Million Dollar Devil

12.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year," Frank Sinatra croons overhead, but in here  under fluorescent lights and frantic energy, it feels more like a warzone. 

The shopping mall heaves with life, swarms of bundled-up kids dragging exhausted mothers by the sleeves toward toy stores decorated like Santa himself exploded inside. Red ribbons everywhere. Tacky, glittering window displays. Couples in matching Christmas sweaters. Dads trailing behind with the defeated look of men who lost this battle long ago.

I weave through the chaos, clutching my bag closer to my chest. I wish I could say I was here for some sweet, sentimental Christmas shopping, but that would be a lie. Unless trashy lingerie counts as wholesome holiday spirit. Then, yes. I'm just a small-town girl spreading Christmas cheer, one red satin thong at a time.

Alex's charming little "mandatory Christmas dress code" email burned into my brain overnight. All dancers at Lilacs were now ordered to wear "festive" outfits for the next twenty days. Because nothing says Happy Holidays like green glitter bras and "Naughty Elf" G-strings.

I duck into the first neon-lit sex shop I find. Inside, the air smells like plastic and desperation. I rifle through racks of flimsy red corsets, sparkly green pasties, and tiny velvet skirts that look like they wouldn't survive a sneeze. Thongs with oversized red bows. Stockings that seem one wrong move away from a wardrobe malfunction. I throw a chaotic assortment into my basket without looking too closely.

The cashier barely glances at me, gum snapping between her teeth as she scans the items. Her acrylic nails tap out a rhythm on the counter, bored. "Bag?" she asks, deadpan.

"No, thanks," I say, pulling out my trusty Macy's bag. Rookie mistake, letting the whole mall know you're buying Christmas-themed lingerie. Veteran move? Disguise it under the illusion of normalcy.

I stuff everything into the bag, swipe my card, wince at the total, and head out into the biting December air.

By the time I stumble into my freezing apartment, my fingers are numb and my nose is practically glowing Rudolph red. I shuck off my jacket, weave through the obstacle course of laundry on the floor, and flop onto the bed with my bounty.

I sift through the pile until I settle on a bright cherry-red corset. I yank the strings so tight I can barely breathe, the fabric biting into my ribs. I pull on silky red panties and a pair of thigh-high socks for good measure. I paint my lips a deep candy-apple red, and as I swipe the lipstick on, a memory flares — Mr. Hayes' voice, low and gravelly, telling me I should wear red more often.

I press my lips together to smudge the color, ignoring the stupid, stupid flutter in my stomach. Nope. Not thinking about that tonight.

I throw on an oversized sweatshirt and my heaviest parka, the ridiculous lingerie hidden underneath like some dirty little secret. I sprint to my car, blasting the heater as I drive toward Lilacs.

The club is already buzzing. Bass thumps through the walls, vibrating up through the floor. Girls crowd around cracked vanity mirrors, adjusting cleavage, spraying glitter like it's body armor, smearing more black eyeliner over tired, dead-inside eyes.

I slip into the back dressing room, yank off my layers.

But when I meet my own reflection, I hesitate.  I smile in the mirror making sure there's no lipstick on my teeth. My eyes stay trained on the mirror for a second, a feeling of discomfort washes over me as I look at the girl in the mirror. She barely looks like me. I take a deep breath before walking towards the stage entrance.

I swallow the unease, painting on a confident smirk before heading for the stage entrance.

Alex's voice cuts through the noise before I even make it to the platform.