It was all I could do not to roll my eyes.
I climbed onto the low scaffolding just off stage left, my bare feet gripping the cold metal as I steadied myself. The overhead rigging was already locked to the top of the pole, ready for me to swing out.
“Let’s go, sweetheart. Time to give ’em something to drool over,” a stagehand muttered, thrusting the pole into my hands.
I didn’t respond, just tightened my grip, braced my core, and pushed off. The rig caught my weight as I flew out over the stage. The move was smooth and practiced, muscle memory taking over. The men in the crowd below clapped, whistled, and muttered filthy things to their friends as the spotlight cut through the haze and followed me toward center stage, where I hung suspended in midair.
The momentum carried me forward while I shifted my grip, and my thighs scissored up the pole to catch and climb. In one smooth motion, I twisted into a jade split, stretching my torso into a deliberate, sultry arch. The hot pink sequins scattered light like embers across my skin.
I transitioned into a controlled spin, sliding into a butterfly, then rolled back into an inverted crucifix, my muscles firing as the burn bit deep—because controlalwayscost something. My toes sliced through the air, pointed and perfect, while my body coiled down the pole like smoke poured in human form. I wasn’t dancing—I was showcasing.
Each movement was engineered to hit the rhythm perfectly on cue, to tease without trying too hard. The sheer skirt fluttered as I dropped into a shoulder-mount spin, flipping upright just long enough to let the spotlight shimmer across my skin. Then I leaned back, slicing my legs open into an inverted straddle with a slow grind—a move that was practically a dare—only the pole between me and their hungry stares. My hips rocked into it with dancer’s control, teasing tension from the crowd.
The bills started to fly, fluttering onto the stage—a silent tribute for my willingness to please, to stir their desire. A group of men at a table close to the stage leaned forward, hypnotized, caught between lust and awe as I continued. I never looked at them directly. That was part of the magic. I was above them, out of reach, all illusion.
I’d practiced this set for weeks. Refined it. Perfected it. I’d drilled it until it lived in my body, until every climb, spin, and tilt dripped with confidence and sensuality.
And tonight, they were eating it up.
It used to feel like flying—like freedom.
Now? Now it was just survival.
Ever since the accident—ever since that bastard had ripped something away from me I couldn’t get back—I danced because I had to. Because it paid the rent. Now, I was alone on a stage in a club full of strangers who desired pieces of me I didn’t want to give.
The music slowed. I hit my final spin, dragging one leg into an arc, my toes brushing the air as I descended. My feet kissed the stage. I stood and took a sweeping bow.
The crowd erupted. Catcalls. Whistles. More bills.
I smiled and waved as though it meant something.
Then I walked straight offstage left, into the dark.
Carlos slapped my ass as I went by. “Now, that’s what we pay you for. But if you’re late again? The boss is gonna take it outta you—one pound of flesh at a time.”
I was going to walk away without a word, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers biting in just above my elbow, and dragged me to a halt.
He leaned in too close, his breath sour in my nose as he whispered, “Careful, princesa. Overconfidence gets girls replaced.”
I tensed but didn’t flinch. He squeezed tighter.
“You’re only here because the boss thinks you’re building value.” His eyes raked over me. “Let’s hope you don’t fuck that up before he cashes in.”
I swallowed hard. “Let go of me.”
He did—with a final, dismissive shove. “Go change.”
As I turned, the stagehand hurried over with a stack of bills.
“Here ya go, sweetheart. Great dance,” he said, stuffing the thick wad into my palm before disappearing again.
“Thanks,” I said, looking down at the cash, noticing lots of Benjamins. I was a huge draw for this place, pulling in loads of cash. They might threaten me, but I knew my worth, and so did they.
Officially, the house took a twenty-percent cut. But who the hell knew what got skimmed during the sweep—how much got slipped into pockets as the money made its way from the stage to my hand? I never saw the full pile, just whatever they decided to pass along. Still, it was more money than I could make anywhere else in a single night, and they knew that. Arguing wouldn’t get me anything but a hard time.
I hated having this much cash on me. The dressing room wasn’t secure—no locks. Just some sketchy lockers. There was the constant threat of someone taking what wasn’t theirs.
And then there was the walk home. Alone. At two in the morning. With no one watching my six and nothing but a half-empty can of pepper spray to defend myself with.
