His brow lowers with rage, and before I know it, he slaps me across the face, sending me teetering into the vanity. I grab my cheek. It stings like a bitch, and my eyes water immediately.
“You’ve been a mouthy bitch since the day you showed up here,” he says in a low voice. “You’d do well to start showing me some respect. I expect you to get back out there tonight. Oh, and just so we’re clear—I’m keeping any tips you make for a week. Maybe that will inspire you to watch your fucking mouth.”
I say nothing, huddling near that vanity, watching him from under the curtain of my hair. After a moment, he turns on his heel and leaves.
I sit down hard on the chair. I won’t cry; scum like him don’t deserve the effort of tears.
A moment later, there’s a knock on the door. “Saz?”
I blow out a breath. “Come in, Jammy.”
The door opens, and Shakers’ tall, sinewy resident DJ leans into the room. Dressed in bright snug white from head to toe, with gleaming dark brown skin, a cap of tight golden curls, and concern in their eyes, one of my closest friends—more like a sibling—gazes down at me for a moment, nearly speechless.
Jammy Dovier was born Jamal Denton, but when they moved to Draco City five years ago, that identity dissipated into the scorched sky. Free from their parents’ watchful and judging eyes, Jammy became who they were always meant to be—someone free of definition, limitation, or labels. They’re just…Jammy. My Jammy.
“That absolute piece of infectious fecal matter,” Jammy says in a hushed voice. They kneel down beside me. Jammy’s tall at six-three, so even though they’re kneeling, we’re practically eye-level. They touch my face with gentle fingers, gaze glued to my cheek. I haven’t worked up the courage to look at myself in the mirror.
“Is it bad?” I ask.
Jammy sighs. “It’s nothing we can’t fix with some makeup, babes. Let me.” They reach for the acrylic tray of cosmetics I set out before each shift and proceeds to touch up my face. Even the lightest touch with their careful fingers makes me wince.
“Don’t you have music to play?”
“It’s on autoplay at the moment. I wanted to come check on you. What set Marcel off this time?” Jammy asks, dabbing concealer on my cheek.
“He was mad about my performance,” I say. “He said he was going to keep my tips, even though I earned more with that dance than I ever have before.”
“Bitch,” Jammy mutters.
“When I called him out about it, he told me that I could earn the money back, then proceeded to grope my tits.”
Jammy gapes at me. “That motherfucker!”
“I thought so too. Enough to accidentally call him Incel.”
“To his face?”
“Yep. Then he open-palm slapped me.”
“They used to call that a pimp slap.” Jammy shakes their head and returns to touching up my face. “I’m so sorry, babes. You didn’t deserve any of that.” They pause for a beat. “I did see you walk offstage in kind of a hurry. Everything okay?”
“I told Marcel I was having cramps.”
Jammy peers at me with a raised brow. “Were you?”
“No.” I bite my lower lip for a moment, deciding whether or not to tell them.
They raise a brow. “Well?”
“I, uh…” I rub my suddenly sweaty palms on the tops of my thighs. “I sort of had an…orgasm.”
Jammy drops the makeup brush they’re holding. “I beg your pardon?”
I shake my head. “I can’t explain it. It just came out of nowhere. It was like someone was there, but no one was.”
“Honey.” Jammy smirks. “If that’s not a sign from heaven that you need to get some dick, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m being totally serious,” I protest. “It was real.”