Chapter 2 Rosie
The first thing that hits me when I step onto the stage is the noise. It’s loud, throbbing, pulsing through the air from the speakers that are situated around the dark facility.
The second is the lights. They’re blinding, harsh, and make it nearly impossible to see the audience from where I’m standing at the front.
Maybe it’s a good thing because tonight I can pretend that there’s no one else out there watching my every move and dissecting the parts of my body that I'm not fond of.
The music swells, it’s a sultry, sensual beat that matches the seductive glow of the room, and I step out, my heels clicking against the polished stage.
Confidence. Fake it until you make it. That’s what Amelia told me. She’s already behind me, moving to the opposite pole like we practiced. And having her out here is the only thing that keeps me going because I don’t want to let her down.
The routine is simple enough. It must be since this is my first, and if I have anything to say about it, my last time ever doing this.
Amelia’s voice echoes in my mind: Just try to have fun. Let go of your worries and your inhibitions. You can’t fail at pole dancing. It's about freedom in your sexuality and harnessing it.
I force a smile onto my lips, flashing the straight, pearly teeth my father spent a fortune on with years of orthodontics. Who knew braces and dental whitening would lead me here? Certainly not him.
My grin earns a roar of cheers and applause from the crowd, and the money starts to fall—hundreds of one-dollar bills raining down onto the stage, landing at my feet and around my impossibly high heels.
Amelia catches my eye and winks. That’s my cue.
I grip the cool metal pole, my fingers tightening as I step into the routine. My legs wrap around the length of it, my muscles contracting as I lift my body into an inverted hang.
The lights bounce off the glitter that Amelia painted on my skin. Down into the divots of my breasts it runs to make them seem larger and across my thighs and bare ass cheeks, highlighting the good parts of me.
From somewhere out in the dark crowd I hear a holler and a few shouts of praise over the loud music. That encouragement pushes me to continue.
No, I’ve never done this before. But I’ve done something like it. Okay, not really but sort of.
My father—controlling, exacting, a multi-millionaire obsessed with appearances—had insisted on ballet classes for me as a child.
Of course, every private-school princess in New York must be a prima ballerina, right?
And so, I was. Years of training, discipline, and performance culminated in Broadway stage performances as a child before I traded pointe shoes for law books at Harvard.
I might have left the world of pirouettes and pliés behind, but I never left my strength or skill. That’s muscle memory. And tonight, it’s my ticket to not falling on my face.
The pole feels steady beneath my grip as I spin upside down, my legs locked tightly around the metal. The world blurs as I twist and twirl, the movement instinctive now, each transition flowing into the next.
My hands release the pole briefly, letting me dangle just by the strength of my legs, and the audience cheers louder. I can’t see them through the blinding lights, but I feel their energy, their eyes glued to every part of me.
With a sharp inhale, I let my legs unravel and drop toward the ground, catching myself at the last second in a handstand.
My palms press into the stage, muscles taut and strong as I hold the position for a beat longer than necessary, letting the crowd take it in.
Then, slowly and deliberately, I lower one leg at a time into a full split, hoping that the light purple thong I'm wearing holds up and doesn't reveal anything as the cool stage floor presses against the thin fabric of my underwear.
My body stretches into the familiar position with ease, and the cheers rise again, the applause vibrating through the air.
Amelia finally joins me, her long legs striding confidently toward the center of the stage.
She knows how to work the crowd in a way I can only hope to mimic, and with a playful smirk, she turns her back to them and peels off her top in one smooth motion, tossing it to the side.
The crowd roars its approval as her breasts bounce free.
I stay seated on the stage for a moment, watching her shine in her element, before gracefully rising to my feet. My outfit stays firmly in place; we agreed that Amelia would be the focal point of this moment, and I would not strip completely so thankfully, my opening is finished.
I transition into the routine I planned, my movements fluid and deliberate, every step intentional. My hips sway in time to the beat, my arms lifting gracefully above my head before spinning into a turn that any ballerina would recognize.
A pas de bourrée flows into a controlled pirouette, my body angled just enough to make the move sexy. I let my hands trail lightly along my sides, an action I wouldn't do in an actual performance, but it helps highlight my body.
My hands lift again, fingers outstretched in a poised flourish before I drop into another spin, this time on the balls of my feet. My balance is precise, my movements smooth, as though this stage were my second home and I find myself getting lost in the music, forgetting where I’m at.
As the music builds to its final notes, I take a step back, giving Amelia the spotlight for her dramatic finish and feeling relief and adrenaline wash over me. I did it.
It looks like a man in the front row has paid for a private dance from her but she’s gesturing for me to join her in the center where the announcer reminds every one of our names, and we take our final bow.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Rose this whole thing is liberating even without being completely naked.
“Did you have fun?” she asks.
I nod. "That was… amazing. You were amazing."
She grins and gives me a hug. "You did really well. The crowd loved you.”
“So, what’s next?”
“A guy purchased a private dance in one of the back rooms with me. Will I see you after I’m done?"
"I don't think so. I'm probably going to change and take the train back to Connecticut. I have work to catch up on this weekend.”
She nods and smiles knowingly. "No time off when you’re a lawyer. Well, I'd love to hear about your new place in Brookhaven when you get a chance. I've heard that town is adorable."
"Come visit anytime. I have a lake house right on the water. It's like my own private escape away from the city noise."
"I'll take you up on that, Rosie." She hugs me again and then turns toward the main floor of the club, leaving me alone once again.
I take a deep breath in, pressing a flat palm to my chest to still my racing heartbeat as I hear the next song begin and the new dancers join the stage for their performance.
That was... a rush.
For the first time, I’ve done something completely out of character that’s solely for me. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my dark blonde waves are a tousled mess. But somehow, I feel beautiful.
