Million Dollar Devil

1.

It felt like I'd been scrolling for hours, endlessly scanning job listings I'd never qualify for. Rejection emails had flooded my inbox over the past two weeks, each one more disheartening than the last. And, honestly, I had no one to blame but myself.

My resume wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either—a hodgepodge of office gigs and retail stints that screamed "average" to every recruiter. Nothing about it stood out, but I wasn't dreaming of a corner office or an inspiring career. All I wanted was a nine-to-five that could cover the bills and get me out of this mold-ridden shoebox apartment.

I pushed my glasses onto the table and rubbed my temples hard, exhaling a sigh that felt lodged in my chest all day. A yawn broke free as I leaned back into the faux leather couch, its cracked surface groaning under my weight.

Beep! Beep!

My work reminder chimed, yanking me back to reality. Perfect timing, as always. I shut my laptop with a sigh, shelving my personal pity party for another day—a shame, really, because I had my tiny violin ready and everything.

I slapped on some mascara, shoved my heels into my bag, and headed to Lilacs.

Pulling into the parking lot, the muffled thump of music reached me even before I killed the engine. Flipping down the visor mirror, I checked my reflection. Good enough. With a deep breath, I stepped out into the night.

"Hey, Lily," Jack's familiar gravelly voice greeted me at the back door. His security jacket clung to his massive frame, and the neon sign overhead bounced off his bald head like a spotlight. Tobacco clung to his breath, tattoos snaking up his arms like stories he didn't have to tell.

"Hey, Jack," I said, offering a small smile as he held the door open.

Inside, the air hit me like a wall—cigarettes, booze, sweat. The smell of desperation mixed with cheap cologne. I promised myself I'd never get used to it.

"Your turn," Kayla called from across the room, stuffing her things into a designer knockoff. Her high bun was flawless, her cheekbones popping with an aggressive swipe of pink blush.

"Keep your distance from the blonde in the blue shirt," she added lazily. "He's handsy."

"Thanks for the heads-up," I said with a nod. She waved half-heartedly as she disappeared through the back door, leaving me alone.

On the rack, a skimpy outfit dangled from a hanger, a Post-it slapped on the front with my name scribbled in pink ink. Rolling my eyes, I held it up to my body in the mirror. It was a joke—barely clothing—but I slipped into it anyway.

The strings clung to me like a web, glittering under the harsh light. My heart began its usual pre-shift race. I told myself it was good, that the racing meant I hadn't grown numb to this. Not yet, at least.

I tugged at the straps, giving my reflection one last glance before stepping through the velvet curtain. Lights swallowed me whole, and for a moment, I couldn't see anything but the blinding glare.

Dancing wasn't new. I'd been moving to music since I was seven years old. Some nights, the stage felt liberating, a space where I could lose myself in the rhythm and forget the growls and catcalls below. Other nights, it felt like I was trapped in someone else's body, moving on autopilot, disconnected from everything—including myself.

Tonight was somewhere in between.

The usual characters filled the room. Tim, the married drunk, sat near the stage, nursing a whiskey and hooting at women young enough to be his daughters. Every so often, he patted his shirt pocket, checking for his wedding ring.

In the corner, a group of college kids laughed too loudly, barely noticing the stage. And, of course, the guy in the blue shirt. His bleary eyes locked onto me with a desperation that made my skin crawl. I avoided his eager waves, knowing whatever tip he offered wasn't worth the boundary he'd inevitably cross.

Hours passed uneventfully—a blessing in this line of work. By 2 a.m., I was back in the dressing room, swapping the glittery strings for my favorite sweats and a crewneck. Jack was waiting by the door, as always.

"Anyone give you trouble tonight?" he asked, his voice low and steady as he held the door open.

"Nope. Smooth night," I said, giving him a quick hug. "Thanks for looking out. See you this weekend."

At home, I threw a frozen mac and cheese in the microwave and sank into the couch, laptop perched on my knees. My inbox awaited, full of nothing but spam—until it wasn't.

Two words jumped out like fireworks: Interview Request.

My heart skipped as I clicked it open.

Subject: Interview Request

Hello Lillian,

Thank you for your interest in the Personal Assistant position at AKMO Inc. Based on your prior work in administrative assistance, we think you may be a strong candidate for this opportunity. We'd like to schedule an interview next week. Please let us know your availability.

Best,
Kyle Jennings
AKMO Talent Acquisition Team

My hands shook as I typed my response:

Hello Kyle,

Thank you for this opportunity! I'm available Monday or Tuesday next week. Please let me know what works best.

Best,
Lillian Taylor

I hit send, my gaze drifting to the broken AC unit rattling in the corner and the water-stained ceiling above it.

I was getting the fuck out of here.

**********
AUTHORS NOTE:
Hello!  Thank you so much for choosing to give my story a read. If you like it, it would mean the world if you click on that star button!

I will update soon and am so excited to finally put onto paper this idea that I have been playing with for years.

All my love,
Alexandra