Brody
The thumping bass of the wedding band vibrates through my chest as I lean against the bar, nursing my third—or is it fourth?—whiskey.
My gaze sweeps over the crowded ballroom, taking in the twirling dresses and stomping feet on the dance floor. The sickly sweet scent of orchids and champagne wafts through the air, as joyful laughter and excited shrieks assault my ears.
Weddings. Bah.
As best man, I was fine enduring the wedding preparations and taking part in the ceremony, but the reception is pure torture. All around me, people are celebrating the union of two starry-eyed lovers pledging their undying devotion to one another.
It's enough to turn my stomach. Love is fleeting; a pretty illusion not meant to last. And I should know, I've been burned by love's flame bad enough that I think my heart is still pumping ash.
Glancing over at the head table where Carson and Presley are gazing adoringly at each other, I feel a slight tightening in my chest. If I had to explain out loud what the feeling was, I'd say it was worry over my best friend's bank balance—he married this girl after knowing her a moment and didn't even get a prenup—but that would be a lie. In reality, my chest is tight because I'm jealous. I'm a forty-two-year-old man who's richer than god, and I'm miserable as fuck, lonelier than I ever thought I could possibly be, and grouchy too. The latter means I've developed enough of a reputation that even at a wedding, an event designed to celebrate love, life and joy, the other guests are avoiding me like the plague.
With an exasperated sigh, I turn back to the bar. At least my whiskey still loves me. Or at least it will until the indigestion kicks in later…
“Oh shit!” a woman gasps, and a flurry of movement happening right beside me has me turning just in time to grasp her elbow to steady her. Her wine glass sloshes slightly, and we both freeze as it splashes on the floor between us. "I'm so sorry."
I release her quickly, startled by the jolt of electricity that zaps up my arm at the contact. When I meet her eyes, the breath catches in my throat. This is exactly what I’ve been avoiding since I met her outside the church earlier.
And despite my attempts at avoiding the maid of honor, Mia Thompson, our positions in the wedding party, coupled with our personal relationships to the bride and groom have seen us brushing up against each other again and again. The spark she ignites under my skin is starting to become too much to bear, and as I stare into the deepest blue eyes I've ever seen, bright with mirth and framed by long, dark lashes, I feel like I’m falling. And not in a good way.
“Are you all right?” I ask, my brow furrowing with concern that’s entirely for myself.
"Thanks to you, yes.” My eyes are drawn to the dusting of freckles that grace her nose as she wrinkles it, and those full, pink lips as she speaks. “These damn spiked heels made me roll my ankle."
My eyes travel down her curvy figure, taking in her shapely legs and stiletto heels. I may have sworn off relationships a long time ago, but that doesn't make me a monk. I see what’s in front of me just as much as any other red-blooded male in this room. "Those things look lethal." I'd like it if those shoes were the only thing you were wearing while you wrapped your thighs around my head…
Unable to hear my thoughts, she laughs, the sound like tinkling bells. “They are. I'm used to the height, but the shoes I normally work in are a bit sturdier." She places her glass of wine on the bar and settles onto the stool beside me, crossing her legs and kicking off her shoes with a moan that gives me the wrong kind of blood flow. "That's so much better." Wriggling her stockinged toes, she grabs a wad of cocktail napkins from the bar and drops them on the floor to mop up the spilled wine.
"I've got it," I say, holding up a hand to stop her getting up. "Rest your feet." Crouching down, I do a quick job of mopping up the spill then wad up the tissue and gesture to the guy behind the bar who disposes of it for me.
"Thanks. You're Brody, right?" the woman says. "Best man?"
"That's me."
She gives me a bright smile. "I'm Mia, maid of honor. We met briefly just before the ceremony. But everything else has been such a whirlwind we haven’t had much time to talk."
“I’m aware,” I murmur, swiping a hand across my jaw as I remember my brain going completely numb the moment I saw her too. She's gorgeous.
“Yeah?” Another radiant smile. “Seemed like maybe you didn't recognize me…”
I take a mouthful of whiskey in response, trying to tamp down on my body's reaction to her. As beautiful and beguiling as I find Mia, the last thing I want to do is entertain any sort of flirtation with the maid of honor at my best friend's wedding. Especially when the only kind of relationship I have with women these days is the fucking without feeling kind. And those kinds of arrangements are best kept as far away from people I know as possible.
