Page 30 of Playing Flirty

“It used to be a strip club and they still have the poles and I was hoping we could put on a performance and it’ll be fun and we need to have a bit of fun, please.” She spat the words out all in one breath.

“No, thank you,” Claire replied. “I’ll cheer you on, but I won’t perform.”

“Fine. I know coming to this class is already far out of your comfort zone,” Neema said and touched Claire’s shoulder. “I appreciate you being here. Will Dean be joining the boys?”

“He wants to.”

Neema turned her full focus to me. “I assume Patrick will be joining… if he’s not working.” She took my hand, her skin several shades darker than mine but glistening. “I need one of you up there.”

“The boys will be there?” I couldn’t tell if my heart’s speedy rhythm was due to the workout or imagining myself pole dancing on stage… in front ofthe boys.

“Shaun’s going to want to see me that night, I know him. You need to get William to take him to VOX without giving anything away. Can you do that? Or are the two of you only capable of pulling each other’s hair like kids on a playground?” She folded her arms across her chest, challenging me.

“Uhm, we…” I stumbled on my words and resorted to apfffttt. Claire went completely silent.

We walked to the car while Neema wrinkled her nose and gave me her best puppy-dog eyes. “You’ll be fully clothed. It’s a respected sport!”

“You know me—you know I can’t do that. My body doesn’t work that way. It just isn’t sexy. I’ll look like a fool.” I crossed my arms, my voice dropping in anger. “This is the coat idea all over again, and that didn’t work out well, did it?”

The deep feeling of rejection, of howunsexyI was, consumed me.

Neema sighed, climbing into the car. “Since you’re so sure you aren’t sexy, how about a deal?”

Claire and I got in and waited.

“If, by the last class, you manage to master the routine and feel semi-confident about it, you’ll do it even if you take one of the poles farther back. I want you up there with me, and I want you to feel sexy because you are.”

I grumbled, accepting defeat. “IfI feel confident—and I won’t—but if I do, I’ll join you up there.”

“Deal.”

This was the first bet I was hoping to lose.

I stared at the message again.

Patrick:Babe, this meeting is running over. Breakfast tomorrow?

I stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my face and body. My mouth that no one longed to kiss, my waist that had long since been desperately held.

You’re being dramatic. Stop it. He’s just busy.

To avoid screaming in frustration, I called my mom. That usually did the trick to remind me that I was loved by someone.

“Rosie, Rosie, my little lovely baby, baby,” Mom sang into the screen as she answered, her dark hair half the length it wasduring our last call. “I’m being spoiled with calls. You’re all dolled up. Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere.” I grabbed my makeup remover and the face scrubbies my mother had crocheted and started cleaning my lips. When my mom stayed quiet, I peeked at my screen and said, “So, what did you do to your hair?”

My mom’s little frown softened but didn’t disappear. “One of our neighbor’s daughters wants to be a hairdresser, so I let her practice on me.” She ran her hands through the jagged edges. “Do you like it?”

“How old is she?” My lips curved upward, and my airways opened again.

“She’s seven, but I think she’s got potential.” She admired her own hair in the video.

I giggled, and my eyes welled with tears. I was grateful for my mother’s bad internet connection. “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you too. How’s work and all the usual things?”

“All fine.” I tossed the scrubbies aside and climbed into bed with the intention of leading the conversation elsewhere.

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