Amelia’s voice echoes in my head: ‘They’re not allowed to touch you unless you give them permission.’
I cross my arms neatly under my barely there top and ignore his hand.
He grins, retracting it with a chuckle. “Sorry. Forgot the rules.”
“Are you the one who paid for the dance?” I ask, keeping my tone as steady as possible.
“I did,” he says, still grinning, “but it’s not for me. It’s for my boy Boone.” He gestures to another man who’s seated at the table.
This guy’s big like the rest of them, with dark brown hair that brushes his collar and sharp brown eyes that meet mine briefly before he looks down at his lap and shakes his head, clearly embarrassed by all of this. He's sitting back in his seat, large thighs spread slightly and there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.
Despite the situation, it’s almost endearing that he's as embarrassed as I am right now.
Almost.
"He's had a bad month," Penn continues.
“More like a bad two years,” one of the other guys chimes in, snorting into their drink.
“We figured you could help turn his luck around. Put a smile on his face,Rose.”
I have no idea what Boone’s been through, but standing here half-naked in a dimly lit strip club, about to give a lap dance to a stranger, all because my life has been so tightly controlled and painfully monotonous for the last several years, I can’t convince myself that whatever he’s dealing with is worse than this.
Worse than the quiet panic clawing up my spine when I open my eyes to an empty home and silence.
Worse than realizing I don’t recognize the woman I’ve become, or the one I’m pretending to be just to feel something again.
Worse than knowing I haven’t had any real fun, friends or adventure in… well, years.
“Well,” I say, stepping closer to him because the sooner we start this, the sooner I can get back to my apartment and process it all, “I guess it’s your lucky night, Boone.”
He shakes his head again while his friends cheer, the redness creeping higher up to his ears.
I step forward, just a foot away from his body and he shifts in his seat, angling himself toward me. His hands rest obediently at his sides as he follows the unspoken rules not to touch.
He looks nervous, embarrassed, and maybe even a little uncomfortable, which is a stark contrast to the obnoxious energy of his friends at their table who are thankfully already distracted by the next act that's hit the stage and no longer watching us.
Maybe he doesn’t even want this dance.
Suddenly, my life-long insecurities around my body creep in.
Maybe he does want this dance, he just doesn't want this dance withme.Because I’m notprettyenough.
Have I given a lap dance before? Once. To a guy I dated for six months in undergrad school before my dad found out he was a communications major and ‘strongly advised’ we break up.
‘Communications majors won’t make any money, Rosie. All they do is talk shit and get paid the same.’
‘Okay, Dad. And what do lawyers do?’I mean, we're practically the kings and queens of talking shit though I guess we get paid more.
That lap dance had been clumsy, more of a joke than anything else. But this feels entirely different. Intimate despite us not being alone.
Amelia had given me tips on dancing, and I’ve watched enough routines tonight to have an idea of what I should do differently this time but I'm still nervous and completely out of my depth.
I plant my feet firmly in front of him, take a deep breath, and decide that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to give it my all because this is the first—and very last—time that I'll ever be pretending I'mRose, the dancer.
So why not go out with a bang…
Chapter 3: Boone
