Chapter 17 Nelly #2
Music pulsed through the speakers, a heavy bass line that vibrated up through the soles of my feet.
Not Tchaikovsky, but my body responded to it all the same.
I let my eyes drift over the crowd, taking in the sight of regulars mixed with unfamiliar faces.
The bachelor party was in the far corner, with one Alpha wearing a ridiculous crown and sash.
I sometimes swore we had a wedding group every other week.
Of course, we got dumb ass college Alphas just as often.
The obvious cluster of frat boys were grabbing a dozen pitchers of beer from the bar.
My hand gripped the pole, cool metal against warm skin. I hoisted myself up gracefully, executing a spin that looked effortless but required every muscle in my core to maintain. My legs extended in a perfect line, muscle memory from years of training kicking in automatically.
"That's it, Lucky! Show 'em what you got!" someone called from the crowd.
I didn't acknowledge the voice, staying in character.
Lucky wasn't a ballerina with a shattered knee and dreams. Lucky was confident, seductive, untouchable.
I arched my back, letting my hair cascade down as I spun, using the centrifugal force to create a moment of suspended animation that I knew looked magical from the floor.
The cheers grew louder, but I kept my focus, scanning the room for potential private dance clients.
Soon, I found my target. Third table from the right, close enough to the stage that I could touch him if I wanted to.
He was sitting alone in a sleek black suit that looked custom-made for his broad shoulders.
His goatee was neatly trimmed, framing lips pressed into a straight line of concentration.
But it was his eyes that I recognized immediately. They were dark, sharp, assessing.
He'd been here before. At least five times that I could recall. Always alone, always in black, always a generous tipper who never tried to cross lines. His gaze, though intense, wasn’t creepy. He was a safe payday. A perfect way to start the night.
I dropped into a slow, controlled descent, letting my body roll as I reached the stage floor.
As the music shifted to something with a more insistent beat, I moved away from the pole, closer to the edge of the stage where he sat.
Not too obvious, because I'd learned that subtlety worked better with his type.
They liked to think they'd chosen you, not the other way around.
I executed a series of movements that combined classical technique with the explicit demands of this venue, ending in an arabesque that transitioned into a floor split, hands tracing deliberately sensual paths along the corset.
The Alpha’s eyes never left me, though he made no obvious reaction. No leaning forward, no shouting encouragement like some of the rowdier patrons. Just that steady, appreciative gaze.
At the Imperial, we'd been instructed never to focus on individual faces, to project beyond the first rows into the abstract darkness.
Here, the rules were different. Here, success meant making each person feel like you were dancing exclusively for them, creating an illusion of intimacy in a public space.
As I approached the end of my set, I allowed myself to make direct eye contact with the Alpha in black. His inky gaze met mine without hesitation, a slight incline of his head the only acknowledgment of our silent communication. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
I took it as confirmation.
I finished with a flourish, a spin that brought me down to my knees at the edge of the stage, close enough to the patrons in front that they scrambled to tuck bills into the waistband of my thong.
I accepted their offerings, jutting my hips closer, keeping my gaze heated.
I never broke character even as I counted the gathering bills.
The Alpha in black didn't approach the stage. He didn't need to. We both knew the game, the unspoken rules of this exchange. He would wait, and I would find him.
When the music faded and the lights shifted to announce the next dancer, I gathered the scattered bills and made my exit, hips swaying with deliberate emphasis. As I passed Crystal waiting in the wings, she gave me an approving nod.
"Mister Goatee,” she murmured in approval, "I’m mad you got to him first.”
I smiled, feeling a small surge of professional satisfaction. “Better luck next time.”
“How can I have better luck when you keep stealing it all these days?” She laughed.
Stealing all the luck these days…
That didn’t feel true at all.
I made my way to the dressing room, quickly checking my appearance in the mirror.
My carefully applied makeup was mostly intact.
