Shocked by the shift in our conversation, I nod.
“Show me.” He’s not suggesting; he’s demanding.
I swear, I’m going to get whiplash at this rate. Our conversation is worse than a one-sided tennis match. All serve and no return.
Deciding to play along, I ask, “Show you what?”
His lips tug high. I really wish he’d stop smiling. He has a gorgeous grin that has me thinking reckless thoughts.It has me thinking of him.
The stranger runs his sweaty hand down his denim jeans before standing from his crouched position. "Your routine. I want to see what you've got."
He thrust the satin ribbons toward me. "Come on, what have you got to lose? I've already seen your tits. I know they're not fake. We're practically best friends."
I smile for the second time the past five minutes. This guy is a ball of mischief but in a playful, non-threatening type of way.
“You won’t get in trouble?”
“Nah,” he overemphasizes, waving his hand in the air like he is shooing a fly. “Hethinkshe runs the show, but nothing happens around here without my approval.”
I follow his gaze. The man who dismissed me over an hour ago is standing at the main bar, talking into his cell phone.
“Show him he’s an idiot,” the blond encourages, moving to the side of the stage. “If nothing comes of it, you just saved yourself a trip to the gym.”
For a man who appears to know nothing about gymnastics, he's got knowledge by the bucket loads. Just ten minutes of aerial ribboning equals an hour of cardio.
“Music?” I ask, nerves rattling in my tone.
He shoves a cherry-flavored lollipop into his mouth. “Who needs music? Your heart has its own beat; work with it.”
My lips crimp. “Okay. . . I can do this.” My words don’t have an ounce of confidence in them.
After a quick stretch to ensure I don't risk injury, I curl the satin ribbon around my arm before racing to the end of the stage. The satin catches me midair, winding around my body as I have trained it to do for years.
Within seconds, my love for aerial acrobatics overtakes the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I complete my routine with the precise accuracy awarded by years of study. I tumble, twist, and glide down the silk as if it is an extension of my body. I’ve always felt free dancing, but this is an entirely different experience. It is like I am soaring, flying freely in the air. I finally feel at peace when I’m floating amongst silk.
I plan to end my routine as practiced, with a daring death roll. I can only hope the quick calculations I made on arrival are accurate, or I'm two seconds away from landing with a smack on the hard wooden floor.
I land with mere millimeters to spare, my touchdown perfect. It looks risqué and on edge, yet graceful at the same time.
Smiling like a loon, I unwrap the satin from my thigh and stand to bow. I’m not bowing expecting an uproar of applause. I’m showing my thanks to the arts; I’m bowing in gratitude.
"Woohoo!" shouts a deep voice from the side. An ear-piercing wolf-whistle complements the lackey's praise. "Holy shit. That was as fucking hot as. . .fuck."
An unexpected giggle graces my smile. "Thank you," I reply, curtseying as if I've just performed for royalty.
After bolstering his praise with a bump of our hips, the unnamed man wraps his half-consumed lollipop into a crinkled package, stuffs it into his jeans pocket, then starts pulling down my ribbons.
He’s barely yanked on the pully twice when a husky voice to our side says, “Wait.”
The club owner throws his cell onto the glistening countertop before strutting our way. Yes, I said strut. He just needs to fan out some feathers, and his rooster walk will be as perfectly executed as my routine.
“That. . .thingyou just did. . .”
“Aerial ribboning,” I fill in, still giddy.
He nods. “Yes. . .that.Can you do it with less of. . .this?” He waves his hand at my plain white tee and faded black shorts.
“Do you mean naked?” I double-check, confident in my intuition.
