Page 65 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
I tossed my hair, making the sterling star earrings peek out from my coppery curls.
They were a nod to my stage name.
Lucky.
Lucky to be here.
Lucky to dance.
Lucky to still be alive, despite the numerous times I felt like dying.
The body glitter I’d slathered on made me shimmer.
The skin of a ballerina gone rogue.
Music pulsed through the speakers, a heavy bass line that vibrated up through the soles of my feet. Not Tchaikovsky, but my body responded to it all the same. I let my eyes drift over the crowd, taking in the sight of regulars mixed with unfamiliar faces. The bachelor party was in the far corner, with one Alpha wearing a ridiculous crown and sash. I sometimes swore we hada wedding group every other week. Of course, we got dumb ass college Alphas just as often. The obvious cluster of frat boys were grabbing a dozen pitchers of beer from the bar.
My hand gripped the pole, cool metal against warm skin. I hoisted myself up gracefully, executing a spin that looked effortless but required every muscle in my core to maintain. My legs extended in a perfect line, muscle memory from years of training kicking in automatically.
"That's it, Lucky! Show 'em what you got!" someone called from the crowd.
I didn't acknowledge the voice, staying in character. Lucky wasn't a ballerina with a shattered knee and dreams. Lucky was confident, seductive, untouchable. I arched my back, letting my hair cascade down as I spun, using the centrifugal force to create a moment of suspended animation that I knew looked magical from the floor.
The cheers grew louder, but I kept my focus, scanning the room for potential private dance clients. Soon, I found my target. Third table from the right, close enough to the stage that I could touch him if I wanted to. He was sitting alone in a sleek black suit that looked custom-made for his broad shoulders. His goatee was neatly trimmed, framing lips pressed into a straight line of concentration. But it was his eyes that I recognized immediately. They were dark, sharp, assessing.
He'd been here before. At least five times that I could recall. Always alone, always in black, always a generous tipper who never tried to cross lines. His gaze, though intense, wasn’t creepy. He was a safe payday. A perfect way to start the night.
I dropped into a slow, controlled descent, letting my body roll as I reached the stage floor. As the music shifted to something with a more insistent beat, I moved away from the pole, closer to the edge of the stage where he sat. Not too obvious, because I'd learned that subtlety worked better with histype. They liked to think they'd chosen you, not the other way around.
I executed a series of movements that combined classical technique with the explicit demands of this venue, ending in an arabesque that transitioned into a floor split, hands tracing deliberately sensual paths along the corset.
The Alpha’s eyes never left me, though he made no obvious reaction. No leaning forward, no shouting encouragement like some of the rowdier patrons. Just that steady, appreciative gaze.
At the Imperial, we'd been instructed never to focus on individual faces, to project beyond the first rows into the abstract darkness. Here, the rules were different. Here, success meant making each person feel like you were dancing exclusively for them, creating an illusion of intimacy in a public space.
As I approached the end of my set, I allowed myself to make direct eye contact with the Alpha in black. His inky gaze met mine without hesitation, a slight incline of his head the only acknowledgment of our silent communication. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
I took it as confirmation.
I finished with a flourish, a spin that brought me down to my knees at the edge of the stage, close enough to the patrons in front that they scrambled to tuck bills into the waistband of my thong. I accepted their offerings, jutting my hips closer, keeping my gaze heated. I never broke character even as I counted the gathering bills.
The Alpha in black didn't approach the stage. He didn't need to. We both knew the game, the unspoken rules of this exchange. He would wait, and I would find him.
When the music faded and the lights shifted to announce the next dancer, I gathered the scattered bills and made my exit, hips swaying with deliberate emphasis. As I passed Crystal waiting in the wings, she gave me an approving nod.
"Mister Goatee,” she murmured in approval, "I’m mad you got to him first.”
I smiled, feeling a small surge of professional satisfaction. “Better luck next time.”
“How can I have better luck when you keep stealing it all these days?” She laughed.
Stealing all the luck these days…
That didn’t feel true at all.
I made my way to the dressing room, quickly checking my appearance in the mirror. My carefully applied makeup was mostly intact. I reapplied glitter across my collarbone, touched up my lipstick, and dabbed powder on my forehead to take away the slight sheen of sweat. Afterwards, I went to the multi-stall bathroom and tucked my current earnings inside my locker.
Then I smoothed out my hair, straightened my shoulders, and headed back out to work the floor. The Alpha in black would be waiting, and Lucky never kept her audience waiting.
