Chapter 10: Nikki

I'd seen him from backstage before my first number. I hadn't expected him to stay rooted in the same spot through my last two dances, nor had I anticipated him staring me down. Two could play that game, and I had. I wasn't afraid of him. He was the epitome of everything I hated in this neighborhood.

The other girls talked about him. They all wanted him, not that I could figure out why-I didn't bother to ask, either. Maybe it was his connection to the Silvano family, perhaps it was the asshole effect women seemed to swoon over, or possibly even the bad-boy vibe that oozed from every tattoo over every inch of his perfectly sculpted body. Whatever it was, I wasn't interested. He was the type of guy who ran the gang that landed me here to begin with. And anyone who had any connection to a drug lord wasn't worth sharing air with.

I stared out from behind the curtain, wondering why he sat at the bar alone yet never interacted with any of the girls. Not once had I seen him approach one of the other dancers; he hadn't dropped a single dollar in a G-string, and he sure as hell hadn't gone back to the VIP area for any personal attention.

"He asked Nevaeh about you earlier this week." Cinnamon stood close enough for me to smell the baby oil she'd smeared all over her skin. "Do you know him?"

I shook my head. "Nope." I waited for more information, but it never came. And when I turned to ask who he was, the redhead had disappeared.

I refused to let him get to me. It was possible he'd been sent by Jesse-or someone else who had Ma's name on their shit list-to make certain I did what I was supposed to do. These people must have thought I was a complete moron to try to renege on the agreement I'd made to bail out my mother. Crossing Union 21 equated to death, and I had zero interest in meeting my maker. Not today anyway.

Ogling him wouldn't make him go away, and I had no interest in confronting him regarding why he'd asked about me. So, I went back to my dressing station and began to reapply the heavy makeup that I hoped hid my identity. It might not actually do the trick, but I'd convinced myself that I was a different person when I caked it on. Nikki Wilson wasn't the girl on that stage taking off her clothes for strangers; Diamond was. And Diamond was edgy, strong, a force to be reckoned with. She had gumption, determination. Her give-a-fuck didn't even register. The second the first beat played through the speakers, Nikki became Diamond, and Diamond owned that stage.

I reapplied a smoky shadow that made my blue eyes pop. Against my pale complexion, the contrast screamed theatrical, and I was confident it worked. I was younger than any girl here, and my body showed it. There wasn't a stretch mark or a track to be found anywhere on my skin. Nothing drooped or sagged. My ass was tight enough to bounce a quarter off it, and my abs rivaled my butt. I didn't work out. I'd just been blessed with genes that left me lean and toned. It helped that I wasn't a big eater, and I walked everywhere I went-except Club Swank.

The girl in the mirror wasn't even close to anyone I recognized. Nevertheless, she was hot, and her look brought in tips. Big tips. I'd marked off one night of this charade; I only had eleven more to go. Then I'd be free of this shit and every bit of filth it brought to my life.

Most of the girls traipsed around nude or in their costume if they were getting ready to perform. That was one area Nikki hadn't been willing to concede to Diamond. I waited until the very last minute to lace up my corset and pull on the pitiful excuse for panties. The final step was supposed to be heels, but after that first night, I opted for matching combat boots. Silver for the "Whore" number, red for "Closer"-because Nine Inch Nails was sexy as fuck-and finally, black for "Skin." Rihanna had to be the queen of seduction. It was a good thing I only danced three times a night; otherwise, the boots wouldn't have worked. I only owned three pairs, and all of our costumes had to be different. I took that to mean different colors with slight variations in style, although I was well aware that was a dangerously loose interpretation of the rule. I wasn't here for the long haul, and I refused to invest a shit ton of money in crap I'd never be caught dead in once my final night at Swank ended. So, I improvised with things I had in my closet and only purchased stockings and G-strings. Waxing had been my biggest and most painful expense.

As Candy's number wrapped up, I rolled my neck and swung my arms. I likened it to a performance ritual, but I really just needed to expend the extra energy. This wasn't a high I'd ever crave. I did my best to get through it without vomiting every time I took off my top. As much as I loved "Skin," I'd chosen it for the slower beat. One dance was exhausting, three would have me comatose by the time my head hit my pillow tonight. It wasn't just physically taxing-mentally, it wound me into a frenzy that lasted long after the last note and well beyond the door to the club closing behind me. And the stalker in the audience did nothing to help calm my anxiety.

Each time I'd stepped onto the stage tonight, he'd challenged me. I'd never realized the power a look could have, but his was intense. I refused to give him the pleasure of turning away. My focus remained on him from the second I found him at the bar until I'd shed my corset, swung my ass, and collected as much cash as a three-minute dance could warrant.