Back to the Shadows

Zara

The fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway buzzed like angry wasps. I glared at the ceiling, fighting the sudden urge to grab a chair and smash every single glowing tube into glass dust.

I sat on the hard plastic chair outside the Intensive Care Unit, gripping Lily's medical file. My knuckles turned white against the thick Manila folder. The numbers on the surgical estimate sheet blurred into a meaningless gray smudge, but the bottom line was burned into my retinas.

Ten thousand dollars for the deposit. The surgery was scheduled in three days.

I stared at the paperwork. I willed the zeroes to disappear. No deposit meant no surgery. It was a simple, brutal equation.

A shadow fell over my shoes.

The nurse paused in front of my chair. "Miss? The doctor wanted me to remind you that without the deposit by Wednesday, we'll have to postpone Lily's procedure."

I kept my eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum floor. "I know."

The nurse shifted her weight, letting out a soft sigh. Her pity was suffocating. I didn’t want sympathetic looks. I didn’t want gentle reminders. I wanted money. I wanted my parents alive to deal with this nightmare, to protect their youngest daughter instead of leaving me alone to figure out how to save her life.

Once the squeak of the nurse's rubber soles faded down the corridor, I pulled out my phone. I opened my mobile banking app.

Eight hundred and forty-seven dollars.

That was my entire safety net. Every credit card I owned was maxed out to the limit from previous hospital stays. The modest apartment my parents left us was tied up in a mortgage, rendering it useless for quick cash. My baby sister was lying in a bed just feet away, her failing congenital heart ticking down like a bomb, while the insurance company buried me in creative denial letters.

I opened my text messages. My aunt in Boston had wired two hundred dollars. My old college roommate sent one hundred and fifty, attached to a long paragraph wishing she could do more. A few other friends tossed in twenties and fifties. Their generosity twisted a cold knife in my gut. It made me want to cry and scream at the same time, because their kindness wasn't even close to enough.

My thumb hovered over my contacts list. I scrolled down to a name I swore I would take to my grave.

Donovan. My old manager at Crimson Shadows.

Eight months ago, I walked away from that club and vowed never to return. I traded the neon lights, the grabbing hands that security always ignored, and the suffocating scent of cheap cologne for a desk, a sensible skirt, and a job as a legal secretary. I needed to feel clean. I wanted a respectable life. I wanted to silence my late mother's phantom voice, the one that whispered her sharp disappointment every time I strapped on six-inch clear heels.

But a respectable life paid forty-two thousand dollars a year before taxes. Respectable wasn't going to fix Lily’s heart. The medical bills were drowning me faster than I could bail the water.

I hit the call button before I could talk myself out of it. The line rang twice.

Don's voice poured through the speaker, thick and amused. "Zara. I thought you were too good for us now."

I dug my fingernails into my palm, swallowing my pride. "I need work, Don. Just for a few weeks."

A harsh laugh rattled through the receiver like gravel in a blender. "A few weeks? You think you can just waltz back in here? I have ten girls waiting in line who would kill for a permanent spot on that stage. Why the hell would I give a slot to someone who walked out on me?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to scream that I made him a fortune. I wanted to remind him exactly how good I was at the job I despised.

I forced my voice to stay level. "I was one of your best earners, Don. You know I was."

Silence stretched over the line. I could picture him perfectly. He was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, leaning back in his ridiculous leather chair, running the numbers in his head. Donovan was a predator, but he was a businessman first. Sentimentality meant nothing to him. He wouldn't hire me out of kindness, but he might do it for profit.

He sighed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Come by tomorrow at six. I'll see if I remember you being as good as you think you were."

The line went dead before I could formulate a reply.

I lowered the phone and turned my head to look through the glass wall of the ICU. Lily was asleep. Her seventeen-year-old face looked impossibly young, peaceful despite the tangle of IV tubes and the steady beep of the heart monitor. She looked so small in that sterile bed. So fragile. Her dark hair fanned out across the white pillowcase. The faded pink scar from her last surgery three years ago peeked out from the collar of her hospital gown.

I pressed my hand against the cold glass. "I'm so sorry, Lil. I'll fix this. I promise."

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford that night. I laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. Every time my eyelids drooped, I saw my mother's disappointed scowl. Every time the wind rattled my window, I heard my father's voice demanding I stay strong. The pressure sitting on my chest was a physical weight.

