Chapter Text
The bass started in Beca’s chest before she even stepped inside. It thumped through the metal door, through the concrete walls, through the soles of her boots. A steady, relentless beat that made the sidewalk vibrate faintly beneath her feet.
Beca Mitchell stared at the glowing pink sign above the entrance and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me again why we’re here,” she said.
Next to her, Jesse grinned like he’d been waiting all week for this moment.
“Because,” he said, pushing the door open, “you’ve been living in that studio like a raccoon and I refuse to watch it happen.”
Beca sighed. It had been a brutal week. Four days of mixing vocals for an artist who insisted on recording every line twenty times, three all-nighters tweaking bass levels, and a deadline that felt like it was breathing down her neck.
She was exhausted. But she was not in the mood for…whatever this was.
The door swung open and light spilled out—neon pink and electric blue. Music roared inside.
Jesse grabbed her sleeve and pulled her in.
The club was exactly what Beca expected. Dark. Loud. Crowded. Colored lights swept across the room in slow waves while bass-heavy music pounded through enormous speakers. The air smelled faintly like perfume, alcohol, and something sweet she couldn’t place.
A long stage stretched across the center of the room, chrome poles gleaming under the lights. Beca immediately looked away.
“Relax,” Jesse said, laughing as he guided her toward the bar. “You act like you’ve never seen a woman before.”
“I’ve seen women,” Beca muttered. “Just not um…professionally.”
Jesse ordered drinks. Beca leaned her elbows on the bar and pulled out her phone, already scrolling through an email from a client. The music changed. She barely noticed.
Another dancer was finishing up on stage—cheers rose from a group of guys near the front. Beca glanced up once, then back down. Her brain was still half in the studio. Levels. Compression. The synth line in track three was still sitting weird in the mix—
The music shifted again. A new song started. Something slower. Bass-heavy, but controlled. Beca’s head lifted automatically. She recognized the production style instantly—deep electronic beats layered under soft vocal loops.
Someone had good taste.
The lights dimmed further.
And then she walked on stage.
Beca didn’t know her name yet. All she knew was that suddenly the entire room felt…different.
The dancer moved like the music belonged to her. Long red hair caught the colored lights as she stepped onto the stage, one hand sliding easily along the pole like it had always been there.
The crowd reacted immediately—whistles, cheers. But Beca barely heard them. Because the girl was listening to the song. Actually listening.
It was obvious in the way she moved. Not rushed. Not showy. Intentional.
Her hips shifted exactly with the bass drop, like she could feel the beat through the floorboards. When the vocals softened, she slowed too, fingers trailing lazily along the pole as if she were stretching out the moment.
Beca blinked. Huh. That was…interesting. She set her phone down.
The girl spun once around the pole—smooth, effortless—then landed lightly, one heel tapping in perfect time with the percussion. Beca leaned forward slightly. Okay. Now she was curious.
Most people danced to music. This girl danced inside it.
Every movement lined up with something. The kick drum. The synth swell. A tiny pause right before the chorus. It was subtle enough that most of the crowd probably didn’t notice. But Beca noticed. Her producer brain immediately started breaking it down. Timing. Rhythm. Muscle memory.
The dancer tilted her head back slightly, red hair cascading down her shoulders as the chorus hit. For a second she closed her eyes. And smiled.
Not at the audience. At the song.
Beca felt something strange flicker in her chest. Like recognition.
Jesse leaned over beside her. “Oh,” he said approvingly. “She’s new.”
Beca didn’t answer. She was watching the dancer’s footwork. Every step landed right on the snare. Every turn stretched perfectly across the measure. It was weirdly precise. Almost…musical.
The dancer gripped the pole again and spun, legs extending gracefully before she landed in a smooth, fluid arch.
Cheers erupted. Beca barely registered them.
Instead, she caught herself thinking—
She’d be incredible in a music video.
The thought arrived fully formed. Not just because she was beautiful—though she was, objectively, ridiculously beautiful—but because she felt the rhythm.
That wasn’t something you could teach.
The dancer moved toward the edge of the stage now, leaning slightly toward the crowd. Her eyes swept the room. Casual. Playful.
Then they stopped.
On Beca.
