Once I freshen up, clean the sweat from my body and spritz some more perfume on, I fluff my hair, adjust my laurels, and sport my tiny toga looking dance outfit. Yes, I know it looks more Grecian, but the men aren’t smart enough to notice the difference and try finding something that looks like a Valkyrie in a dance shop. It’s nearly impossible.

“You almost done for the night?” Holly asks from beside me. She’s fixing her makeup, clearly having just made out with her boyfriend in one of the private rooms. The adorable man comes in every night and purchases most of her time, just so he can be near her. He’s the least jealous man I’ve ever seen, cheering for her on stage, encouraging her. A lot of dancers get into toxic relationships and the men don’t always like it when their ladies are dancers, but they give me hope with how healthy they are. Holly and Mark are couple goals.

“I have one more hour on the floor and then I’m done,” I tell her. “You doing okay tonight?”

She nods and pulls out a wad of money. “Mark paid for two hours of dances up front just so we can hang out for half my shift.”

“That boy is head over heels in love with you,” I tell her with a smile. “He’s gonna propose soon.”

“God, I hope so,” she giggles, a blush spreading on her cheeks. “You get on out there and take some of that money that’s flowing. I heard we’re up twenty five percent right now.”

“Shit, I better get out there then for sure,” I laugh. “You take care of yourself, Holly. Tell Mark I say hello.”

“You, too, Billie.”

I leave the room, preparing to go about my rounds and find some sucker to pay for a lap dance, but the manager of the club stops me before I make it too far. “Freya, hold on.”

The managers always call us by our stage names to make sure the customers don’t overhear our real names. It helps protect us from stalkers and the like, but it still is hard to get used to hearing a different name. Took me months. Now, I’m years into this job so it’s second nature to respond to the dance name.

“Hey, Sam. What’s up?”

“You have a private dance request,” he says. “He’s waiting in the back room.”

Furrowing my brows, I glance around the club. “Who is it?”

“The new rich guy who’s been coming in and watching you—”

“Oh, no, Sam. Tell him I’m not available. That guy gives me the creeps,” I beg, prepared to turn around and call the rest of the night off. Just thinking about giving that man a lap dance makes my skin crawl. “Please, Sam.”

“Freya, he’s paying like two grand for the dance.”