I smooth my hair down with shaky hands, adrenaline still buzzing through my veins. Then grabbing my bag, I head toward the dressing room, ready to call it a night on this whole wild experience.
But before I can, a tall, broad man in a security shirt with the club logo on his chest steps in front of me, blocking the path.
“You Rose?” He asks. His voice is low and gravelly. All business.
“Um... yeah?”
He nods, his face unreadable. “Guy paid for a private dance with you.”
My stomach drops. “Oh… um, I don’t think—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand, his expression making it clear this isn’t a negotiation. You dance once and apparently you become a part of their staff.
“He already paid. We don’t do refunds. Go. Now. Table 19.”
I glance around for Amelia, for anyone who can save me from this situation, but she’s nowhere in sight and I’m alone. I’m on my own staring at a bodyguard so big he could easily throw me over his shoulder and force me to give this dance if I try to refuse.
The rational, lawyer side of me knows I could argue my way out of this if I really wanted to. But here I am, standing in sheer fabric that barely covers anything, with a full face of makeup I'd never wear, and for some reason, my lawyer mode is nowhere to be found.
Instead, Rose, the woman who wants a few more wild minutes acting out of character decides to say let’s do it!
“Okay, sure,” I say, more to myself than him.
I can do this. I’m a strong, capable woman. A little lap dance won’t kill me. If anything, it might be fun.
I follow him out onto the club floor, rolling my shoulders up and back, forcing myself to exude confidence I absolutely don’t feel.
The difference between being on stage and being out here is staggering.
On stage, the lights blind you, the distance shields you, and the audience is just a faceless blur.
But here, among the scattered tables and chairs, with patrons sitting close enough to touch and drinks flowing freely, there’s nowhere to hide.
Fear has nowhere to go but out into the open.
At least it's dark out here.
As I approach Table 19, my pulse quickens, each beat hammering harder in my chest as I lay eyes on who purchased the dance.
No.
It’s a group of men, all around my age. Likely late twenties, maybe early thirties, with a few older stragglers in their forties. And they all look like athletes.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and ridiculously good-looking.
My brain spirals as I try to guess what sport they might play, but before I can land on an answer, I’m already standing next to their table next to the security guard. Every eye is on me, and I feel the heat of their collective gaze like a spotlight.
Thankfully, I'm wearing some heavy makeup that I'd never wear in my normal life and the lighting out here is so dim that in the impossible chance they'd run into me outside of the club, they should never recognize me.
The security guard looks at me and grunts then turns to leave once he’s certain I won’t run away.
A tall man with shaggy blonde hair and a grin too wide to be anything but trouble stands up, extending a hand. “Penn,” he says, his voice smooth and friendly.
Amelia’s voice echoes in my head: ‘They’re not allowed to touch you unless you give them permission.’
I cross my arms neatly under my barely there top and ignore his hand.
He grins, retracting it with a chuckle. “Sorry. Forgot the rules.”
“Are you the one who paid for the dance?” I ask, keeping my tone as steady as possible.
“I did,” he says, still grinning, “but it’s not for me. It’s for my boy Boone.” He gestures to another man who’s seated at the table.
This guy’s big like the rest of them, with dark brown hair that brushes his collar and sharp brown eyes that meet mine briefly before he looks down at his lap and shakes his head, clearly embarrassed by all of this.
He's sitting back in his seat, large thighs spread slightly and there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.
Despite the situation, it’s almost endearing that he's as embarrassed as I am right now.
Almost.
"He's had a bad month," Penn continues.
“More like a bad two years,” one of the other guys chimes in, snorting into their drink.
“We figured you could help turn his luck around. Put a smile on his face, Rose.”
I have no idea what Boone’s been through, but standing here half-naked in a dimly lit strip club, about to give a lap dance to a stranger, all because my life has been so tightly controlled and painfully monotonous for the last several years, I can’t convince myself that whatever he’s dealing with is worse than this.
Worse than the quiet panic clawing up my spine when I open my eyes to an empty home and silence.
Worse than realizing I don’t recognize the woman I’ve become, or the one I’m pretending to be just to feel something again.
Worse than knowing I haven’t had any real fun, friends or adventure in… well, years.
“Well,” I say, stepping closer to him because the sooner we start this, the sooner I can get back to my apartment and process it all, “I guess it’s your lucky night, Boone.”
He shakes his head again while his friends cheer, the redness creeping higher up to his ears.
I step forward, just a foot away from his body and he shifts in his seat, angling himself toward me. His hands rest obediently at his sides as he follows the unspoken rules not to touch.
He looks nervous, embarrassed, and maybe even a little uncomfortable, which is a stark contrast to the obnoxious energy of his friends at their table who are thankfully already distracted by the next act that's hit the stage and no longer watching us.
Maybe he doesn’t even want this dance.
Suddenly, my life-long insecurities around my body creep in.
Maybe he does want this dance, he just doesn't want this dance with me. Because I’m not pretty enough.
Have I given a lap dance before? Once. To a guy I dated for six months in undergrad school before my dad found out he was a communications major and ‘strongly advised’ we break up.
‘Communications majors won’t make any money, Rosie. All they do is talk shit and get paid the same.’
‘Okay, Dad. And what do lawyers do?’ I mean, we're practically the kings and queens of talking shit though I guess we get paid more.
That lap dance had been clumsy, more of a joke than anything else. But this feels entirely different. Intimate despite us not being alone.
Amelia had given me tips on dancing, and I’ve watched enough routines tonight to have an idea of what I should do differently this time but I'm still nervous and completely out of my depth.
I plant my feet firmly in front of him, take a deep breath, and decide that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to give it my all because this is the first—and very last—time that I'll ever be pretending I'm Rose, the dancer.
So why not go out with a bang…