By six o'clock the next evening, I was standing on the pavement outside Crimson Shadows.

The late autumn wind whipped down the street, but the shaking in my hands had nothing to do with the cold. I shoved them deep into my jacket pockets. The club hadn't changed at all. The heavy red velvet ropes cordoned off the entrance beneath a gaudy gold sign. Hugo, a bouncer built like a brick wall and squeezed into a tailored black suit, stood guard at the door.

Hugo crossed his massive arms, raising a thick eyebrow as I approached. "Zara. I heard you went legit."

I forced a careless shrug, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Legit doesn't pay the medical bills, Hugo."

He gave me a slow, assessing nod. He reached out and unhooked the velvet rope. "Don’s expecting you. Good luck."

I nodded my thanks and slipped past him. I needed a lot more than luck.

The heavy wooden door shut behind me, cutting off the sounds of the city street. The bass from the sound system vibrated up through the soles of my boots. The air smelled of expensive cigars, spilled vodka, and sweat, bathed in dim purple lighting. Since it was early, the main floor was mostly empty. A few early drinkers sat scattered in the plush leather booths. The real money wouldn't start rolling in until well past nine.

I kept my head down. I bypassed the main bar, skirted around the edge of the empty center stage, and headed straight down the dark hallway in the back.

I stopped in front of Don's office and knocked twice.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open. Don looked exactly the same. He was planted behind his desk, a phone pressed to his ear. He was firing off rapid Russian at whoever was on the other end. He flicked his gaze toward me and gestured lazily at the empty leather chair opposite his desk.

I sat down. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I kept my posture straight, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. I learned a long time ago never to interrupt his business calls.

Don finally ended the call. He tossed the phone onto the desk and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the polished wood. He dragged his eyes over me, taking in my pale face and the cheap fabric of my sensible jacket. His expression was unreadable.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You look terrible."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "Thank you."

He shook his head, pointing a pen at me. "I'm serious, Zara. You have dark circles under your eyes. You're too thin. The men who come to this club pay for a fantasy. They pay to escape reality. They do not want to see some exhausted girl struggling to survive."

I gripped my knees. "Give me one night, Don. If I don't perform to your standards, you don't have to pay me a dime."

He steepled his fingers, staring at me. "What happened to that fancy secretary job?"

I held his gaze. "I still have it. I need this work on the side."

He tapped his thumbs together. "How much money do you need?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Admitting my desperate situation gave him all the leverage, but lying to Donovan was a surefire way to get thrown out on the street. He could smell desperation like a shark sensing blood in the water.

I took a breath. "Ten thousand dollars. I need it fast."

Don let out a low, slow whistle. "That is a lot of stage time, Zara."

My throat tightened. "I know."

He tilted his head. "What is the money for?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Does it matter?"

His jaw ticked, but he didn't push the issue. That was the one decent thing about Donovan. He was a ruthless tyrant in business, but he respected the boundaries of his girls' personal lives. As long as you showed up on time and poured cash into his register, he didn't care about the messy tragedies going on outside his club.

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I don't have any open spots. My roster is full right now. I've got girls fighting in the dressing room for Friday and Saturday night shifts. I can't put you on."

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath me. The blood drained from my face, leaving my skin icy cold.

No. This couldn't be happening. This was my last resort.

I stood up on shaking legs. The backs of my eyes burned fiercely, but I refused to let a single tear fall in his office.

I forced the words past the lump in my throat. "Right. Okay. Thanks for seeing me, Don."

I turned my back to him. I forced my leaden legs to carry me toward the door. My vision blurred. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cold brass of the doorknob.

Behind me, the phone rang.

I paused, glancing over my shoulder as Don picked up the receiver.

Don barked into the phone, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "What do you mean she called in sick? It's Tuesday. Nobody gets sick on a Tuesday. We have the VIP room booked."

He paused, his jaw clenching as he listened to the voice on the other end.

He slammed his hand flat on the desk. "I don't care if she has the plague! Find me someone else right now."

Don looked up. His furious gaze locked onto me. The anger in his dark eyes slowly shifted into a cold, hard calculation.

He raised one finger, pointing it straight at my chest.

"Wait."

I stood frozen by the door. My hand gripped the brass knob so hard my joints ached. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the muffled bass from the club outside.

Oh God. Please.