Lover Undercover - By Samanthe Beck Page 0,1
few leftovers for you.”
The stagehand ran over with Ginger’s clothes, and Kylie let them pass. She didn’t care about leftovers. All she wanted to do was live through the next three and a half minutes. Over her thundering heartbeat, she heard the DJ ask the audience to give a big round of applause for Stacy.
The house lights lowered. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to get beyond the light-headed sensation threatening to overtake her.
The music started—AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” She opened her eyes and stared down her only remaining choices. Titty bar or Two Trout?
She stepped onto the stage.
The spotlight blinded her, and for one hysterical second, she froze like an ill-prepared fifth-grader called to the front of the class. Then Stacy’s voice replayed in Kylie’s mind, like a high-pitched drill sergeant, coaching her through the routine exactly as they’d done all week.
Strut to the center of the stage. Bend over and roll your hips in a big, wide circle. Smile, for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to waste an ounce of charm on anyone backstage, but when you’re out in front of the customers, smile like you’re having the time of your life. Now, undo the belt, slide it free, and snap it.
The belt whipped through the air with a loud slapping sound. The audience went wild. She couldn’t see them because of the glare of the lights, but she heard them. They gathered at the end of the runway, where the pole waited. The. Pole.
Stacy called the pole dance a dramatic way to command the audience’s attention and maximize tips—in essence to wield power over her quarry. It just showed how different they were beneath their oh-so-similar facades. Kylie couldn’t think of anything less powerful than twirling around a pole half-naked, for money. Humiliating and terrifying, yes. Empowering? Not so much.
Borrowing from yoga, she centered herself in the present, letting go of useless worry about the next moments. She’d deal with them when they arrived.
The routine moved her gradually downstage, where the lights weren’t so glaring. She could make out the ringside tables now, all fully occupied by men. Short, tall, dark, light, apparently the appeal of a woman dancing naked spanned the diversity of ages and backgrounds.
Despite the packed house, her gaze snagged on one man. Double-take gorgeous in a tall, dark, and dangerous way, his broad-shouldered, athletic build gave him presence even in the crowded club. But it wasn’t his looks that caught her attention. It was his stillness. In a sea of drunk, rowdy guys, he was an island of cool, collected calmness. He exuded the same controlled energy she sought through yoga.
Dark, seen-it-all eyes locked on hers. Recognition—one observer to another. The other men looked at her, but this man saw her.
Her stomach quivered in reaction, and her thighs tensed. In the midst of fear and mortification came a strange shock of…excitement, followed quickly by shame. What kind of woman got excited about cavorting naked in front of a complete stranger, especially one who liked to spend his evenings in a club like Deuces? A sick woman, for sure, but humiliating as it was, she couldn’t deny the secret thrill as his eyes moved over her body.
No eye contact, she remembered Stacy warning. Stay focused on the dance.
Right. The dance. Unfortunately, she’d reached a part of the performance she dreaded almost as much as the pole.
Dance your way over to the edge of the stage, squat, and loop the belt around the nearest guy’s head. Pull his face between your knees and do as the song says…shake him all night long.
Wondering if it was possible to die of mortification, Kylie scanned her options. She considered the dark-eyed observer sitting alone at his table, but quickly abandoned the notion. She needed someone harmless. He did not qualify. Instead, she zeroed in on the front table, where a boisterous group of naughty-boy hedge-funders had spent the evening partying and throwing around money. In their midst sat a slightly drunk, clean-cut blond man in his mid-thirties. He stared at her like an eager puppy as she draped the belt around his neck and reeled him in. The room erupted in applause and catcalls. She dropped him back into his chair with a nudge of her boot to his chest.
Without permission, her attention wandered back to the dark-haired man. One of the guys at the hedge-funders’ table nudged him and made some comment. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly nodded.
Heat burned her cheeks.