Stormy is whispering with one of the other girls when I leave, darting her eyes in my direction the entire time. When she sees me looking, she speaks up. “I don’t care if everyone thinks she shits rainbows. She’s no better than me.”
I turn to the side and push the door open so I can get out of the room with my larger wings. “I’m not better than you, Stormy, never said I was. That’s all you and your inferiority complex.” I leave the room with Stormy’s shouts following me.
The man looks at the door, then glances at me. “Everything okay?”
I nod and shimmy past him. “All good, thanks.”
“Didn’t sound like it,” he mutters to himself. Great, now he’s probably going to say something to Winger. Stormy will end up being fired, and all the girls will think I tattled. I shake away the thoughts. I’m not supposed to care. I’m not Lucy when I’m here, I’m Fel.
Chapter 2
“Please welcome to the stage our very own fallen angel. Make sure you keep your hands to yourselves though, boys, or the reaper will be at your door.” My music builds after the DJ’s announcement. He always makes some sort of reference about me being the angel of death or some crap, but as long as it works and I don’t have any grubby hands touching me, I don’t care.
The heavy black curtains hold the stench of the club as I part them and step onto the reflective black stage. The lights are lowered in the crowd, but I know everyone can see me clearly. All the mirrors lining the back walls show me exactly what they see.
I drag my toes as I walk to the middle of the stage, exaggerating my movements to make them sultry, sexy, all languid and loose. I try not to do too much floor work, since I hate rolling around on the stage, but some is required. I kneel with my legs spread far apart. I think one of the only requirements for the dancers here is the splits. Thankfully, none of the dancers get nude. Some go topless, and the G-strings they wear are close to nonexistent, but I keep my bandeau and cheeky panties on.
As the singer starts crooning, I lean my head back so I’m in a full arch and run my hands over my body, pulling the straps of my wings off my arms as I do. I roll to the side into a front split. This is usually when the catcalling and demands for me to take it off start. I don’t rush though. I have six to ten minutes on the stage, depending on how many girls are dancing tonight and what songs the DJ picks.
I crawl forward with my hands until my torso is on the floor while my legs are still open wide, allowing my long hair to cover some of my face. Thankfully, the spotlights keep me from really seeing anyone in the crowd. I pick a focal point and keep my eyes trained there as I spin my waist so my legs are in the air, switching to a side split. Using the pole, I haul myself up one-handed and make it look like a trick, but really, I’m just getting up with a little flare.
I roll against the pole, moving my body with the music. With my butt to the crowd, I bend over so my head is down, then I curl my hand between my legs, touching myself. More hollering echoes in the club, and I hope it means the stage will be littered with money when I’m done.
Lifting halfway up, I begin to peel my leggings down my ass, but I leave them under my butt cheeks for a few seconds and tease them a little. I fall onto the stage in another side split, and the waist of my pants makes my ass look better, more rounded. From here, I close my legs and do my last little bit of floor work while removing my leggings.
I can feel small beads of sweat dotting my upper lip. It’s more from nerves than being hot—not that the lights don’t make it warm, but they don’t give me the same tremors as the nerves do. I ignore it, like usual, and blow out a breath. Sweaty hands are a pole dancer’s nemesis. They can make you stick to the pole or make you slide right off.
I run my fingers over my ass and crotch, trying to look alluring, but really, I’m just making sure my hands are dry, then I grab the pole. From here, it’s easier. I actually have to focus on what I’m doing, so I can forget about all the creeps in the audience. I let the music guide me, pretending I’m alone and not spreading my legs for any stranger who pays the door fee to get in.
I always get a gasp or two when I flip upside down or remove my hands from the pole. I like those sounds much better than the other garbage they yell.