So I shift my gaze away from hers, mentally counting the bottles behind the bar in an effort to clear my head of any notions of us winding up wrapped together beneath a sheet—or on top of one…against the wall…. My eyes zero in on her soft hand and note the bright pink polish that decorates her fingernails. That simple detail kicks up something inside me, an ache for something just out of reach.
Mia uncrosses her legs then crosses them again the opposite way, the fabric of her lilac dress skimming tautly across an impressive thigh. She has curves. And not the regular kind you see in magazines or on film. No. These are pin-up, va-va-voom curves that seem almost impossible in human form. She’s all breasts, hips and thighs. Tall too. And I’m drooling. It takes every ounce of my restraint to keep from slipping my hand over her knee, and I clamp my teeth tight to avoid groaning at the thought of it. What the hell is wrong with me?
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Mia lifts a perfectly arched brow as she watches me closely then clasps her hands in her lap like she knows exactly what's going on inside my head.
“Well, as scintillating as this conversation is, I should probably go check on the bride,” she says finally, her voice quiet yet firm enough to pull my attention away from where it had been headed.
“Sorry about that. I’m just not really into chit-chat.”
“That’s OK. Not everyone is.” She smiles, and I instantly feel bad. I could have at least asked her a question or two.
“It was nice to see you again, Mia. You take care now.”
As she shoves her feet back into her shoes to stand, her wide yet curvy hips brush against my side, and I rise quickly, stepping back from the bar stool as if burned by her presence.
We lock eyes, and without another word she turns away with a wry smile, her hips swaying invitingly as she moves across the room and disappears through the crowd of wedding guests. I exhale deeply, feeling both relieved and disappointed as I watch her go. She's not for you, Brody. She's not for you.
Turning back to my solitary drinking game, I find myself bouncing my leg and tapping my fingers on the bar in an agitated rhythm. What is wrong with me? I've never reacted this way to a woman, not even in my most wild and untethered years, and certainly not when I was hellbent on running headfirst into marriage and parenthood with a woman despite the red flags. But there’s something about Mia that makes me feel alive again, a spark long dead that she’s reignited with her mere presence. I slam back another drink, and the warmth of the liquid spreads through my body and does little to dull the pull this woman has over me.
Ridiculous. I'm being utterly ridiculous.
I suck in a few deep breaths, telling myself that this isn't real. No one takes one look at a woman and feels instantly connected. Sure, they feel lust and blinding attraction. But that's all this is, and if I were at any other event besides a wedding, I probably wouldn't even be thinking twice. This is just old ghosts coming back to haunt me. I'm just fine.
I'm in control.
When several minutes pass without my dick trying to convince me I'm wrong, I allow myself to relax fractionally and turn away from the bar—only to find Mia glancing at me from across the room, a secret little smile playing about her lips.
Bloody. Hell.
Mia
“So...” Presley nudges me playfully as she sidles up beside me, a glass of champagne in hand and a look of pure happiness on her face framed with blonde curls. “How was your little tête-à-tête with the brooding billionaire at the bar?”
"I'd really rather talk about how beautiful your wedding has been, Pres. I'm so happy for you."
She beams, looping her arm through mine. “I am too. Can you believe Carson pulled all this off?”
I shake my head, looking around the extravagant ballroom, feeling dazzled by the sheer opulence and struggling to wrap my head around it. Presley and I both grew up in a world where this kind of luxury seemed completely unattainable. We met while working at a strip club not far from the financial district. She was the coat check girl, while I was still trying to prove myself as a curvier than normal dancer as a way to help me pay for school. We hit it off, got an apartment together when my life kind of fell apart, and because she was my rock when I really needed someone, we became closer than two unrelated people could be. We often dreamed of a life outside the world we felt stuck in, but it always felt so far away. Then Presley ran smack bam into a billionaire venture capitalist one night on her way to work and he asked her to be his fake girlfriend for the night and the rest, as they say, is history.
Their courtship was an absolute whirlwind, and I'm stunned they were only engaged for three months before this day—their whole story is wild, but it led us right here, to the fanciest wedding reception either of us ever seen, and it's hers. Part of me feels a pang of sadness, knowing things will never be the same between me and my bestie again. But beneath it all is pure, unadulterated joy for Presley’s happiness. She deserves every bit of this fairytale wedding and the exotic life she's about to find herself leading.
"That man would move mountains for you, boo," I say, giving her arm a little squeeze.