I reapplied glitter across my collarbone, touched up my lipstick, and dabbed powder on my forehead to take away the slight sheen of sweat.
Afterwards, I went to the multi-stall bathroom and tucked my current earnings inside my locker.
Then I smoothed out my hair, straightened my shoulders, and headed back out to work the floor. The Alpha in black would be waiting, and Lucky never kept her audience waiting.
I found him quickly. No words passed between us.
I simply, seductively, reached down to snag his tie in one hand.
I pulled and he complied, standing to follow me.
The private dance room was smaller than most people imagined, intimate without being claustrophobic, dimly lit with recessed purple lights that cast long shadows.
I pushed the Alpha in black down against a plush chair after we entered, door already shut behind us.
I turned away from him, swaying my hips as I closed the distance to the round dais with its pole.
When I stepped onto the raised circle, twirling to face him again, I found his attention fixed on his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen.
I didn't take it personally. At Club Midnight, clients often brought their business with them, and the private rooms were as much for deals as they were for dances. Eventually, I’d capture his attention.
I began to sway, body rolling, legs bending to dip slightly.
I kept my eyes on his face, waiting for the moment he would look up and see me.
He didn't. He kept focusing on the cell.
I gripped the pole and continued anyway, professional to the core. I executed a perfect spin, the momentum carrying me upward.
The music shifted, growing louder, more insistent.
He glanced up briefly, sharp eyes grazing over me, then returned to his phone. The screen illuminated his face from below, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the concentrated furrow between his brows. Important business, apparently.
I kept dancing, shifting into more elaborate movements. I climbed the pole with practiced grace, inverting my body at the top before sliding down in a controlled spiral. My hair brushed the floor as I descended, a move that usually drew at least a murmur of appreciation.
Nothing.
A flicker of irritation sparked in my chest. Not that I needed constant validation, I'd performed for silent audiences before, but there was something almost insulting about paying for a private dance only to ignore it entirely. I pushed the feeling away. Professional. I was a professional.
I tried a new technique, abandoning the pole. I circled the raised platform, moving with predatory grace. When I was directly in front of him again, I twirled and dropped to my knees. He still wasn’t looking, dammit.
Crawling toward him, my body moving in sinuous waves, I put my all into being what he wanted. I built the fantasy. I was desire and lust. He didn’t even glance at me again.
Once, I'd danced the Dying Swan for an audience of thousands, holding them spellbound with nothing but movement and music. Now I couldn't capture the attention of a single man ten feet away.
His phone rang. He answered it, turning slightly away from me, his voice low but clear enough that I could hear him discussing some sort of financial arrangement. Numbers and percentages, acquisitions and forecasts. The language of money exchanging hands.
I pushed myself harder. It became a test of not just capturing his gaze but also proving something to myself. That I still had it. That I could still command attention with my body, even if not on the stages I'd once dreamed of.
I stopped crawling when I was a foot away from his legs.
I stood, swinging my ass out and pressing palms against my thighs before straightening posture.
Nothing. Not a furtive look. Not the slightest shift in his expression.
So, I returned to the pole, executing a series of moves that required significant upper body strength.
Prolonged holds and graceful spins that had taken months to perfect.
I lifted myself into a butterfly position, legs extended in a split while supported only by my arms, before transitioning into a jade spin that showcased the muscle definition in my back and shoulders.
Sweat beaded on my skin, catching the purple light like tiny diamonds. My breath came harder, but I controlled it, just as I'd been taught. Never let them see the effort. Make the impossible look easy.
The Alpha's voice grew more animated on his call, but still, he didn't look.
Not even a glance. His free hand tapped on the armrest of the chair, keeping time to a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music I was dancing to.
I dropped into a slow, controlled split against the floor, then rose in one fluid motion that would have made my former ballet masters nod in approval.
Technique was technique, regardless of the venue.
I'd always prided myself on excellence, on standing out.
Even here, even now, I refused to be mediocre.
And the effort was getting me nothing right now.