Pip knew who he was from a very young age. He'd started ballet from age fourteen, because that was the age his Mum and Dad had given in to his pleading. He would've started much earlier if he could've, as it had put him a little behind his fellow dancers. So, in one way or another, Pip had always danced. It wasn't until much later in life that he'd started doing it for money.
The work was the same. You had to be disciplined, you had to have good - really fucking good - core strength. Half of the girls who stumbled in with bridal parties, trailing their veils and dollar bills on the floor, thought they could do what Pip did. It was one thing to get up on stage and shake ass for a group of leering, disgusting patrons. It was quite another thing to be able to get up there and put on a show. It was why Miles didn't hire just anyone, and it was why Miles had hired him.
Pip remembered every moment of being up on that stage. He knew some of the other dancers liked to do a shot for courage before they got up, but Pip had never been anything other than stone cold sober. He wanted to remember the way his calves ached, the friction burns on the palms of his hands as he worked the pole. He remembered what it felt like to be on top of the world. But he also knew how it felt to work when your heart wasn't in it, when the crowd were lairy and calling for the girls to come back out, or after a fight with a girl you were seeing. The smile on your face was a little bit wider, falser, your eyes sad and tired, not quite connecting with the crowd.
He'd experienced it, seen the tell tale signs in his friends and colleagues - all of this to say, that was how he could tell Jasmine was having a bad night.
She was all professionalism on the stage, shining like a mirrorball in one of her signature, sparkly outfits. But on the few occasions she'd come to the bar for a glass of water, or passed by on her way to the dressing room, she'd been in no mood for a laugh. Pip had tried it on regardless, Art would call it pulling her pigtails. Jasmine was having none of it. Her tone had been so biting and her glare so fierce, Pip hadn't even bothered to fight back.
He watched her dainty figure stomp towards the dressing room, the heel of her shoe disappearing in the plush carpet underfoot. He glanced sideways at the other bartender on shift, widening his eyes and lifting up his brows.
"The fuck is her problem?" he said, a laugh spilling from his lips. He tossed the bar mop to one side, and fought the urge to feel stung by Jasmine's brush off. If she wanted to sulk with him, well, she could be his fucking guest. It wasn't his responsibility to go after her. It wasn't like they were friends.
Except, in the way, they kind of were.
A guilty feeling tugged at him as he imagined the looks on his friend's faces, (Not that any of them knew they worked together), all it took was imagining Xander's big, puppy dog eyes, knowing he didn't chase after Jasmine when she was upset, that had him following after her.
"Fuck it, I'm clocking out early." he said, already sliding out from underneath the bar and following in Jasmine's wake.
In theory, he wasn't allowed in the dressing room. In actuality, he didn't give much of a fuck. He'd covered himself in glitter where Jasmine sat well before she'd ever sat there, so he rapped his knuckles on the door, pushing it ajar and wandering in with his hands clasped over his eyes.
"Sorry if you're naked, sorry if you're naked!" he chanted, opening one eye and peering through his fingers, only to find a sulky looking Jasmine - fully dressed, he might add.
"Oh, I'm even sorrier you're dressed." he quipped, offering her his brightest smile.
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