It happened so quickly Beca almost thought she imagined it. But the dancer definitely paused. Just for a fraction of a second. Her expression changed. Not the flirtatious smile she’d been giving the crowd.
Something else. Curiosity, maybe.
Because Beca wasn’t looking at her like everyone else was. She wasn’t cheering. She wasn’t reaching for her wallet. She was staring. Studying.
The dancer’s brows lifted slightly. Interesting.
Beca didn’t look away.
Instead, her brain continued doing what it did best. There was a slight lag between the vocal sample and the beat in this part of the track. The dancer adjusted her timing without even thinking about it. That was insane.
Their eye contact stretched longer than it probably should have. The music swelled again. And suddenly the dancer smiled. Not at the room.
At Beca.
Then she spun back toward the pole, hair whipping through the colored lights as the chorus exploded again. Beca exhaled slowly.
“What?” Jesse asked beside her.
“Nothing,” Beca said.
But she didn’t pick her phone back up.
The set ended too quickly.
At least that’s what Beca thought.
The song faded and the dancer finished with a graceful slide down the pole, landing lightly on the stage. The crowd erupted. Bills hit the stage. Cheers bounced off the walls. The dancer bowed slightly, blowing a playful kiss to the front row.
Then she stood. Her gaze moved across the room again. For a split second it landed on Beca. Again. Then she disappeared backstage.
The lights shifted. Another dancer’s music started.
Jesse nudged Beca’s shoulder. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re staring,” Jesse repeated.
Beca frowned at her drink. “She has good timing,” Beca said.
Jesse blinked. “…What?”
“The dancer,” Beca said, gesturing vaguely toward the stage. “Her timing was really good.”
Jesse stared at her. Then he laughed. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You came to a strip club and the first thing you noticed was rhythm.”
“It’s important,” Beca muttered.
Jesse shook his head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
Beca shrugged and took a sip of her drink. The next dancer was already performing. But Beca wasn’t really watching. Instead she found herself glancing toward the hallway behind the stage.
Waiting. Which was ridiculous. She didn’t even know why. Fifteen minutes passed. Another song ended. Then the lights dimmed again.
A familiar bassline started.
And the redhead walked back on stage.
Beca sat up immediately. Jesse noticed.
“Oh my god,” he whispered dramatically. “You have a favorite.”
“I do not.”
But she was already watching. This time the dancer’s performance felt different. Looser. More playful. And once again, every movement matched the music perfectly. But now Beca noticed something else. The dancer kept glancing at her. Not constantly.
Just…occasionally. Like she was checking. Making sure Beca was still there.
The realization made Beca’s stomach flip in a way she didn’t entirely understand.
Halfway through the song, their eyes met again. The dancer tilted her head slightly. Beca held her gaze. The dancer’s smile widened. Then she spun away again, hair flashing red under the neon lights.
Jesse leaned over. “Okay,” he said quietly. “She’s definitely dancing for you.”
“She’s dancing for everyone.”
“Uh huh.”
Beca ignored him. But she didn’t stop watching.
The second set ended with the same thunder of applause. The dancer bowed again. This time when she straightened, her gaze went immediately to Beca. Direct. Intentional.
For a second the noise of the room seemed to fade. The dancer’s expression softened slightly. Still curious. Still intrigued.
Then someone near the stage called her name and she glanced away. When she looked back, Beca was still there. Still watching. Still fascinated.
The dancer gave the smallest smile. Then she turned and disappeared backstage again.
Jesse finished his drink. “You ready to go?”
Beca looked toward the hallway behind the stage. Then back at the empty stage. “…Maybe in a minute.”
Jesse smirked. “Oh,” he said. “You’re staying.”
Beca leaned back in her chair, pretending to be casual. But her eyes kept drifting toward the hallway. Because something strange had just happened. For the first time all week, Beca Mitchell had completely stopped thinking about work.
Instead she was thinking about rhythm. About movement. About the way someone could hear a song so clearly they turned it into something physical. And about the red-haired dancer who had looked at her like she’d noticed something unusual too.
Beca didn’t know her name. But she had a feeling this wasn’t the last time she’d see her.
Across the room, the backstage door cracked open. The redhead stepped through it. And just before disappearing down the hallway, she glanced back at the floor one more time.
