captured my heart, the guy who made me believe in fairytales again, the first and only guy, apart from my brother, I’ve ever trusted.
Hell, I don’t not trust him now. I was the one who raced out on us. I was the one who lied and stole and ran away. So if, by some crazy chance, we were to ever meet again, I would be the villain in that story.
Back when Sly was the boss around here, he invited me in to dance to make a little cash, to earn a little freedom only money could buy. And because I was such a skilled liar, I convinced him to allow me a stage name.
Hello, Victoria Quinnton.
I was so convincing in my act that he didn’t blink an eye when I suggested everyone use that name, and that the other – Cameron Quinn – simply wouldn’t exist inside these walls.
From the first moment I stepped on a stage, my new name was in place, so by the time Evan McGrady came along to buy and rename this club, I was firmly known as my new alias, and that status was cemented soon after, when Sly met an untimely death – I swear it wasn’t me or Will.
Sly was the only one who knew my secret, and he never shared it. I’ve been grandfathered in to this club named Zeus’, my ID is never requested, my history never asked. The only thing anyone begs of me is to dance, to teach, and if I should ever change my mind about Evan, to place myself in his bed and show him the time of his life.
Much of my appeal inside this club is tied around my age. I’m twenty-three, but I could easily pass as a high schooler if I tried, and though that grosses me out, it pays the bills.
Victoria the Virgin.
Not factual, in the most literal sense of the word, but having that descriptor figuratively hung around my neck means men pay more for me to dance. They pay the big sums, like they think that’ll gain my attention.
Because Lord knows, a man’s biggest goal in life is to take a girl’s virginity. They think it grants them immortality, I suppose.
I suspect it’s also the reason behind Evan’s obsession. He wants to claim me, to own me, to be the first and only man to go… there. I can’t tell him he’s too late, in an effort to unbind his infatuation, because then I lose the money that comes with the dancing. I can’t have it both ways. I can’t claim innocence, but tell him I lied and someone else was there first. And since he seems satisfied to hang back, to accept my gentle rebuffs without any kind of retribution, I continue with my lie, and I accept the hundred-dollar bills that are tossed at my feet.
“Victoria?” Evan says my name a second time – or third? Fourth? How long have I been ignoring him? – and takes my arm in his hand. He squeezes a little tight… tight enough that I want to pop him in the nose for thinking he could do so, but not so tight that my mind flings to the pocketknife I keep in my bag. “Are you in there?”
His voice carries a gentle accent, but it’s mixed. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. There’s a Northern England twang in there, but with a side of American. Add in a sprinkle of Irish, and perhaps, when he’s mad enough and the word is just right… Argentinian.
Evan is the stereotype for tall, dark, and handsome. Jamie was too, I suppose, but they look nothing alike. Jamie’s hair was dark brown. Evan’s is midnight black. Jamie’s skin carries an olive tone, even in the dead of winter. Evan is as white as an Irish ass, but he wears a light… I’m not even sure of the word. A beard sounds too grizzly, too much. But stubble is too little.
Evan’s facial hair stretches from ear to ear, nestles beneath his nostrils, and reaches down his throat until it reaches his Adam’s apple. I suspect, if he were a poor man who couldn’t afford almost daily grooming by a professional, he’d probably shave it off and go with a clean look. But since he has money to burn and conference calls to take each morning, he has time to have a barber keep it perfect, clean, and stylish.
“Victoria?” he repeats with less patience.
“I’m here.” I