The night is always louder than the day. Or maybe it's just me, drowning out the noise of my mind with the sweet, seductive hum of the city. There's something about the nightlife in New York that's raw, unapologetic—a world where people leave their real lives behind and become whatever their wallets can afford.
As I'm standing in front of the cracked mirror in my tiny apartment, examining my reflection with a mixture of distaste and admiration, I can't help but wonder how much longer I'll have to keep up the charade. I don't look like what I am—at least, not on the surface. 20 years old with a smooth brown skin, long black hair that refuses to do anything but flop around like it's been on strike for months, and eyes that don't know how to look innocent even if I tried. And trust me, I've tried. I guess it's a blessing and a curse. Some men find it irresistible, and other girls, like Sasha Vale, find it infuriating.
Where I earn my cash, Night Eclipse, isn't your run-of-the-mill club. No. This place is a playground for the elite—the kind of club where the walls are lined with crystal chandeliers, the floors are polished to perfection, and the drinks cost more than some people's rent. The air smells of expensive cologne and desperation. It's a world where the rich pretend they don't know how to get their kicks from the lowest rung of society. And we—the dancers—make it look effortless.
The regulars are easy to spot—high-powered businessmen, some old enough to be my father, some young enough to think they can impress me. But I don't care about any of them. Not really. They're here for a show, for the fantasy of it all. And I'm here for the cash. We're all playing the same game.
But let's be real: it's not the men who pay my rent.
It's the dirty-rich ones who can barely remember their names after a few shots of whiskey. It's their wallets I'm after, not their compliments. Or their desperate attempts to hit on me like I'm some sort of prize they can win. Like I care. I'm a professional. That means keeping things just close enough to the edge without going over it. They get their fix, I get mine. And nobody gets hurt.
Except for the occasional ego, but that's not my problem.
I grab a bottle of body spray from my cluttered desk. "Lush Vanilla," it says. It's supposed to make me smell "like a warm hug." Yeah, sure. I'm more of a "clean freak" than I let on—probably a survival instinct. If I didn't wash away the grime of the world before each shift, I'd probably end up curled up in a corner, questioning my life choices.
A quick spray, a glance at my reflection, and I'm done. Ana Coal: semi-talented art student, full-time stripper at Night Eclipse. The dichotomy of it all has started to feel like one of those modern art pieces—beautiful in theory but depressing in execution. I don't know why I'm still here. Maybe because my bills don't care about my artistic integrity. Or my pride. They're just waiting to be paid. And they'll settle for whatever means necessary.
I glance at the clock: 8:45 PM. Time to go earn my paycheck. I grab my bag, my pride, and my dubious sense of humor, and head out the door.
I walk through the back entrance, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and stale vodka hitting me before I even get inside. The bouncers give me a nod, their faces stone cold. They're used to me by now, just another girl who knows how to work the crowd. And I do it well. I slip into my outfit—a sequined number that barely qualifies as clothing—and pull my hair into a messy ponytail. It's not glamorous, but it does the trick. I'm here to entertain, not to impress.
The music's pumping, the lights flashing, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear the unmistakable sound of a man trying to whisper something dirty to someone who doesn't care. Welcome to paradise.
"Hey, Ana!" Lisa greets me with a smile that's more like a threat. Lisa's the manager, and she doesn't joke with cash. Or with anything else. If you're late, you're out. If you don't hit your tips quota, you're out. If you're anything less than perfect, you're—well, you get the idea. She's the kind of woman who could cut you down with a single glance and still get a good tip for it.
I nod at her, adjusting my uniform—the sequined dress that I've come to think of as my "uniform of survival." It's not much, but it works. "Ready for tonight?" she asks, eyeing my outfit like she's inspecting a piece of meat.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I answer with a wink, ignoring the internal cringe. I've got a show to put on, and I'm going to do it with all the confidence of a woman who knows she's out of her depth but will fake it till she makes it.
Backstage is a mix of chaos and camaraderie. The other dancers are already getting into character—Sasha Vale, the top dancer, is in her corner, carefully adjusting her makeup like she's about to perform a surgery. Her clique is close by, gossiping, plotting, and generally being as toxic as possible. I've learned to ignore them. They hate me, I know. I don't care. They can whisper all they want, but at the end of the day, I'm the one with the tips.
The spotlight hits me, and I'm on stage. The music pounds through the speakers, the bass vibrating in my chest. I move, letting the rhythm take over, my body shifting with the beat, eyes scanning the crowd. The men watch with hungry eyes, their hands clutching their drinks as if that will make them less lonely. I can tell who the big spenders are. The ones who throw tips without a second thought. The ones who think money can buy everything, including me.
The night moves quickly, the club filling up with all sorts of men—dirty-rich ones who like to watch the world burn, and poor souls who are hoping for just a glimpse of something other than their miserable existence. I do my thing. They do theirs. It's a well-rehearsed dance. A smile here, a sway there. Keep the men interested, but don't let them think they're in control. They're not. Not unless I let them be.
And I'm not about to let anyone control me.
By the time my first set ends, I'm already counting the cash. Not in my head—no, that'd be too predictable. I slide my tips into my purse with the precision of someone who's been doing this for a while. When you live in this world, you learn not to depend on hope. You depend on reality. And reality is cold. Cash is king. It's the only thing that pays the bills. It's the only thing that keeps me in this godforsaken place. Sasha Vale shoots me a look as I head offstage, her eyes narrowed, but I can practically hear the jealousy simmering under her perfect exterior.
She can hate me all she wants. I'm still taking home more than she ever will tonight. And then, the night turns a little too interesting.
And I'm going to enjoy every bit of it.