Directly at Beca.
Then she was gone.
Beca almost left. She really did. Jesse had already paid the tab, already halfway to the door, already laughing about something Beca hadn’t been listening to.
“You coming?” he asked, pushing the door open.
Cold night air slipped into the club for a second. Beca looked toward the stage again. Empty. Then toward the hallway where the dancer had disappeared.
The music nerd in her itched. Not in the normal way—not the I need to get back to the studio and fix a mix kind of itch. A different one. The dancer’s timing replayed in her head. The pause before the chorus. The way she’d hit the bass drop exactly.
It wasn’t accidental. Beca knew accidental rhythm. This was intentional.
Jesse noticed her hesitation immediately.
“Oh my god,” he said slowly. “You’re thinking about it.”
“About what?”
“You’re thinking about going back there.”
Beca shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I just want to say something.”
“Uh huh.”
“About the music.”
Jesse stared at her like she’d just announced she planned to fight a bear. “You’re going to compliment a stripper’s rhythm.”
“Exactly.”
Jesse started laughing again. “You are the weirdest person I know.”
Beca ignored him. Before she could overthink it, she turned and headed toward the hallway.
The music was quieter back there. Still loud, but muffled through the walls. The hallway was dimly lit with a flickering red light that buzzed faintly overhead. Doors lined both sides — some cracked open, some shut completely.
Voices drifted through them. Laughter. Someone calling for a towel. Beca suddenly felt very aware that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. She stopped. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe she should—
“Hey.”
Beca turned. The redhead stood at the far end of the hallway, leaning casually against a doorway. Up close, she was somehow even more striking. Her stage makeup was still flawless, red lipstick slightly smudged from smiling. Her long hair spilled over one shoulder, catching the red hallway light like copper.
She looked Beca up and down slowly. Then she smiled. “You look lost.”
Beca opened her mouth. Nothing came out. The dancer pushed off the doorway and walked toward her. Her heels clicked softly against the floor. Up close, Beca realized two things immediately:
One, she smelled faintly like vanilla. And two, she was definitely way taller than Beca.
“You here for me?” the dancer asked casually.
Beca blinked. “Um—”
The redhead laughed softly. “Relax, baby. Happens all the time.”
Before Beca could correct her, the dancer gently took her hand. Her palm was warm.
“Come on,” she said, tugging Beca down the hallway. “My room’s this way.”
Beca’s brain short-circuited. “Oh—I—”
But the dancer had already opened a door. The dressing room was smaller than Beca expected. Warm yellow bulbs lined a vanity mirror, casting soft light across the room. Makeup bags and hair products covered the counter. A couple of costumes hung on hooks by the wall.
The dancer stepped inside first. Then she turned, holding the door open for Beca.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a teasing grin. “I don’t bite.”
Beca stepped inside. The dancer pulled a chair away from the vanity and turned it to face the room.
“Have a seat.”
Beca sat automatically. Her brain still felt several seconds behind reality. The dancer stretched her legs out slightly, rolling one shoulder like she was loosening up after a workout.
Then she stepped closer. Close enough that Beca could see faint freckles under her makeup.
“You’re new,” she said with a small smirk.
Beca blinked up at her. “Am I that obvious?”
“Just a little.”
The dancer leaned down slightly. Her fingers slipped gently into Beca’s hair. Beca froze. She wasn’t rough about it. Just…playing. Lightly twisting a strand around her finger.
“This one’s on me, baby,” the dancer said smoothly. Before Beca could process that sentence—
She moved. In one fluid motion, the dancer swung one leg over Beca’s lap and straddled her. Beca’s brain immediately stopped working. The dancer settled comfortably on her thighs, one hand braced lightly on Beca’s shoulder.
Up close like this, Beca could see every detail. The curve of her smile. The shimmer of gold eyeshadow. The faint flush across her cheeks from dancing under hot stage lights.
So gorgeous.
The dancer started moving. Slowly. Rolling her hips in an easy rhythm. Beca’s mouth went dry. This was definitely not how she imagined this conversation going.
The dancer leaned closer, her hair brushing Beca’s shoulder. “Relax,” she murmured. “It’s just for you.”