Presley giggles, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. "I know, right? I still can't believe he's mine." She takes another sip of her champagne, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "But enough about me, Mia. What about you? I'm dying to know what you and Brody were talking about at the bar."
I let out a sigh. "There honestly wasn't a lot of talking. It was more of a situation where I talked and he grunted."
"He does come across as a little brash in the beginning, but he does have the kindest heart. I really think you two would get along great if you took some time to get to know one another. You did see the way he looked at you before the wedding, didn't you?"
"You know, I thought there was interest in that moment, but now...I don't know. Maybe he thinks I’m just a kid.”
“A kid?” Presley quirk a brow. “You’re a devastatingly gorgeous twenty-four-year-old woman. And age gaps are hot. Look at Carson and me.”
“I get your point, but…take a look at this." I shift my gaze to where Brody is still at the bar surveying the room and catch his eye with a sly smile, one I know makes men fall all over themselves for me at work. All Brody does is drop eye contact then get up and walk across the room. "It's like he's actively avoiding me. Does he know I'm a stripper?"
"He didn't hear it from me if he does." Presley's eyes widen, but she quickly recovers with a reassuring smile. "But I guess it wouldn't be a stretch for him to assume, given we're friends and they all know where I used to work."
"That's what I figured."
"Hey, even if he does know, it doesn't matter, Mia. You're beautiful and talented. Anyone who can't see past your job isn't worth your time—even if they are the billionaire best friend of my husband."
"I don’t even care about his bank balance, Presley. I just want to find someone who treats me right, and if I can’t do that, I’d rather be single forever."
Presley twists her mouth into a slight pout. “I just really thought you two would hit it off.”
"I know. And you're a wonderful friend for caring about me so much. But I'm OK, I promise. I like my life, and what I'd really like to do right now is dance with my bestie on her wedding day."
Her pout tips up into a grin. "Well, in that case..." She tugs on my arm, and we head for the dance floor where we join a throng of people gyrating to the DJ's latest beat in their evening wear.
As we dance, I can't seem to stop my eyes from continuing to seek Brody out. I don’t want to—he made it clear he has no interest in me—but still, I can’t stop. It’s like I’m drawn to him, and I hate that it feels like I have no control over it. I'm not normally like this with men.
My job means that I've grown almost immune to the lusty looks they give me when they clock my body. When I was young and going through puberty, I was made to feel ashamed for the way I developed—wide hips, large breasts, thick thighs and soft arms, all tied up with a tiny waist that gave me almost cartoon-like dimensions. But as I got older and started noticing the way men watched me, I realized these outrageous curves and bubble butt of mine were somewhat of an asset, and at the strip club, I get to use what God gave me to my advantage. So I know that look a man gets when he wants something from me, and normally, I can turn a blind eye. But with Brody, there’s something else mixed in there too. He looks at me with more than just want. It’s almost like looking at me causes him…pain.
When Brody and I met briefly outside the church, something happened between us that’s difficult to explain. It was like our eyes met and boom, something shifted in the universe.
We barely exchanged more than a few words, but it was as if the world just stopped for a few beats and time stood still. We connected. I know we did. And ever since that moment, it feels like Brody has been hellbent on running from it. So despite the gruff and dismissive way he treated me at the bar, my attraction to him remains. It's unsettling, and if I'm honest, I wish the feeling would go away. I happen to like my life and my independence. I don't want some grumpy executive type showing up and stomping all over it—no matter how gorgeous and chiseled he is.
"Oh yeah, girl! You dance like you mean it," Presley says with a whoop as I sway my hips and roll my body to the music. I'm trying so hard to lose myself in the beat and forget a man like Brody Harrington exists, but deep down, I know I'm doing this to entice him. I'm a sad and sorry excuse for an independent woman, and I'm ashamed of myself for feeling even a shred of desperation over a man who was pretty darn cold to me when I tried to talk to him at the bar. I just... I want to prove to myself that my intuition about his is current. I want him to want me. Not because I know he's rich—I honestly couldn't give a damn about his money since dancing pays my bills and gets me closer and closer to my dreams—but because there's something underneath that gruff exterior. Something I want to reach in and touch. Something I wish was mine.
