Page 82 of Intense
No one would understand why I do what I do.
Why I need it.
The door cracks open.
“Angel, you’re up.”
Nerves tingle through me.
That guy—the one who I think blackmailed me into setting up Finn—is back.
What does he want now?
To frame Dr. Quinn again?
Kill more people?
I’m not a hitwoman for hire. I’m a surgeon. And I’m now someone’s wife.
With every ounce of confidence I can muster, I walk out into the room with my head held high and move straight to the main stage.
Eyes track me as I grip the pole, swinging my hips in circles, pushing my ass back as I squat low to the floor.
Cash starts to rain around me.
But this heat crawls up my spine.
Like I’m being watched.
Not by strangers.
By the one man in the world I can’t face. It’s like I can feel Finn here, even if I can’t see him.
No. It’s not real.
It’s my mind playing tricks.
As I climb the pole and bend backward, I tug my bra playfully, biting my lip.
Slowly sliding down, I grab the pole and split my legs.
Fuck, I’m getting too old for this.
It was easier when I was eighteen.
Thirty-three?
Not so much. I’ll be paying for this tomorrow.
But the longer I’m up here, the safer I am.
The less likely that blackmailing creep will summon me; my boss doesn’t let anyone off the stage mid-shift.
I dance for maybe forty minutes before I’m beckoned over to the bar.
That same gnawing tension is still there.
I scan the room through the haze of lights and shadows.
