The man wheels back to me, eyes wide. I’m shaking, my bright façade gone. “This may be a foreign concept for you, but in this room, you don’t touch without permission. So get your fucking hand off my leg.” I bite out the last three words.

He looks to where his fingers rest against my thigh and jerks his hand back, like he’s come in contact with an open flame. His Adam’s apple bobs.

I’m spared further interaction as Ming descends the stairs in a flurry of feathers. I head to the stage, maneuvering through the crowd without sparing a look behind me. Rage gives way to a sick pitch in my stomach. The ghost of the creep’s hand clings to my hamstring, the invasion like a fresh wound. Tears sting my eyes. Bastard. Goddamn bastard.

I retrieve Ming’s costume on autopilot, Johnny’s commentary muted by the blood rushing in my ears. I’m off the stage before I remember to loosen the silks for the Twins’ aerial set and double back, fumbling with the fabric with unsteady hands while trying to keep Ming’s gown from sliding from the crook of my elbow. When I finish, I hightail it to the stairs, registering that the asshole is gone while narrowly missing Ginn on the top step. I blurt an apology. Tonic calls after me in a too-soft voice, but I don’t look back.

In the dressing room, Ming sits in the corner, cooling off with one of the oversized feathered fans from the number she’ll do later. Jane’s doing vocal exercises in the supply closet. I fight a sob of relief. He’d be able to tell something is wrong and I can’t talk about this now.

I make short work of hanging Ming’s costume. The shimmy belt rattles in my quaking hands as I drape it over the hanger beside the bra and gloves.

“Thank you, Kitten,” Ming calls from her corner. I risk a glance. Her eyes are closed, fan resting on her chest.

Jane’s singing stops. The doorknob to the supply closet rattles, and I bolt for the hall, praying that one of the bathrooms is open. A minute to myself. Just a minute . . .

At the landing, there’s no line, though both rooms are occupied. I consider the coat check, but one of the restroom doors swings open. I keep my eyes averted when a woman steps out, holding the door open for me. Thanking her, I dart in, locking the door behind me.

I grip the rim of the sink. My next breath is a ragged gasp. I’m shaking. I still feel him on me.