POISON

designer

Three years ago

Gerard had a way of dealing with people. People who were in the way, people who didn't appreciate all he'd brought to this club—business had gone up, "significantly," he'd argue, "I saved this place," since he'd arrived. Five years he'd been at Nerve now, and he'd thought he'd dealt with every kind of customer, overly-friendly or plain rude, and every kind of dancer, jealous and deceitful.

Earlier tonight, a certain dancer—Riley—had broken into his locker to rummage through his outfits and the money collected so far. Said dancer hadn't expected Gerard to return so soon, but he'd broken the strap on his stilettos and needed a replacement. He'd walked into the dressing room to find Riley sifting through the notes in his pink bag.

"We shared the stage! Half of this is mine!" was his argument.

"All this cash was at my feet." Gerard snatched his bag back and swiftly slapped Riley across the face, stunning him enough to wrestle the money out of his grip. Judging by the two stacks tied by red rubber bands, he concluded, "Two hundred?" Gerard asked, eyebrows raised.

Riley put a hand to his cheek, the sting making his eyes water. A red mark would form soon.

"Are you kidding me?" he scoffed, securing the notes in his bag before shoving it in his locker, slamming it shut so hard the ones next to it rattled. He rested a hand on his hip, the other combing his hair out of his eyes. "Bitch, I know you don't work hard enough to make half that much."

"Cool it, Poison," someone else interjected.

Gerard took a moment, gaze locked with Riley's, his brown eyes dark against his light pink makeup, and waited for him to walk back to his own locker and the pathetic amount of cash he'd earned in a night's work.

Slowly, Gerard turned around to find Val digging his things out of his own locker. "Oh, hey," he sweetened his tone. "I didn't know you were in tonight."

"I missed the drama," he frowned, gesturing between him and Riley.

"The cunt tried stealin' my money."

That was how he ended up stood outside of the manager's office, waiting for the voices on the other side of the door to cease before he knocked. One of them muffled, Bert was only on the phone.

The night hadn't ended, it was only two o'clock, and he intended on staying until five. He had the energy for it. He'd taken a line of coke—free of charge, courtesy of a regular—to keep his spirits up and his mind alert. That had been half an hour ago, and he still felt buzzed.

Patience wasn't his strong suit. He knocked on the door with his newly fixed stiletto heel, then turned and pushed it open, waltzing into Bert's office in a red dress and a sparkly shawl bunched at his elbows.

"Are you done?" he asked bluntly.

Bert held up a hand, still very much on the phone, receiving an eye-roll in response.

"But this is good," Gerard coaxed, crossing his ankles as he placed a hand on the doorframe to keep himself steady. "I got dirt on someone and you're gonna wanna know."

Covering the mouthpiece with one hand, Bert replied, "In a minute."

Taking a deep breath, Gerard bit his lip to keep his mouth shut. He was running out of time if he wanted to get this done right. He stepped back, glancing both ways down the corridor. No one was around.

Sighing, purposefully loud, he stepped closer to Bert's desk, skimming over the different papers, lists, receipts, and previous records of different dancers. He went to pick up a sheet, purely out of curiosity, and Bert batted his hand away.