"Jesus, Mick, you're shaking like a leaf."
Mick flexed his fingers, trying to steady them as Tommy rubbed oil across his shoulders. Three years he'd been doing this gig, and his hands still trembled before every show. Not from nerves but from hunger. The kind that gnawed at your gut when rent was due in two days and your bank account had exactly forty-three dollars.
"Just get the oil on, kid," Mick muttered, rolling his neck. "And don't forget the chest. These ladies pay good money to see me shine."
Tommy worked the oil into his skin, quiet for a moment. Then he leaned closer and whispered, "Hey, uh... can I maybe borrow one of those porn magazines from your locker? I'm too scared to buy them at the store. The cashier lady always stares at me weird."
Mick chuckled. "Take whatever you want, but leave the Angela Rose one alone. That's my favorite."
"Who's Angela Rose?"
"A legend, kid. Real performer, not like the fake shit they make now. She died young, makes it even more special." Mick caught his reflection in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. "She knew how to make a man feel alive, you know?"
The backstage area was barely bigger than a closet, just a space carved out behind the main room of Velvet Dreams. Water-stained walls, sticky carpet, and a single lightbulb that cast everything in sickly yellow. But it was work, and work was work.
"Speaking of legends," Tommy said, nodding toward the other corner of the cramped space, "Liam's been real quiet tonight."
Mick glanced over. Liam stood against the far wall, already oiled up, muscles gleaming under the weak light. The guy had been working this circuit longer than anyone, back when the crowds were bigger and the tips came easier. Broad shoulders, perfect jaw, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. For two years, Liam had owned these Thursday nights.
Then Mick showed up.
"Yeah, well," Mick said, "maybe he's just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how I've been stealing his thunder every week for the past six months."
It was true. The first time Mick stepped on that stage, nervous as hell and barely knowing how to move, he'd somehow connected with the crowd in a way that surprised everyone. Including himself. The women responded to something raw in him, something that Liam's polished routine couldn't match. Desperation, maybe. Or just the fact that Mick needed this job more than he needed his pride.
Tommy capped the oil bottle. "All done. You look good, man."
"Thanks." Mick grabbed his water glass, tilting it to check his reflection. He'd learned that trick from Marco, the old-timer who used to work this gig before his knee gave out.
The crowd noise filtered through the thin walls. Thursday nights were always good. Pension checks had cleared, husbands were working late or passed out drunk. These women came here because everywhere else they were invisible.
"Mick."
He turned. Mara stood in the doorway, clipboard in one hand. Club manager and Liam's girlfriend, though she tried to keep business and personal separate. She'd been running the male revue nights for two years, keeping everything organized while the owner focused on the main strip club downstairs.
"Yeah?"
"Your waistband's twisted. Makes you look sloppy."
"Shit." He looked down. The fabric had bunched during the oil application. "Can you fix it?"
She moved behind him, tugging the material straight with quick, professional movements. "There."
"How do I look?"
She stepped back, eyes scanning him from head to toe. For a moment, something flickered in her expression, something that wasn't quite professional. "You look... ready."
Before he could ask what that meant, she'd already moved toward Liam's corner. Mick watched her go, something cold settling in his stomach.
"You nervous about tonight?" she asked Liam, her voice dropping to that softer tone she used when they thought no one was listening.
"Should I be?" Liam's response was quiet, but Mick caught it anyway.
"I'm just saying, maybe it's time for a change. These ladies have been seeing the same show for months."
"What kind of change?"
Mara glanced toward Mick, then back at Liam. "The kind that reminds everyone who the real star is around here."
Liam straightened, rolling his shoulders. "You sure about this?"
"Trust me." She reached up, running her fingers along his jawline. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Something twisted in Mick's gut, but the music outside was building toward his intro. No time to think about whatever those two were plotting.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed through the walls, "the man who makes hearts race and temperatures rise... Mick the Mountain!"
"That's my cue." Mick cracked his knuckles, shook out his arms.
"Good luck," Tommy said.
Mick pushed through the curtain into harsh spotlights and immediate sound. Thirty-something women filled the small room, voices rising in appreciation. He recognized most of them. Regulars who came every few weeks, women who worked retail and cleaned houses and raised kids and never got to be the center of attention anywhere else.
"Good evening, beautiful ladies," he called out.
They screamed back, clapping, waving dollar bills. This was the part he was good at. Reading the room, knowing exactly what they wanted to see.
He moved to the small stage, grabbing the barbell that was always waiting. Not heavy, just enough weight to make his muscles pop under the lights. The music pounded through the speakers, drowning out everything except the screaming crowd.
He curled the weight slowly, letting each rep build the tension. The women pressed closer, waving money, shouting things he couldn't quite hear over the bass.
"Who wants to help me work out?" he called.
A dozen hands shot up. He pointed to a woman in the front, pulled her onto the stage. She giggled as he spun her around, her hands running over his chest while the crowd went wild. Bills rained down like confetti.
Behind the noise and chaos, near the side curtain, Liam leaned close to Mara's ear.
"You sure you did it?" he whispered.
She nodded, eyes fixed on the stage. "I'm certain. I put the oil exactly where you said."
"And you're sure he'll step there?"
Mara brushed her thumb slowly along his jawline, almost teasing. "Relax, baby. I know his routine better than he does. He always steps back, spreads those arms like some kind of god. This time he's gonna look like a clown."
Liam smirked. "You're wicked."
She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear. "I like watching you take your crown back. Nothing turns me on more than seeing you own a room."
"After tonight, things go back to normal," Mara said. "Back to how they should be."
On stage, Mick was lost in the performance. The woman in his arms, the crowd's energy, the money falling around his feet. This was his moment, his stage, his life finally working the way it should.
He guided his dance partner through one last spin, then helped her down into the crowd. The audience was on their feet, screaming for more.
Time for the finale. The pose that always drove them crazy.
He stepped backward, arms spread wide, chest out, ready to flex for the final shot.
His heel hit the oil-slicked spot Mara had prepared.
Everything tilted. His foot shot out from under him, his body twisted, and his pants, loosened just enough by the slippery surface, dropped to his ankles.
The screaming stopped.
Dead silence filled the room as harsh stage lights illuminated everything the crowd hadn't expected to see.
Then the laughter started. Cruel, sharp, echoing off the walls.
"Look at that tiny thing!"
"All that muscle for nothing!"
"What a joke!"
"Small dick bastard!"
Heat flooded Mick's face. He tried to pull up his pants, tried to cover himself, but his feet kept slipping on the oil. Objects started flying from the crowd. Cups, napkins, someone's shoe, pants.
A glass bottle spun through the air and exploded against his forehead. Blood poured into his eyes, blinding him.
He stumbled backward, completely disoriented, his feet still sliding on the slick surface.
His skull cracked against the heavy barbell he'd been using for his routine.
The impact echoed through his head like thunder.
The last thing he saw was Liam's satisfied grin.
The last thing he heard was Mara counting money.
Then darkness swallowed everything, and Mick fell into nothing at all.