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And second: no stripping?
Who orders a six-hour-long private room with a dancer at a gentlemen's club and requests no stripping?
“I’m sorry?” I was sure I had misheard the man.
“Just move. Dance.” I licked my lips, my teeth gnawing at the skin there before responding.
“But don’t . . . undress?” I sounded confused because I was, but he just smiled and nodded.
I could see his white teeth on tanned skin even through the shadows of the room. “Exactly,” he said.
His words made a chill run down my spine.
The good kind.
His voice was the kind you wanted to whisper sweet nothings in a dark room when you were dressed only in a sheet and a layer of sweat.
Still, I obeyed, moving my hips again, dancing around the room.
I kept it simple.
I didn’t move closer to the man, just dancing in front, never entering the shadows he sat in, and that seemed to be enough for him.
“So, is Carmella a stage name?” he asked. I continued to dance.
“Why are you asking?”
“No reason. If you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to answer." When I looked, his body had moved from sitting up straight to leaning back, his legs kicked out and ankles crossed, at ease.
And he wasn’t making me strip.
Because of that small favor, that kindness, I answered his question and unintentionally started a routine.
“Yes. One of the girls gave it to me,” I said, moving my hands through my long hair.
“Like The Sopranos? Fits you. Small, blonde. Italian?”
“Full-blooded,” I said with a smile, the first time I’d said it. Until I found those journals, I thought I was a European mutt, my mother Italian and my father a mix of German, English, and Irish.
“Beautiful,” he said, the words low, almost like they weren’t meant for me. Another few minutes passed, the song changing before he spoke again. “Dante.”
“What?” I said, moving to face him. The song was one of my favorites, and it added to my comfort level. Because despite everything, this felt a little weird, dancing in my bustier and tiny skirt for a man and knowing I would be doing it for a while still.
“My name. Dante.”
“Like the inferno?” I said with a laugh, and he gave me one back. It felt like that, like he was giving me a gift with his laugh. It shook through the room, deep and intoxicating.
“You know, I don’t know many people who have had the balls to say that to my face.”
“Sorry, I—”
“No, not in a bad way. Yes, like the inferno.” We were quiet as the song ended, as I danced and he watched, but when the music changed, I responded.
“Delilah,” I said, my own words low.
“Hmm?”
“My name. It’s Delilah. Lilah.”
