Ginger’s eye from behind the bar. She gestures at an empty glass and mouths, “Do you want a drink?”

I nod appreciatively. Charlie Rourke is twenty-two years old and legally allowed to drink, after all, so why shouldn’t I take advantage of that? Drinking underage is the least of my law-breaking problems.

“Where’s Cain?” I ask as Ben settles in next to Nate.

“He left.” A tiny smirk touches Ben’s nice lips. “I think he had something to take care of. Something about a five-knuckle shuffle.”

“Oh.” Disappointment drowns out my hopes. He didn’t even stay long enough to hire me. It’s my fault. I didn’t interact with the crowd, after all. Not like the dancer before me, who was doing downward-facing dog in a piece of floss, inches away from a guy’s face. And certainly not like China, who appears ready to peel off her . . . Yup, there goes her thong. I didn’t even take my shorts off and she’s fully nude. I don’t know how a person does that. Maybe she’s a better actress than I am.

A sharp twinge of pain strikes in my chest again, deepening the relentless throb that has only been growing these last few weeks. I’d like to think it’s a bad case of heartburn, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. What am I going to do if I don’t get this job? As much as I hated being up there, as icky as I still feel, I need a new identity like the one that Sam arranged for me—the kind that lets you start completely over, legitimately.

Without that, I’ll be forced to look for under-the-table work. I won’t be able to drive legally, or open a bank account, or rent an apartment, or register for college. Or travel. Without a legitimate card with a name and my face on it, I won’t be able to start fresh and lead a good, normal life. People don’t realize how vital something like a piece of ID is.

If Cain doesn’t hire me, I guess I’ll have to go back to Sin City with my tail between my legs. Just the memory of that hairy, sweaty guy with his pants around his thighs makes my legs clamp shut.