If I had any hope—any chance of getting out of here alive—I had to make Delgado forget he was angry. I had to perform.
I spun and dropped, letting my body fall into the poses they liked—back arched, legs split. Perspiration shimmered over my skin, both from the heat of the lights and my nerves.
I made the mistake of looking out across the audience.
My eyes found Delgado immediately.
He stood on the center balcony, arms crossed, guards flanking him. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
I dropped into an inverted straddle, flipped, and climbed. My legs burned.
And then—the rig shifted.
My pole began to move.
I remained calm. This wasn’t unheard of. Carlos had done this before, rotating me slowly across the stage, but even still, this hadn’t been rehearsed. Something in my gut twisted.
The pole drifted forward, out over the audience.
Low—within arm’s reach.
Then a voice came over the speakers—deep, loud, lecherous.
“Gentlemen. You’ve had a taste. Now let’s begin the bidding.”
My stomach dropped.
“No!” I screamed.
The pole lowered even more.
I gripped it tighter, locking my legs into place, sweat breaking out across my back.
The men below stood from their chairs. Some raised drinks. Others slipped out their phones.
A few reached up.
Hands touched my ankles. Palms slid across my calves.
I kicked, twisted, tried to climb—but the rig lowered again.
A hand grabbed my thigh.
Fingers clawed. One tore my costume.
Another hand yanked my bottoms down and off.
I screamed.
No one listened.
Now I was bare from the waist down! Exposed. I clung to the top of the pole, desperately trying to hold myself up as hands reached for me again.
They laughed.
They barked in languages I didn’t understand.