As I risk another glance his way, I catch his gaze for a brief moment, a flicker of interest lighting his eyes before he turns back to the man on his left. Disappointment blooms in the center of my chest, his abrupt turn further feeding into my belief that he knows what I do for work and is probably just a big ole snob when it comes down to it. I mean, he may have been kind to Presley when she started seeing Carson, but she was the coat check girl and not an exotic dancer like me. That kindness may not extend to someone who takes her clothes off down to a G-string and pasties for a profit—regardless of his initially reaction to me.
But as I dance, my mind keeps wandering, wondering what it would be like to be with Brody. He's more stunning than any man his age has a right to be, and even though I’m likely a good fifteen to twenty years his junior, desire curls low in my belly at the thought of digging my fingers in that dark, messy hair of his, while I hold his face between my legs and his faint scratch of stubble rubs against my inner thighs...
Get a grip, I scold myself. Fantasizing about Brody Harrington will get you nowhere.
“You should go talk to him again,” Presley urges, snapping me out of what I'm guessing were pretty obvious thoughts. “See where things lead.”
“I can’t.” Panic rises at the thought of being rejected yet again. “He doesn't want me.”
She laughs. “He wants you. He can't keep his eyes off you."
My chest goes tight, and all that hard-earned confidence I'd accumulated over the years seems to evaporate. “What's the point? He’d never look at me as anything more than a stripper, Presley. I can’t set myself up for that kind of rejection, and I'm not willing to set myself up to be some rich guy's plaything.”
“You don’t know that.” Presley grasps my hands, stilling their fretful movements. “Not every man is like the losers and users we both dated in the past. Brody is Carson's best friend. He's kind. Decent. Give him a chance, Mia. You deserve to find someone who appreciates you for who you are.”
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. Presley means well, but she doesn’t understand. She found her Prince Charming in Carson, sure but lightning rarely strikes twice. My destiny is to remain trapped in my shadowy realm of broken dreams and shattered hopes, taking my clothes off for strangers and never knowing if a man likes me for me, or the fantasy I project on stage. I promised myself when my last relationship broke down that I’d quit trying until I was out of the club and doing my own thing, and I think I owe it to myself to uphold that promise. Life is complicated enough without a jealous man’s ego to deal with.
“No. It’s better this way,” I say softly. “Brody Harrington isn’t meant for someone like me. We come from two different worlds.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Presley releases my hands to throw her own up in exasperation. “Social classes don’t matter anymore. This isn’t some period drama or fairy tale. Love is love, and if you connect with someone, you owe it to yourself to see where it leads.”
“Even if it leads to my heartbreak?” My gaze drifts to Brody again. A glass of champagne dangles carelessly from his long, elegant fingers. Everything about him speaks of wealth and privilege and a life far removed from my own. “I can’t afford to get my hopes up, Presley. It’s better if I accept that someone like Brody will never truly see me for who I am. I’m just a stripper...and until I can open my dance school and start life anew, that’s all I’ll ever be.”
Presley opens her mouth, no doubt to argue further, but I hold up a hand. “Please, just drop it. I know you mean well, but this is my life and my choice. Let’s just enjoy your wedding and forget about that moment I shared Brody Harrington. It obviously wasn't real—or even if it was, he doesn’t want it. I need us to let it go.”
She studies me for a long moment, her expression troubled, before finally nodding. “All right. If that’s what you want.” Presley manages a wan smile. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I will be.” I return her smile, hoping to reassure her, though the effort feels hollow because I want that too. I want the fairytale and the family, but I'm not naive enough to actually think I'll get it any time soon. “Now, tell me more about your honeymoon plans. I want to hear all about the tropical paradise Carson is whisking you off to!”
"OK. If you insist…" Presley’s face lights up as she launches into a description of white sand beaches and private bungalows over crystal blue waters. I listen with half an ear, casting one last glance toward Brody, watching as he throws back his head and laughs, and closing my heart off to that silly, momentary dream that maybe, just maybe, I could have a happy ever after just like this one too.
Brody
Normally when I go to a wedding, I show my face and then fuck right off home. After almost making it to the altar in my youth, I try and avoid these things like the plague. But as best man, I’m obligated to stick around. On top of that I also offered to pay for the reception as my wedding gift to the happy couple. So now I'm stuck here till the very end, surrounded by people who are happy and in love—or at least drunk enough to pretend they are. It's a bitter reminder of everything that was snatched away from me all those years ago and squashed under the high-heeled boot of a cheater and a gold digger. I signal the waiter for a final whiskey.
