Page 3

There are women leaning over tables with cocktails between their hands while men sit back in their chairs, watching the stage over the rims of their glasses. Bodies move beneath colored lights, skin catching flashes of red and gold, and everywhere I look, there seems to be another face turned in my direction.

I swallow hard.

This is where I am supposed to do something sexy and dazzle the crowd, but I don’t think I’ve ever been less sexy in my life. I take another step forward and when someone whistles, I nearly turn around and leave.

Maybe a miracle will happen if I wait long enough. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow morning and discover that my debts have mysteriously disappeared, my rent has paid itself, and the pharmacy has decided medication should be free out of the goodness of its corporate heart.

But while that thought is hopeful, I know for a fact no one is coming to save me.

Another whistle comes from somewhere near the stage, followed by a laugh, and I forget what my hands are supposed to be doing. I forget how to stand, and even how to breathe properly. My fingers twitch helplessly at my sides, and heat rushes into my face as I try to remember the routine Logan practiced with me, the stupid little sequence that seemed manageable when we were alone in the apartment but now feels impossible with an entire room staring at me.

I make myself take the last few steps to the pole and wrap one hand around the cool metal. As I turn, my eyes move across the rom, passing over the nearest tables before resting on five men sitting together in the darkest section of the club.

All five are wearing masks.

Something about them makes my stomach twist.

There is nothing particularly strange about masks in a place like this, I suppose. I’ve already seen people wearing more strange and weird things tonight.

One of them is leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl pulling at the visible part of his face. Maybe he’s here against his will? Another has a glass resting untouched in one hand while two others are turned slightly toward each other, whispering, while one of them gives a small nod to the fifth man, who’s the only one paying attention to me.

His mask is matte black, beginning at his forehead and covering his entire face. It frames his eyes, follows the bridge of his nose before extending over his mouth, where a grim, skeletal grin is painted across it.

The back of my neck prickles.

He’s sitting a little bit apart from the others with one arm stretched along the back of the booth. And while I can’t properly see his expression from here, I can feel his attention. His eyes behind the dark openings move over me so slowly, starting at my face before traveling lower, and I become conscious of my own body, of my glasses, of my hands, mouth and every small imperfection that now feels exposed.

The music changes, which is my cue to start, but for one horrible moment, I think I have forgotten the entire routine. I stand there with one hand around the pole and take a deep breath. My fingers are shaking when I reach for my bow tie, but I tell myself nobody can see that from the audience. I start moving as the music rolls through the room, trying to remember what Logan showed me during the week. My hips follow the slow rhythm while I loosen my bow tie and let it hang around my neck.

A few people cheer and my face burns as I adjust my glasses. I slide my hand slowly down the pole, trying to make the gesture look natural.

Okay.

Maybe I can do this.

I pop the first button of my shirt, then the second, the fabric parting to expose my chest, and I make myself wait before opening another, remembering Logan telling me that taking my time is half the point. I remind myself of why I’m here and keep going until one sleeve slips from one shoulder.

The crowd cheers and that’s good for my ego right now because it means I’m not doing as badly as my brain tells me I am. When I glance toward the back of the room, my eyes find the masked man.

He’s still watching me.

One of the men beside him says something but he doesn’t even turn his head. His attention stays fixed on me while his hand grips the edge of the table, fingers curled around the wood.

For some reason that unsettles me.

I tell myself I am imagining the intensity of his gaze because I am nervous.

That has to be it.

I am standing half dressed in front of a room full of strangers, so of course I am hyperaware of being watched.

I keep my eyes on him as I continue the routine while trying to concentrate on the music instead of the feeling crawling across my skin. I have never been looked at like this before. It seems I am performing for just him at this point because I don’t bother to check if other patrons have their eyes on me. I let the music guide me, moving my hips with the beat and allowing the open sides of my shirt to brush against my skin.

My breathing steadies and I begin to understand what people mean when they talk about getting lost in music. When I slide my shirt completely from my shoulders, his head tilts. The fabric travels slowly down my arms before dropping to the stage, and his eyes move over my chest.

I turn, letting him see my back as I move around the pole, then glance over my shoulder to confirm he's still looking. Something about that gives me enough confidence to push my hips back with the next beat, and the crowd gets louder.

There’s nothing I can point to that makes him frightening. He isn’t catcalling me or making any crude gesture. It’s just the complete, unwavering focus he’s giving me. He’s looking at me like there is nowhere else in the room he would rather look.