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1
Cady
Annie Lennox blasts out of my Bluetooth speaker.
The opening beats of the song are a countdown and I do the strut with slower, smaller steps because I don’t have the room. Hair loose and wavy, perfect for flinging it around. Shoulders loose, eyes up. Confident. Sexy.
No smile, but I’ve got the look in my eyes.
I hit the mark at just the right beat and yank my robe open.
For just a flash—a good glimpse of the girls, still looking as good as ever. Then I clutch it closed and swing to the right—shimmy, hair toss.
Skip to the left, same shimmy, hair toss.
The other girls would pick the latest pop and R&B songs but I always used Annie Lennox as my constant because ripping your shirt open during “Little Bird” makes a statement.
I’m all about making a statement.
I blame the Demi Moore movie for my signature song. Striptease. The one from the 1990s, before JLo made the pole look easy.
It’s not.
Back to the middle—spin with my gaze fixed on a point so I won’t get dizzy. The robe flies open like the wings of a bird and I stretch it all out, unable to stop the smile. A timed shrug leaves the robe on the floor. I kick it to the side as I turn with my back to the mirror.
A hinge—my head at my knees as I bend forward, my ass bare except for the black thong. I drop into a deep squat, inner thighs protesting as I widen them, before smoothing my body onto the floor.
I really hope the floor is clean.
Legs crossed and flip onto my back. Hip thrust. My hands run over my breasts, down my stomach and I hook a thumb into the strap of my thong and push it down for a tease.
To tempt them.
And then I arch up like I’m in the midst of a toe-curling climax, hair flowing down my back, breasts thrust forward so all eyes will be on them.
The rest of the routine is for the pole. The Tate Continental, as luxurious as it may be, does not come equipped with poles for the guests to use.
I sit unmoving on the floor as the music flows around me, thinking about the last time I did that routine. I’d been twenty-four… eight years ago. It had been my retirement party from the Spider’s Den.
I’d made three hundred dollars on tips alone, and then I let two of my most loyal fans take me to the private room at the club. One bent me over the table and I climbed in the lap of the second and gave him the ride of his life.
I charged each of them five hundred dollars and they paid it willingly. One thousand dollars and we were in there for less than twenty minutes.
That’s when I knew I made the right decision to stop dancing.
The song ends, and another begins. I stay on the floor.
What would happen if I decide to say fuck it all and just go out dancing? Hit some club where no one knows me and I can move like I used to, before I was told to be sexy, sexier, the sexiest. Before I learned to tease and taunt and tempt, using my body for money.
I was the sexiest. I was the best at tempting. But now…
I climb to my feet and gaze critically at myself in the mirror, running my hand over my body. Breasts a little fuller with rosy nips, not too big, not too small. Hips a little rounder now, curving into a size-four waist. My stomach is still taut with the visible etchings of abdomen muscles.
My pussy is still bare.
I look good.
Not that anyone has seen me like this for a while. Malcolm was the last, my neighbour with benefits. My best friend—great sex, but we’ll only ever be friends, especially now that he’s fallen in love with his book club crush.