I transition to another position as the music of the first song bleeds into the second. This one is a little faster, but still slow enough to maintain my languid movements. I use every inch of the pole, twisting and spinning in an arch and doing the splits until I really am sweating. When I have about thirty seconds left of the song, I unwind for a final time and land on the floor. I’m breathing heavily, so I don’t have to fake the quick rise and fall of my chest as I crawl forward on my hands and knees. I look up, not seeing anything other than shadows and lights. Bills crunch under my hands, some crisp while others are soft and worn. I see mostly ones, but there are enough of them to have made the ten minutes worth my time. A few men stand and come closer to the stage, hoping to put their hands and money in my shorts, but I don’t get near enough to the edge for them to touch me.
The song winds down and the house music picks up as the DJ announces, “Leave it on the stage or keep it in your pockets, boys. Art like that is only to be appreciated, never touched. Let’s have a round of applause for Fel, our earthbound angel that can make the worst sinner pray for redemption.”
The stage lights shut off, and I rise swiftly. I hear a few grumbles, but they don’t matter to me. What matters is that summer taxes are due and I need to pay for my oat order for next week.
Stormy is already waiting behind the curtain when I push through. I don’t bristle when I see her, even though I want to. She’s not due on stage for at least three minutes.
I lean over and do a few stretches, ignoring her. I don’t have to worry about my money or the pieces of my costume that were left behind—one of the barbacks or a waitress will grab them for me—but it does bother me that I have to put up with Stormy and her sneer for a few extra minutes while it’s all gathered. When I first started, I would stand and watch to make sure no one would pocket my money, but Winger has a strict no stealing policy, and that’s not a rule reserved just for me, so I’m confident everything will be brought directly to me.
“Here you go, Fel. Gosh, that last trick made me nervous. I thought you were gonna fall off.” Misty shakes her head slowly while extending a wad of bills to me with one hand, and my wings and pants with the other.
“Thanks, Misty,” I reply breathlessly, still panting from the exertion.
“Fel, you should teach a class or somethin’. The stuff you can do…” She just shakes her head. Stormy pushes past us, jostling my wings and getting closer to the curtain in an effort to get me out of the way.
“Thanks again, Misty. I’ll see you on the floor in a few minutes.” I give her a soft half-smile, and it’s not even faked. Misty used to dance on the stage, but now she only works the floor and the rooms. If I ever get bumped to only the floor and rooms, I’ll quit on the spot. Taxes be damned. I know what goes on in those rooms, and I’m not that desperate. Misty gives Stormy a glare, but to me, she says, “Yeah, all right. It’s a busy one tonight.” Then she teeters away in her stilettos.
“You can’t dance for shit, Felony,” Stormy sneers. Every time she speaks my name, she says it like an insult. “You wouldn’t make a dime without that pole.” She looks me over, clearly finding me lacking. I certainly don’t have the typical stripper body, I’m too narrow for that, but I make the curves I do have work, plus there will always be a pole. If not here, then somewhere else.
“I’m not offended that you don’t think I can shake my ass as well as you, Stormy. Nor did I ask you to put any money on the stage.” I grip the cash in my fist tighter, and the bills fan out a bit. Her eyes dart down, and her lips thin even more. I know without counting it that it’s a good haul, and it’s only my first set. I can see the anger and jealousy in her eyes. That’s really what her hatred boils down to—I’m the second highest earner here, and I don’t work the rooms or let anyone touch me. She’s pissed, I get it, but it’s not my fault she can only shake her ass and do a spin on the pole. She could take a class or just put effort into something other than getting bigger tits.
I turn my back on her, leaving her alone near the curtain. She would take anything I said to her the wrong way or assume I was being a bitch. She would probably be right at this point. Stormy has made it clear she doesn’t like me, and the feeling is mutual.
“Someday, you’re going to fall off that high horse, Felony.” I stop dead in my tracks. “I just hope I’m there to see it.”
It dawns on me that her word choice was just a turn of phrase. She doesn’t know me or anything about me, but damn if it didn’t hit close to home. Maybe a little too close. I look over my shoulder, wondering if she’s the person who has been following me. But it doesn’t feel right. The few glimpses I’ve caught were of a man. Stormy faces the curtain, probably assuming I walked away since she already delivered her little threat.
