Page 20 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“Oh, you’re one of those?”

“One of what?” he asks, his eyes twitching.

“Nothing,” I say, flipping my hand away.

“Say what you want to say,” he insists.

“An insecure man who forces their girlfriend to stop stripping. Then some years later, you sniff her menopause and shack up with a blonde twenty-something.”

“I prefer brunettes,” he says, smiling wickedly.

“I’m afraid Liam, as long as my tits aren’t by my knees and my ass doesn’t resemble a deflated balloon, I’m going to continue taking my clothes off.”

Liam grits his teeth. “So if we had a baby, you’d lap dance through pregnancy?”

“You feel asleep before sex yesterday and now you’re planning our family?”

“Whatever you make weekly at the club, I’ll pay you triple, quadruple.”

“That doesn’t make me sound like a prostitute at all.”

“You can be my glamorous assistant.”

“I thought you sold drugs, not pulled rabbits out of hats.”

“Well, you must stop dancing on the main stage or we can’t go further. Think about it. Give me your answer tonight. What time should I pick you up?”

“You can pick me up at six, the same address as yesterday. But take a nap during the day so you don’t fall asleep again.”

He looks down at himself. “I’m never gonna live that down with you, am I?”

I shake my head.

“You can shower and leave whenever you want to. There’s a car outside which will take you wherever you want to go.”

He presses another kiss to my lips. I bite him hard.

“Ow” he says, recoiling, blood dripping from his bottom lip.

“Punishment for leaving me unsatisfied,” I say raising an eyebrow.

“I should turn you over and spank you now. But I really have to go. I’ll be thinking about your punishment all day.” He says dapping the blood away with his burgundy handkerchief.

I wave at him goodbye and turn over on my tummy on his bed.

I was going to make Liam O’Shaughnessy’s life a living hell.

I shower and dress in yesterday’s clothes. I direct the driver to the outlet store of Gucci. He’d see on his credit card statement what I would buy. I quickly walk into the swanky air-conditioned Gucci store and walk out with seven pairs of loafers and a gift receipt. I take them to another store claiming my mum said my uncle hates loafers and get a cash refund.

With the money, I have the car drop me in the city close to Radius, the human trafficking charity on Connaught Street. The only place I directed trafficked women and girls. I put the €22,000 through their letterbox.

Chapter Seven

My doorbell buzzed. I look at the camera display, but I can’t see a person. All I can make is a thicket of red roses, each velvet rose perfectly blooming, as if fresh from a master sculpture’s clay wheel.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up.

Text message from Liam: Roses are red, violets are blue, here is a rose for every dance you gave me. (Sorry it doesn’t rhyme.)

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