After spending most of the evening hiding out in a corner, I down my final drink and breathe out a sigh of relief as the final guests trickle out the front door. The bride and groom left to start their honeymoon over an hour ago, but there's always a few stragglers who'll stick around till the staff ask them to leave. Nothing like free food and booze to keep the party going.
Pulling out my phone, I send a message to my driver so he knows to come get me, and then I head into the kitchen to find the catering manager so I can settle the bill.
"What would you like done with the leftovers?" he asks while I swipe my card.
I give him a shrug. "Give them to whoever wants them. No point tossing them in the trash."
"Of course. Thank you, sir." He gives me a nod and returns to his duties. I let out a heavy breath, turning back to the empty ballroom and the ruins of the lavish reception. There's no reason to linger anymore, I suppose. Time to return home. Alone...
I may be an anti-social dick, but sometimes the thought of going home to no-one but staff is too depressing to bear.
When I head outside into the quiet night, I startle when a flash of movement at my right tells me I'm not as alone as I thought I was. Then I suck in a breath. Mia stands under the golden glow of the streetlights, cursing as she juggles several boxes of leftover canapés and petit fours.
"The kitchen said I could have them," she says defensively when I look her way.
"That was good of them," I return, checking my watch instead of staring at her gorgeous curves. My driver is late. Again.
"It's not like I'm not too poor to buy food. I just don't like wasting things."
I nod, understanding her sentiment. "I hate wasting things too."
We stand there in silence, the only sounds being the distant honking of a car and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.
Mia fascinates me in the worst possible way. All lush curves, pouty lips, and tangled chestnut waves. I keep my eyes on the entry to the carpark, watching for my town car because looking at her sparks an inconvenient desire I'd rather ignore.
Finally, my driver turns up, and against my better judgement, when he pulls up to the curb, I turn to Mia and lock eyes with her. My entire body reacts. "Do you have a ride?"
"Yeah," she says softly. "My Uber's almost—" She's interrupted by her phone buzzing on top of the boxes. "Oh shoot. It literally just cancelled."
"Where do you live? I can give you a ride." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Mia blinks at me, blue eyes shining in the dim light. "That's really not necessary. I'll just order another."
"Nonsense. It's late, and I wouldn't feel right leaving you stranded."
She studies me for a long moment, pride warring with practicality on her beautiful face. Finally, she nods. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
I get the driver to open the trunk and then I help her load the boxes inside, hyper aware of how close we stand. Her scent—something floral and bright—envelopes me, as dangerous as it is alluring.
This is a mistake. I should have left her to fend for herself. But the thought of Mia alone late at night in the city fills me with an irrational protectiveness I don't care to examine too closely.
I open the door for her and Mia slides onto the soft leather seat, folding her hands in her lap as I get in the car and tell the driver to take us to her address. The car pulls out into the empty street, and we travel in silence. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sigh that escapes from Mia's lips. I’d love to swallow that sigh down as I bury my fingers deep inside her and watch her face as she comes undone.
As we drive, I can't help but steal glances at her. Her face is turned toward the window, her fingers tapping rhythmically on her plump thighs. The soft glow from the streetlamps illuminates her face, casting a warm glow on her skin. My eyes trail down her neck to the exposed collarbone, and I catch myself imagining tracing my tongue along the delicate line of her throat.
I clench my fists, torn between desire and self-control. This is a bad idea. I shouldn't have allowed myself to be alone with her like this.
When we arrive at her building, I help her carry the boxes up the stairs to her apartment. By the time we reach the fifth-floor landing, we're both panting from the effort. Mia leans against the wall, wisps of hair clinging to her damp forehead from the stifling heat that seems trapped in this building. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, drawing my gaze to the swell of her breasts as she rummages through her purse for the keys. Holy hell. I've never been this attracted to a woman I just met. I feel like I'm balanced on a knives’ edge and one little push will make me tumble.
The door clicks open. Mia steps inside and I follow her into the kitchen, setting the boxes on the counter. She turns to face me but doesn't meet my eyes. "Thank you. For, you know, everything." Her perfectly manicured hand gestures an all-encompassing circle.
"It was nothing," I grunt, shoving my hands in my pockets and turning to go. "Glad you're home safe."
"Why do you do that?" she demands before I've taken a full step. I stop and turn back, frowning at her.
"Do what?"
"Act like you hate me when you look at me like you want to fuck me?"
