Page 34 of Roulette Rodeo
Garter straps ran down my thighs, connecting to sheer stockings that had a subtle shimmer, like they'd been dusted with diamond powder. The stockings themselves were works of art—black at the top, gradually lightening to cherry red at my ankles, with tiny embroidered cherries climbing up the backs like they were growing from my heels.
The heels themselves were six-inch platforms, cherry-red patent leather with actual Swarovski crystals embedded in the heels.
They caught the light with every step, throwing red sparkles across the floor like drops of blood.
But it was the details that sold the entire ensemble.
Briar had covered my skin in shimmer oil that smelled faintly of cherries and made me glow like I'd been dipped in candlelight. Every curve caught the light, every movement created new shadows and highlights. She'd even dusted the shimmer across my collarbones, down the valley between my breasts, along the curve of my hips.
My hair had been styled into Hollywood waves, but with a twist—tiny red crystals had been woven through, catching the light like hidden fire. It was pulled to one side, leaving my neck exposed, the vulnerability of it somehow more provocative than full nudity.
The makeup was a masterpiece of contradiction.
Innocent and debauched simultaneously. Smoky eyes with hints of burgundy, lashes so long they cast shadows on my cheeks. Cheekbones highlighted to razor sharpness, making me look both younger and more dangerous. And my lips—God, my lips were a work of art for something so fragile as a wrong wipe or a sloppy kiss.Briar had outlined them to look fuller, then painted them in layers of red that went from deep burgundy at the edges to bright cherry in the center. Glossed to high shine,they looked perpetually just-bitten, kissed, or used for one’s sinful swollen pleasure.
The mask was the final touch.
Red lace that matched the outfit, covering from my forehead to just above my lips. It should have provided anonymity, but instead it just drew attention to my eyes—the garnet brown enhanced by contacts that made the gold flecks look like they were on fire.
"You look like sin incarnate," Briar had said with satisfaction.
What she hadn't mentioned was how I'd feel standing here, waiting to perform, knowing that somewhere in that audience was a pack with enough money to buy my entire existence.
To get me out of this glittering cage of crimson gold.
Through the curtain, I could hear the crowd. Different from our usual clientele.
The regular alphas were loud, brash, their arousal and entitlement filling the space like toxic smoke. This new pack was quiet, their presence felt more than heard.
Like predators who didn't need to announce themselves.
Tanya was up next, strutting over to where I stood with a confidence that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"About to win myself a new pack," she said, loud enough for the other girls to hear. "Getting out of this hellhole. You should take notes, Red. Learn what real alphas want."
I didn't respond.Didn't need to.We both knew her vanilla-pudding scent and predictable moves weren't what would catch the attention of alphas who'd walked in here with billions.
Her name was called, and she plastered on that showgirl smile—all teeth and no soul—before sauntering onto the stage.
I moved closer to the curtain, peering through the gap to watch.
The stage had been transformed for the cherry theme. Red lights bathed everything in a bloody glow, and someone hadscattered actual cherry petals across the floor. The pole in the center gleamed like a candy cane, and I could see the shadow of the backup poles waiting in the wings for the group performances.
Tanya moved through her routine with technical precision. Hip swivel, hair toss, the slow descent down the pole that was supposed to mimic other activities. She arched her back, ran her hands over her body, licked her lips in that practiced way that said 'imagine what else this mouth can do.'
It was perfect. Technically flawless.
And utterly boring.
I could see it in the audience's body language. The regular packs were watching with mild interest, a few dollars thrown on stage more out of habit than enthusiasm. But the new pack—I could just make out their silhouettes in the VIP section—didn't move. Not a single shift. Didn't even seem to be breathing.
Tanya spun faster, bent deeper, practically humped the pole in desperation.
But it was like watching someone scream into the void.
The sexuality was so performative, so obviously rehearsed, that it had all the erotic appeal of a medical diagram.
By the time her song ended, the stage had maybe fifty dollars scattered across it.
