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“Because it confuses me!” I whisper shout. “Those aren’t things that a teacher says to his student!”
“You know what?” he says. “You’re right. But I don’t give a damn right now because apparently, it needs to be said.”
“No, it doesn’t! It makes me feel important. Like I matter.”
“You do matter!”
“You don’t even know me well enough to say that.”
“I know enough,” he insists. “I see you, Kat. The real you—not the person you let everyone else know. Don’t you get that by now?”
“Don’t give me false hope like that unless you intend to follow through on it!”
“Kat, calm down. Sit down. Talk to me.”
I taste saltwater on my lips as fat drops roll down my cheek. “No. No more talking. No more one-on-one time. I can’t do this; it’s giving me whiplash. I can’t be your…friend. I’m your student—nothing more. This is me drawing the line.”
I start to back away when the bell rings, signaling the end of the period. Students begin flooding the halls.
“Kat, wait.”
I turn away and step out the door. “I’ll see you in class on Monday, Mr. Cooper. Have a good weekend.”
“I CAN’T DO THIS.”
I’m shaking and nauseated, standing in the dressing room at work. Tonight’s supposed to be my first performance in front of a live audience. I thought I was ready. I thought I had accepted weeks ago that I would be undressing for dollars, but when the time comes, I don’t feel anywhere close to ready.
“Sure ya can, lass,” Shawn assures me. “You’ve got this. You’ve been practicing for weeks and you look incredibly sexy.”
It’s Friday night—one of our busiest of the week—so the club is packed. It was full when I walked in earlier, but twice as many seats were filled when I peeked my head out the door a few minutes ago. I dab my lipstick in the mirror and look at my chosen outfit for this momentous occasion. I’m wearing a red vinyl mini dress that loosely laces up both sides. In the front, my breasts are pressed together, practically popping out of the top, and in the back, the deep V opening exposes the barest hint of my ass. A discreet zipper runs along the side for easy removal. A thick rhinestone choker wraps around my neck and clear 5” stilettos adorn my feet. My eyes are smoky, my lips are red, and my dark hair falls to the middle of my back in thick waves.
Shawn thought my signature color should match my stage name so she’s outfitted me with a complete line of red costumes. Halloween is next week, which she says is a crazy night, and she’s insisted that I’ll be dressed as Slutty Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve just let her run with it to this point because I know nothing about dressing for a striptease.
I meet my reflection and sigh. Normally, I wear little makeup; usually a swipe of mascara and lipstick is all I need. Tonight, my face is painted in heavy stage makeup. It’s supposed to highlight my face better in the darkened room. I look like myself, but older and a lot more sexed-up, which I guess is the point.
“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“Ah, lass, that’s normal. First-time stage jitters. No one’s actually puked on stage.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” I mutter.
She releases a hearty laugh and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll be fine, love; I promise.”
I hear Trina’s song ending and know that my time is almost up. When the first few beats of Ciara’s “Body Party” starts thumping through the sound system, Shawn pushes me out the door.
“Break a leg, Kat.”
“DJ Annie has a special treat for all you lovely ladies and gents tonight. Take out those wallets and let’s give a warm welcome to our newest Princess, Reeeeedddd!”
The song kicks in as I take the stage and the room erupts in applause and drunken catcalls. Don’t make eye contact, I remind myself. I detach from the situation as much as possible and grab the pole. Smile, I chant inwardly. Look sexy. Be charming. Focus on the music and the routine.
As Ciara sings about the boy she can’t get off her mind, I swing around the pole, thinking about the man who occupies mine. When she croons about how tired she is of fighting their attraction, I mourn the possibilities of what could never be. Sliding to the floor in a perfectly executed Fireman, I tell myself it’s for the best. I’m unconvinced as I lower the zipper suggestively and step out of my dress. The regret is suffocating me—of what I’ve done, of what I’m doing. No one seems the wiser though. Now clad in a bright red bikini, my body glides fluidly across the floor, captivating the audience. I have them in a trance as the spotlight follows my every move, proudly putting my curves on display to feed the hunger that thickens the air.
I forcibly numb myself as the song ends, crawling on my hands and knees to collect my reward. Fingertips linger on my hips as bills are stuffed under the straps of my G-string. Since this is my first dance, I’m not fully nude—that will come on the next set. The slower the seduction, the better the pay, Shawn’s voice rings in my head. Entice them, make them desperate for more as the song nears an end. The men will be lining up for private dances. They’ll want to set their eyes on your naked body before anyone else. If you stage it properly, they’ll pay for an extended session. They know they can’t touch you in those rooms; but they can fantasize about it. We’re in the fantasy business, Red. And you’re their walking wet dream.
I’M EXHAUSTED AS I LEAVE THE CLUB, but I made it through the end of my shift so I’m calling it a success. I can’t help but smile as I pull my purse over my shoulder, thinking of all the money I currently have stuffed in my wallet. I made over three hundred dollars tonight. Marcus was right when he projected a new face would cause quite a stir. All of the girls leave together so we’re lining up at the door waiting to be escorted to our vehicles. As I step outside, I hear my name being called. I look for the source of the familiar voice until I spot him standing with his foot propped against the side of the building. Nick, the big bald guy I met during my audition, tries holding him back but I let him know it’s okay as I head toward my friend.
“Dylan, what are you doing here?”
