Chapter 1: The First Snag
The thread from her scarf tugged once, a faint resistance against her throat, then snapped. Inside, the heat hit her first—a thick, perfumed wall of sound and bodies that made her layers feel suddenly ridiculous.
The air tasted of coconut oil, spilled vodka, and a collective, eager sweat. A woman on a small, lit stage moved with a languid, rolling grace, her skin gleaming under a violet light as the first sharp crack of a whip against the floorboards made Holly jump, and the crowd roared as the dancer’s glittering earring flew into the shadows. Holly’s hand rose, unconsciously, to cover her own bare earlobe.
Another crack of the whip sent a silver anklet skittering across the floor, coming to rest near Holly’s sensible loafer. She stared at it, a cold, intricate curl against the stained wood, and the world of layered cardigans and quiet Sundays shrunk to a distant, silent point.
She stared at it, a cold, intricate curl against the stained wood, and the world of layered cardigans and quiet Sundays shrunk to a distant, silent point. Then another CRACK echoed, a sharper punctuation, and a leather cuff flew from the dancer’s wrist, followed by the slow, deliberate unbuckling of a velvet choker from her throat, the discarded pieces landing with soft, definitive thuds near the growing collection at the stage’s edge.
The dancer stepped down from the low stage, the heat of the overhead spots following her like a second skin as she moved directly through the crowd, which parted without a sound. Her eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on Holly, who felt the prickle of the unraveled scarf thread against the bare skin of her throat.
The dancer’s cool fingers closed around Holly’s wrist, the touch a soft, inevitable pull, and the crowd’s murmur swelled into a warm, encouraging wave that lifted her onto the low, lit platform. The violet light poured over her like liquid, sealing her in a sudden, silent dome where all that existed was the heat, the expectant faces, and the frantic drum of her own heart against her ribs.
The dancer leaned in, her scent of jasmine and salt cutting through the perfumed air. “Your earrings,” she murmured, her voice a low hum only for Holly, “or the top button of your cardigan.”