EXCERPT:
In the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.
The bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound that feels
almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back, protect me
from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing, and the catcalls,
and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be. But I’m never quite used
to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.
I reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body around so
the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a view of my
ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in my vision.
The smile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a prop, like
the four inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the stage.
Broken.
A few people clap from the back.
Now all that’s left is a lacy bra and panty set. I grip the
pole and head into my routine, wrapping around the pole, sliding off, and
starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the
zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, losing myself in
the burn of my muscles and the slide of the metal pole against my skin and the
cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a routine.
Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.
I finish on the pole and begin to work the stage, moving
around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out shadowy
silhouettes in the chairs.
Not many.
There’s a regular on one side. I recognize him. Charlie. He
tosses a five dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and slow to pick
it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m straightening, I
spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the other under
his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s tension in
the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And that makes me nervous.
I spin away and shake my shit for the opposite side of the
room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter of time
before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.
Still I can’t help but notice his leather boots and padded
jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of leather, the tough
kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body from impact.
The song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming to an
end, and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off.
Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere
they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way he watches
me.
There’s patience in the way he watches me. And patience
implies waiting.
It implies planning.
I reach back and unclasp my bra. I use one hand to cover my
breasts while I toss the bra to the back of the stage. I pretend to be shy for
a few seconds, and suddenly, I feel shy too. Like I’m doing more than showing
my breasts to strangers. I’m showing him.
And as I stand there, hand cupping my breasts, breath coming fast, I feel his
patience like a hot flame.
This time I do miss the beat. I let go on the next one,
though, and my breasts are free, bared to the smoky air and the hungry eyes.
There are a few whistles from around the room. Charlie holds up another five
dollar bill. I sway over to him and cock my hip, letting him shove the bill
into my thong, feeling his hot, damp breath against my breast. He gets close
but doesn’t touch. That’s Charlie. He tips and follows the rules, the best kind
of customer.
I don’t even glance at the other side of the room. If the
new guy is holding up a tip, I don’t even care. He doesn’t seem like the kind
of guy who follows rules. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about him or
letting him affect me. Maybe my run-in with Blue made me more skittish than I’d
realized.
All I have left is my finale on the pole. I can get through
this.
This part isn’t as physically strenuous as before. Or as
long. All I really need to do is grind up against the pole, front and back,
emphasizing my newly naked breasts, pretending to fuck.
That’s what I’m doing when I feel it. Feel him.
I’m a practical girl. I have to be. But there’s a feeling I
get, a prickle on the back of my neck, a churning in my gut, a warning bell in
my head, when I’m near one of them.
Near a cop. My eyes scan the back of the room, but all I can see are shadows.
Is there a cop waiting to bust someone? A raid about to go down?
My gaze lands on the guy near the stage. Him? He doesn’t
look like a cop. He doesn’t feel like
a cop. But I don’t trust looks or feelings. All I can trust is the alarm
blaring in my head: get out, get out, get
out.
I can barely suck in enough air. There’s only smoky air and
rising panic. Blood races through me, speeding up my movements. A cop. I feel it like some kind of sixth
sense.
Maybe he feels my intuition about him, because he leans
forward in his seat.
In one heart-stopping moment, my eyes meet his. I can see
his face then, drawn from charcoal shadows.
Beautiful, his
lips say. All I can hear is the song.
I’m not even on beat anymore, and it doesn’t matter. It
doesn’t matter because there’s a cop here, and I have to get out. Even if my
intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.
I’ll never be safe.
The last note calls for a curtsey—a sexy, mocking thing I
choreographed into my routine. Like the one I’d do at the end of a ballet
recital, made vulgar. I barely manage it this time; a rough jerk of my head and
shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage, running down the hallway. I’m supposed
to work the floor next, see who wants a lap dance or another drink, but I can’t
do that. I head for the dressing room and thrown on a T-shirt and sweatpants.
I’ll tell them I feel sick and have to leave early. They won’t be happy, and
I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they won’t want me throwing
up on the customers either.
I run for the door and almost slam into Blue.
He’s standing in the hallway again. Not slouching this time.
There’s a new alertness to his stare. And something else—amusement.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“I have to… my stomach hurts. I feel sick.” I step close,
praying he’ll move aside.
He reaches up to trace my cheek. “Aww, should I call the
doctor?” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want anything bad to
happen to you.”
I grip my bag tight to my chest, trying to ignore the threat
in his words. And the threat in his grip. I really do feel sick now, but throwing up on him is definitely not going to
help the situation. “Please, I need to leave. It’s serious. I’ll make it up
later.”
He’ll know what I’m saying. That I’ll make it up to him
personally. I’m just desperate enough to promise that. Desperate enough to
promise him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that I know it’s a
decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m desperate
enough for that too.
“Please let me go.” The words come out pained, my voice
thin. It feels a little like my body is collapsing in on itself, steel beams
bending together, something crushing me from the outside.
Regret flashes over his face, whether for refusing my offer
or forcing me that low. But this time, he doesn’t let me go. “There’s a
customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