And that was when Beca panicked. Because the music playing faintly through the wall was the same track from earlier. And the dancer’s timing was still perfect. The observation shot out of Beca’s mouth before she could stop it.
“Your timing during the chorus was insane.”
The dancer froze. Mid movement. Beca continued, because now she couldn’t stop.
“The syncopation with the kick drum? That was—like—ridiculously precise.”
Silence. The dancer stared at her. Then she burst out laughing. Not a polite giggle. A full, bright laugh that filled the entire room.
“Oh my god,” she said, wiping the corner of her eye.
Beca immediately turned red. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” the dancer said, still laughing. “Please don’t be.”
She shifted slightly on Beca’s lap, clearly no longer performing. “You came back here,” she said slowly, “to compliment my rhythm.”
“Yes.”
The dancer tilted her head. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
Another laugh bubbled out of her. “You are adorable.”
Beca looked horrified. “I’m not adorable.”
“You’re sitting in a strip club dressing room talking about percussion.”
“Fair point.”
The dancer was still straddling her. Still touching her hair. Her fingers slid down slightly, brushing the back of Beca’s neck.
“Your name, love?” she asked.
“Beca.”
“Beca,” she repeated thoughtfully. Her voice softened the name slightly.
“Pretty.”
Beca cleared her throat. “You?”
“Chloe.”
Beca repeated it quietly. “Chloe.”
It fit her somehow. Chloe shifted again, her hand sliding down to rest lightly on Beca’s arm.
“So,” she said, smiling mischievously, “tell me about the rhythm analysis.”
Beca hesitated. “You’ll think it’s weird.”
“Too late.”
Beca sighed. “I’m a music producer.”
Chloe’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“That explains…a lot.”
Beca laughed awkwardly. “I noticed you were hitting the snare and bass transitions exactly. Most dancers follow the melody, but you were moving with the percussion.”
Chloe stared at her for a moment. Then she grinned. “I just dance to what feels good.”
“Your instincts are excellent.”
“You say that like you’re grading me.”
“I kind of am.”
Chloe laughed again. Her hand squeezed Beca’s arm lightly. “You’re cute when you’re analyzing things.”
Beca tried very hard not to focus on the fact that Chloe was still sitting in her lap.
“So you really noticed all that?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah.”
Chloe leaned closer. Close enough that Beca could feel the warmth of her breath. “Most people just stare at my tits.”
Beca choked slightly, trying not to look now that Chloe had drawn attention to them. Chloe smiled wickedly.
“But you were watching my footwork.”
“I was.”
Chloe seemed weirdly pleased by that. She shifted again, resting her elbows loosely on Beca’s shoulders now. More relaxed. Less performance.
“You said you’re a producer,” Chloe said. “Like…professionally?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool.”
Beca shrugged. “It’s mostly sitting in a dark room arguing with sound waves.”
“Still cool.”
Chloe tapped her fingers lightly against Beca’s shoulder in a quiet rhythm. “I actually love music,” she admitted.
Beca looked up. “Yeah?”
“Always have.”
Chloe glanced toward the door. “Never had any training or anything. But when I dance, I just kind of…follow it.”
“That’s obvious, to me at least.”
Chloe smiled softly at that. Their eyes lingered for a second. Longer than necessary. Then Chloe leaned back slightly. “Well,” she said playfully, “since this private dance turned into a rhythm seminar…”
Beca laughed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
Chloe slid off Beca’s lap gracefully. Immediately the room felt a little cooler. She walked to the vanity and grabbed a water bottle, taking a sip.
Then she looked back at Beca. Still sitting in the chair. Still a little dazed.
“You’re different,” Chloe said.
Beca frowned. “How?”
“You looked at me like you were studying a song.”
Beca hesitated. “I kind of was.”
Chloe smiled. Then she walked back over and rested a hand lightly on Beca’s shoulder. “You should come back,” she said softly.
Beca looked up. Chloe’s expression had shifted again. Gentler now. Less teasing.
“I dance better when someone’s actually listening.”
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Beca nodded. “I will.”
Chloe’s smile widened. “Good.”
As Beca stood to leave, Chloe’s fingers brushed lightly against her wrist. Just for a second. And somehow that felt more electric than the entire dance.