Page 36 of Roulette Rodeo
I wrapped each finger individually, taking my time, making it a seduction to the beat of the raw slow music playing to addto the building allure. The fabric sliding between my fingers, around my wrists, protecting and preparing. My eyes stayed on my hands, ignoring the audience, like they didn't exist.
Like I was alone in my gym, getting ready to beat the shit out of my demons.
The music started to hit its rhythm—not the usual strip club bass, but darker. Violins and drums, classical and primal mixing into a melody that made my blood sing.
I stood, the wraps complete, and picked up the gloves.
They were heavier than expected, the diamonds adding weight. But when I slipped them on, they fit perfectly.
Oh sweet heavens…how I feel in charge.
The confidence was surely oozing out of me, as if I was in my borned element and not performing as though my life,and freedom,depended on it.
I walked to the bag, still ignoring the audience, and took my stance.
Let it out, Red…
The first punch was tentative, testing. The diamonds caught the light, sending sparkles across the stage. The impact made my breasts bounce in the barely-there lace, made the pearls shift against sensitive skin.
The second punch was harder. Raw with a spec of power.
Then the third.
That was the trigger…
Then I stopped thinking and started fighting.
Jab, cross, hook. The combinations Marc had taught me, but transformed by the outfit, the lights, the audience. Every punch made my body move in ways that were simultaneously athletic and erotic. The lace shifted with each impact, revealing and concealing. Sweat began to sheen on my skin, making the shimmer oil glow brighter. The music only heightenedthe movements, growing gradually and volume while the base seemed to match my rhythm perfectly.
I circled the bag like prey versus predator, my feet as light as a ballet dancer, and yet my curves surely looked extra thick and strained with muscle as I prepared for the next set of movements that would include kicks, both high and thigh dips. The heels should have made it impossible, but I'd been training in worse conditions for three years.
This was just another performance, except this time, I was performing as myself.
A roundhouse kick sent the bag swinging and the audience gasping. The move had hiked the lace up, showing the full curve of my ass, the pearl string a decoration more than coverage. I didn't adjust it. There was no need to even acknowledge it.
Just kept fighting.
The music built, and so did my combinations. Harder, faster, more complex. The kind of moves that showed real training, real strength, real defiance. My hair came loose from its styled waves, hanging in sweat-damp tendrils around my face. My lipstick was probably smudged, my eye makeup running.
I didn't care.
This wasn't about being pretty, or about being perfect. This was about showing these alphas that we weren't all the same, interchangeable bodies performing the same overused routines.
I was showing them that some omegas fought back.
The tattoo on my back was fully visible now, sweat making it gleam. The Queen of Hearts surrounded by her court of flowers and dice, a permanent rebellion against everything this place tried to make me. None of the other girls had marks—Marnay wouldn't allow it.But he did for me. Only me.I was already different, defiant and given permission to remain breathing despite being a trapped butterfly in this grand penitentiary.
Already dangerous.
The music reached its crescendo, and I delivered a final combination that would have made Marc proud.
The bag swung wildly, the diamonds on my gloves catching the light in an explosion of red stars.
I stood there, breathing hard, sweat running down my body in rivulets that caught the light.
Then, finally, I turned to face the audience.
The regular packs were on their feet, money already flying toward the stage. Hundreds, thousands, raining down like green snow. But I wasn't looking at them.
