Page 107 of Deceitful Vows

ZOYA

The loud chatter of the crowd displays why the dancers at Le Rogue are more family than competitors. Mars could have steered me wrong when I asked her advice for getting a favorable outcome for a first-time performer.

She could have pushed me to dance on a Tuesday so her tips weren’t reduced further than the long spell in the strip club circuit most dancers face. She didn’t because her job description doesn’t change who she is.

She is a good person, and so am I.

The remembrance clears away the last of my nerves and has me reared up and ready for my first, but not guaranteed last, performance.

The euphoria is addictive, and the energy is thrumming.

I haven’t felt this alive since…

Mercifully, I am cut off by Mars this time instead of guilt. “Are you ready?”

I jiggle my chest before jerking up my chin. “As ready as I will ever be.”

With a devilish grin, Mars flickers the lights on the stage, announcing to the patrons that my show is about to begin.

It doubles the muttering and sets my belly ablaze with untapped excitement. Even if I only earn one quarter of Mars’s predicted revenue, I will have plenty of funds to pay for Grampies’s unexpected in-home health visit, and perhaps add a little garnish to the items I’ve purchased over the past two weeks for the two women who mean the world to me.

As I approach the wings of the stage, I take in Le Rogue from a new vantage point. Just like Vixens, Le Rogue isn’t much to look at from the outside. Its outer shell is old and rundown, and the neon lighting at the front flickers more than the doorman’s flashlight when he checks the patrons’ IDs upon entry.

The insides of the brick-and-mortar building on the outskirts of town are far more elaborate. The stage is made from a pricy wood you can only import on the black market, the bar is stocked with whiskey that costs as much per nip as an entire bottle at a corner store, and the stage lights are the best money can buy.

Rich clients come here, hence my unexpected nerves.

I squint when the lighting crew switches on the stage’s main lights. When I collect the money men toss onto the dancer’s feet during each performance, the lights are switched off, so I’ve never faced the full intensity of their warmth. I’m not complaining. It’ll be easier to prance around naked since I’ll only be subjected to the heat of multiple ogling stares instead of seeing them directly.

Also, with the temperature reaching roasting, I’m more than ready to remove my first piece of clothing.

“Give them another thirty seconds. The hungrier they are, the better they’ll tip.” Mars wiggles her brows.

Nodding, I drag my sweaty palms down my pleated skirt. I went for the naughty secretary skit. Mars said it produces the best tips because most of the men who visit Le Rogue work in a corporate setting and fantasize about fucking their secretaries.

The glitter on my chest sparkles under the stage lights when the curtains are drawn, and I’m encouraged on stage by the vocal cheers of the dancers who should see me as competition but don’t.

I feed off their energy and burst onto the stage like I was made to perform.

I was. Just not in the way most people think.

As Mars predicted, the crowd goes apeshit when they realize I’m not on the regular schedule. They holler and shout, and before my hands can move for the buttons on the business shirt I tied midway on my stomach, several bills of multiple denominations land at my feet.

They’re not close to the amount I’m seeking, but they are a great start.

I move in sync with the music, my set as choregraphed as the lie I told Gigi this morning when she busted me garnishing the savings in Nikita’s box with the leftovers of my second paycheck.

My shirt falls to the floor with timed perfection. The crowd eats up the hot-pink bra my plain white shirt couldn’t conceal before they chant for me to lose it.

I wiggle my finger at them, sending them into an uproar about my inability to follow orders.

More bills float to my feet as I prance to the pole in the middle of the stage. I work it for barely thirty seconds. I don’t have the skills to incorporate it into my routine like Mars and the other dancers do, though the crowd of mostly men don’t seem to mind. They shout and holler before promising to rain the stage with cash once I lose my skirt.

I can’t help but oblige. It isn’t that I’m a person who jumps on cue. I merely refuse to miss a timed-to-perfection beat. This routine was devised fast, but that doesn’t mean I won’t act as if it was choregraphed by Shakira herself.

I’m having so much fun that it takes longer than I care to admit to notice the dulling of the crowd’s chants the longer I perform. The occasional shout hollers between hip thrusts, though they’re far and few between compared to when I started.

Desperate to unearth what the hell is going on, and too curious for my own good, I move toward the edge of the stage. Perhaps the lights bouncing off the sequins on my bra-and-panties combination are too reflective for the clubgoers to take full advantage of the provocativeness of my performance.

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