My dick twitches at her bluntness—exactly what I didn't want—and I open my mouth, then close it again, at a loss. She's not wrong, but I don't know how to explain that she terrifies me with the way she makes me feel. Makes me want. I like to be in control, and around her, I feel anything but.
"I don't hate you," I finally say.
"Then what is it?" She takes a step toward me, eyes flashing, beautiful breasts heaving. "Is it because I’m young?”
“I don’t give a shit about your age.”
“Because of what I do then? I'm just a stripper to you, is that it?"
She's a what?
"I didn't know you were a stripper," I admit, taken aback slightly but not shocked. She's best friends with Presley, after all. It makes sense that that's how they know each other. "But I gues that wouldn't really help things, would it?" With my trust issues, falling for a woman who dances for another man's pleasure would absolutely kill me.
Mia sucks in a sharp breath, hurt flashing across her face before she hides it away. "I don't know why I expected better from you. But I guess because Presley had so many nice things to say about you, I thought you might be different. I thought that maybe you'd take a moment to try and get to know me before declaring me unworthy of your time."
I let out a hollow laugh as I swipe a hand across my stubbled jaw. "To be honest with you, Mia, getting to know you never even crossed my mind."
Mia stares at me in disbelief, her lips parting as if she’s about to speak—to give me a piece of her mind. But instead of waiting for the words to come out, I find myself leaning forward and kissing her. It's a chaste kiss with closed mouths that barely lasts two seconds before Mia jerks away.
But it's enough for the current between us to spark, turning into a raging river of desire that ignites the room with its heat. Mia's eyes flare and her breathing quickens as I lower my head again, angling for a second kiss that she doesn't resist at all.
She yields with a soft moan, her lips parting to allow me access, hands sliding up my chest to loop around my neck, pulling me closer.
The kiss deepens, becoming heated as I explore her mouth with urgent strokes of my tongue. Mia sighs in response, melting against me and gripping my shoulders tightly.
I taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the pressure of her body against mine, and I swear to myself that I could never tire of this sensation, fitting my mouth perfectly against hers as if made to do just this.
Our movements become passionate and desperate, neither of us willing to surrender in the clash of tongues despite every moment pushing me closer toward slipping off the edge and giving in completely.
I can't.
I pull away, panting. Mia eyes me with a mixture of hurt and confusion as I back up to the door.
"That shouldn't have happened," I whisper, shaking my head at myself for allowing it to come this far in the first place. "I'm sorry." With that, I turn and rush out the door, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I've never felt more out of control in my entire life.
Mia
The thumping bass of the club's music greets me as I walk through the back entrance of Paradise Found. I guess the name is supposed to elicit some kind of imagery of a place where all your dreams come true—and maybe it is for the club's patrons—but for the dancers, it's where dreams come to die. When I started working here when I was still fresh faced and only nineteen, I had dreams too. I was enrolled in the academy of performing arts, studying contemporary dance. I was so proud to be one of their few plus-sized dancers, and I'd thought this would be a great way to get my confidence up while I earned some money to help cover my expenses. But little did I know that my school had one of those morality policies for scholarship recipients that got my funding pulled when it became known what my job was. After that, I was done. No more school for me.
My heels click on the concrete floor, echoing in the dim hallway until I reach the dressing room. I may have lost out on school, but that doesn't mean I gave up dance. And while I'm not living the dream I thought I would be when I packed up and moved to New York all those years ago, I still get to do the one thing I've always loved—even if it is while half naked and getting rained on by dollar bills.
“Good evening to you, Miss Thompson,” Casey, the back-of-house security guard says as he opens the dressing room door for me. “We’ve got a packed house tonight. Bucks party on top of the regular crowd.”
“Glad I brought my big purse with me then to carry all that money home,” I say with a smile, giving him a hug hello before I step inside. He’s one of my favorite people on this earth. Honestly, most of the workers here are. There’s just something about this line of work that creates a bond not unlike family. We're always here for each other through thick and thin.
“You just call out if you feel like they’re getting rowdy.”
“Will do,” I say, heading inside and saying a quick hello to all the girls before changing into my costume for the night.
Looking in the mirror when I’m done, I touch up my lipstick and straighten my sequined corset before I step into the main room to walk the floor before my set. The familiar scent of sweat, booze, and desperation wafts over me. I once dreamed of dancing on Broadway. But instead I’m here spinning around a pole night after night. How did this become my life?
