Hate Me

“I had a blast being on tour.”

“Damian says you’re going to be in our video.”

“If you guys still want me, yeah.”

He looks at me again. “We do. So, keep going down the hall. Second door on the left is where all the girls are. They’ll tell you what to do.”

“Why don’t you walk down there, Cooper, and check it out. I’ll be right there.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I say to Troy, “Were you able to get it?”

“Are you sure about all this? Damian gave me an earful before I left. I assume you want this guy to see you but not get close?”

“Exactly.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Patrons aren’t allowed to touch the cages.”

“Still.”

Troy sighs. “Fine. It’s duct taped to the floor. I put a little spot of glow-in-the-dark paint on both ends of the tape. The safety’s on but, Keats, the last thing we need is a shoot-out in a packed club.”

“I won't use it unless I absolutely have to.”

He musses my hair. “You looked great dancing out there. Wherever you've been has been good for you.”

“Thanks. You look like a rock star.”

“It's pretty exciting, huh? “You and Me” has been getting a ton of airtime. The label thinks we’ll hit the Billboard chart this week.”

“Seriously? Damian didn't tell me that.”

“He has some new tail he's after. But I'm not complaining. He's written some seriously amazing shit this week.”

“He's in love.”

“Apparently. Okay, so get down there. You only have a few minutes.”

In the dressing room with the paid dancers, I get a quick makeover by Marla, the woman in charge. She cakes on more makeup and glues on the huge glow-in-the-dark eyelashes the dancers are known for.

Then she adds glow-in-the-dark paint to strategic locations on my body. Stripes fa

She stands back and looks at me with an artist’s eye, trying to decide where else to put the paint, when she spots my tattoo.

“Oh, I like this,” she says, outlining it. “What’s it mean?”

“Chaos.”

“Love that. We should all have those. I’ve always said that if they ever give this place a name, it should be called Utter Chaos.”

After a few words of advice, I’m being locked in a cage and swung out over the now jam-packed dance floor.

I look through the neon sunglasses I’m supposed to wear to start the dance and quickly see Vincent standing in his former spot, his calculating eyes searching the dance floor.

I hang onto the bars of the swinging cage until I’m lowered onto a six-foot-high platform just to Vincent’s left.

When all the cages are on the platforms, the music screeches to a halt and a new song plays, causing the Plexiglass bases of each cage to light up, flashing with the beat.

Our cue to start dancing.  

The more we dance, the more people cluster around the cages.

I draw a little crowd, which makes me dance even naughtier.

I use all the moves Peyton told us we could never tastefully do in our dance competition.

Then I remember a move that Vincent will surely recognize.

And one that will probably piss him off.

I bend over, shake my ass, and then blow a kiss over my shoulder, straight toward him.

He immediately stands up and pushes through the crowd toward me.

I put my sunglasses back over my eyes so I can watch him while I shimmy.

He gestures to one of the two bouncers whose job it is to keep drunk boys from trying to climb the platforms.

Vincent hands him a folded bill. I can’t read his lips, but I definitely catch the word VIP.

The bouncer smiles at the money and says something into a headset as Vincent goes up the steps.

A few minutes later, my cage starts moving upward.

The girls usually dance in the cage for thirty minutes, then rotate to a VIP lounge platform. Which, obviously, I wasn’t pla

I notice that my cage is the only one moving.

Were supposed to all come in at the same time.

I glance at the timer that counts down my shift, and see I should still have twenty-two minutes left.

That means Vincent requested me.

I try to imagine what his impromptu plan might be. I'm sure he's pla

But I doubt his plans included me being in a cage.

At least I know I’m safe backstage.

But as I’m being lowered, I see Vincent coming backstage, a bouncer escorting him.

I look in every direction, searching for Cooper, but not seeing him anywhere.

My heart starts to race and I tell myself to calm down. It’s not like he’s got a van sitting out back every week. The valet told me he drives a Porsche.

The bouncer’s job is to protect me. Look, don't touch is what they always tell people.

I should have thought about this before. If he found me, how would he get me out of the club?

Then I remember Miami.

He'd drug me.

Slip me a roofie.

Use a needle.

Help his sick friend to the car. She just had a little too much fun, he’d say.

Maybe I should go back to the VIP area with him just to see what he’d do.

But then another possibility pulses through my brain. Vincent hurts, drugs, or kills the bouncer. In his slick suit, it would be easy to underestimate his strength.

Where the hell is Cooper?

And why did they let Vincent backstage?

I bend down, pull the duct tape off the gun, and slip it into the back of my shorts.

The bouncer stops Vincent from coming any farther and walks up to my cage.

“I have twenty minutes left. You're going to get me in trouble with Marla.”

He lowers his voice. “I know you're new, but the gentleman here is a VIP. Big VIP. And he requested you now. You know the boss man is all about customer service.”

“Fine. I'll go powder my nose, then I'll head up there.”

The bouncer looks back at Vincent, who shakes his head.

“I think now would be better.”

 “Um, okay.” The bouncer opens my cage and takes my hand to help me out.

The second my feet hit the concrete floor, Vincent starts moving quickly toward me.

My eyes get huge.

I point and go, “Um . . .”

The bouncer turns around and says to Vincent, “Go back to the VIP section now. We’ll meet you there.”

“I just want to talk to her. I'm a producer. This could be her big break.”

“I don't want a break,” I whisper, putting my hand behind my back and gripping the gun.

Suddenly, Vincent charges toward the bouncer.

Shit!!

I move to avoid getting knocked down.

When I do, the big cage swings, ramming Vincent and the bouncer, knocking them down.

Cooper grabs me, pulls me down the hall, and pushes through an exit door.

The bright streetlights temporarily blind me.

“Which car is it?” Cooper yells.

I hand him the gun. “Here, take this.”

“Where the hell do you get—”

I don’t answer, just pull him toward a sweet black Ducati.

“A motorcycle?” Cooper panics. “I’ve never ridden one.”

I hop on the bike, pull on my helmet, toss one to Cooper, pop the kickstand, turn the key, grab the clutch, and hit the start button, bringing the motor roaring to life.

“Just hang on!” I yell as both Vincent and the bouncer barrel out of the exit.

I pop the bike into first gear with my foot, crack the throttle, and speed off into the night.

I make numerous turns through the warehouse district, already having memorized the streets, and then shoot out onto the highway near the Santa Monica airport.