I finish my drink and head to the back rooms to get ready for my turn on stage. The hallway behind the club is lit by a sickly pink neon strip that buzzes like a mosquito. I push open the dressing room door and step inside to a waft of perfume, sweat, and heated arguments. The other girls are in various stages of costume or undress, touching up makeup that's already smeared from earlier sets.
I spot Rhea by the cracked mirror, stabbing bobby pins into her sea-green wig. Tonight she's in a shimmering silver outfit cut low and high in all the dangerous places. Rhea's been at the Daisy longer than me – she's practically a fixture here. She gives me a sidelong glare as I pass behind her to my little cubby. I can feel the hostility like static in the air.
I try to mind my own business and start adjusting my own outfit – a red vinyl number with breasts cutouts, paired with holo-tattoos that glint across my legs. I'm reapplying my dark lipstick when I catch Rhea's reflection. She's still staring. Her eyes are sharp with something between envy and disdain.
"You think you're hot shit, don't you?" Rhea spits suddenly. The room goes awkwardly quiet except for the muffled music thumping through the walls. A couple of girls pause their conversations, sensing the brewing confrontation.
My stomach tightens. "What are you talking about?" I ask, keeping my tone flat. I know better than to provoke her. Rhea's mood swings are practically part of the floor show around here.
She turns to face me, arms crossed. I see her jaw clench under her heavy makeup. "Stairways to Heaven," she says, nearly hissing the words. Oh no. I feel a cold prickle at the base of my neck. How the hell does she know about that? Rhea takes one step towards me. "Yeah, I heard," she continues. "That fancy suit out there with the gold tie? I saw him cozying up to you last week. And I damn well heard him drop that name."
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Rhea, look—"
She cuts me off with a raised hand. Her nails are long, painted black with chips of glitter – sharp like talons. "I tried, you know," she snaps, voice cracking. "I tried contacting Stairways to Heaven myself. Sent messages on all the blackline networks. Even paid a netrunner to slip my profile into their system." She lets out a bitter laugh. "They never answered. Not a damn byte of response. And then you…" her eyes flick over me, from my freshly dyed hair down to my fishnets and stilettos. "Little Lyra waltzes in, bats her eyes, and they're interested. What, you think you're better than the rest of us? You think you're getting out of this hellhole on a shiny corporate leash, and we're not good enough?"
Her words sting, each one hitting like a slap. I feel heat rising in my cheeks – anger, embarrassment, maybe even a shred of guilty relief that they did notice me and not her. "I don't think I'm better than anyone," I say quietly. It's the truth. I never asked for Gold Tie's attention; in fact it scares me. But I can't exactly tell Rhea that I haven't decided anything, that I'm just as suspicious of this as she is. She wouldn't believe me anyway.
Rhea's eyes glisten under the flickering light. She looks on the verge of either screaming or sobbing – maybe both. "I've been dancing here six years," she growls. "Six goddamn years, while you've been here what, a few months? I gave everything to this place. And no one ever offered me a damn thing except lousy tips and a backache. Now some suit's gonna sweep you off to paradise? What am I, yesterday's trash?"
Behind her, one of the newer girls hovers nervously, as if ready to intervene. Others pointedly ignore the confrontation, focused on their mirrors – they know better than to get involved in Rhea's drama. My heart is hammering. I want to say something cutting, something to defend myself, but the sight of Rhea's desperate, angry face stalls my tongue. She's not really mad at me, I realize. She's mad at the hopelessness, at being passed over by the one golden ticket she thought might save her. I'm the unlucky fool holding that ticket now, whether I want it or not.
"Rhea…" I begin, trying to find the right tone, something empathetic. But she's already wiping at her eye, smearing her eyeliner, furious at herself for the slip of vulnerability.
"Forget it," she mutters. Her voice drops to a harsh whisper. "Just... watch your back, Lyra. Those people? They chew girls like you up. You think this place is bad? Stairways to Heaven'll spit you out worse." She turns abruptly, snatching her lace shawl from a hook. "And when they do, don't come crying expecting any sisterly solidarity."
I flinch as she shoulders past me out of the dressing room, leaving a trail of perfume and frustration. The door swings shut behind her, cutting off the distant music for a moment. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My hands are trembling, so I steady them against the counter and blink hard at myself in the mirror. My makeup is still okay, but there's a crack in my composure that I can't hide.
I don't feel angry at Rhea. If anything, I feel sorry – for her, for me, for all of us stuck here waiting for miracles that never come. Stairways to Heaven. That stupid name again. Could be salvation, could be a trap, could be nothing at all. But it's like a knife now, drawn between me and the others. I didn't ask for this attention, yet here I am, envied and resented for it.
I draw in a shaky breath and finish getting ready, adjusting the strap of my top and forcing my face back into its usual detached, sultry mask. Show time – emotions off, armor on. Before I head out, I whisper to no one, "I don't think I'm getting out either, Rhea." The room doesn't answer. With one last glance at the mirror, I go back out to the floor.