Round tables scatter around the stage, most filled with leering customers. The buck’s party is off to the side where a few girls are giving out lap dances—working their poles, if you like—their lithe bodies twisting and undulating as the men grin like it’s a very dirty Christmas morning. I sigh as I wonder how many of these guys are already married, and what their partners might be doing at home. The I plaster on a smile as I make my way to the bar for a shot of liquid courage.
Lily, one of the newer dancers who've joined our ranks, spots me from across the room, her curly hair bouncing as she walks over. "You look hot tonight, girl!" She gives me a quick hug. "How was that big fancy wedding you went to? Bag yourself a rich guy?"
I grimace, leaning against the bar. "The wedding was great. But rich guys are judgey and I don't need one of them when I've got all this going for me." I put on a bright smile and swish my hips. Lily lets out a whoop.
"She is primed and ready to dance! And she don't need no man because those curves tell their own story. Yes, ma’am!" Lily waves her finger in the air dramatically, doing a great job at being my hype woman.
If only the feel of Brody's lips against mine wasn't seared into my memory along with his comment about my work 'not helping things'. I let out a sigh. “I don’t know if I’m really feeling it tonight, Lily.”
"Hey." Lily’s expression shifts to concern as she squeezes my arm. "What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head to try and get rid of the heavy feeling I’ve been carrying ever since Brody fled my apartment. “Rich people are just…a different breed.”
“Are we talking in general here, or is there one person in particular?”
I press my lips into a thin line. “One in particular.”
“Listen, I don't know what this person did or said that’s got you looking all mopey like that, but don't you dare let another person dull your shine. You're talented, Mia. So talented that most of us girls only wish we could work the stage like you. Remember when that Hollywood guy tried to throw all that money at you to dance a private party?"
"Yeah. But I said no because that guy was creepy."
"Exactly. Because you're powerful and you know your worth isn't tied to dumb things like money and status. It's all about what's in here." She touches the center of her chest at her heart. "And up here." She taps her head and smiles encouragingly. "Don't let some judgmental jerk at a wedding tell you otherwise."
“I never said it was a guy,” I say with a slight smile.
She winks. “You didn’t need to. Us girls know how to read one another. And you’ve got ‘an asshole shook my confidence’ written all over you.”
Her kindness and caring warms me and eases the knot in my stomach. I'd been feeling like a tight ball of angst ever since Brody left my apartment last night. There’s no denying the chemistry we shared, but the way he seemed so horrified that he gave in was downright hurtful. I deserve better than that. From any man, rich or poor.
I nod, taking her words to heart. "Thanks, Lily. I needed that."
Lily grins. "Of course, girl! Now let's go show this crowd what a real showstopper looks like!" She links her arm with mine and we make our way to the backstage where we wait for my turn on the stage. The curtains close shut behind us, and I take a deep breath while Lily pumps me up with enthusiasm. We can hear the impatient cheering of the crowd, and my nerves start to dissipate as the beat of the music starts up.
“Go get ‘em,” she says as I step out onto the stage, my body pulsing with energy.
The spotlight hits me, and like magic, I let go of all my worries. All that exists in this moment is me, the music, and the stage. It’s the way things are meant to be, because I was born to dance, to express myself with movement and to share that gift with others. It doesn’t matter that it’s in a strip club. It just matters that I get to move with the rhythm and let my body speak its own language. It’s all I know how to do.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself be fully immersed in the dance. My hips sway and my arms lift into the air, as if reaching for something beyond myself. The crowd cheers and whistles, egging me on. The stage is my sanctuary, and the music is my religion. I let it take me over, feeling the sweat on my skin and the pounding of my heart as I dance and dance and dance.
As the music crescendos, I spin around on my heel, my arms extended outward. With one final movement, I end the routine, striking a fierce pose that shows of my assets and elicits thunderous applause and a rain of money thrown on stage from the audience. Casey was right, there really is a big crowd tonight.
I let out a breath, smiling as bills shower me like confetti, feeling exhilarated and alive. But as the applause dies down, my eyes catch someone in the very front row and my mood plummets.
Brody. His arms are folded across his middle, his expression unreadable as he watches me without applause. What the hell? Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I don't look away. I don’t cover up either. I just stand there in my barely there g-string and tasseled nipple covers and stare right back at him, my head held high.
Let him see me in my element, radiant and in control. If he can't appreciate me for who I am, that’s his loss. He can leave.
Which is exactly what he does…
