Set Loose (3 page)

Emily wasn’t sure how to respond. No doubt he was right, but she wasn’t a fragile flower. And anyway, she wouldn’t be around long enough to worry about that sort of thing.

“I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

‘Is that right?” he asked, looking skeptical.

“Yes, that is right,” Emily said, enunciating clearly because the gin and tonic had hit her full on and she was suddenly aware of every syllable as it tried to make its way out of her mouth. Clearly she wasn’t tough enough to handle tonight without a little outside help, but he didn’t have to know that. “I really ought to get ready,” she continued. “If you would just point me toward the dressing room…”

She started to teeter, and she wasn’t even wearing her stilettos yet. Maybe she should have gone a bit easier on the booze, or at least eaten something.

“Easy there, tiger,” he said, the mischievous smile tugging at his mouth changing his entire expression. His eyes glinted with humor and he was suddenly so sexy Emily lost her balance again. His big, warm hand on her arm steadied her but sent her nervous system into overdrive.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” His smile was wider now, the gleam in his eye more intense.

“Emily. Emily Chase. And yours?” she asked, striving for dignity. She drew herself up even straighter to demonstrate her regal posture.

“Cutter Lawrence, at your service. Head to the back of the room there, under that exit sign, and you’ll see the dressing rooms.”

“Wonderful, thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, and she could have sworn he was trying not to laugh.

Turning away from him, Emily hurried toward the door he pointed out, trying to focus, to get into her role the way she always did before a show. Clearly she should be channeling her attraction to Cutter into her performance.

The dressing room was comfy and innocuous. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been expecting, but there was nothing shocking on display. Just a sagging blue sofa set against one wall, a couple of armchairs and folding chairs, and a big mirror on one white wall with a counter running beneath it. Another wall held rows of lockers, and there was a doorway that led to a bathroom and shower. Only the rack of costumes and the dangerously high-heeled shoes scattered here and there gave away the fact that strippers were in residence.

The space was empty but for one woman, the redhead she’d spoken to the night before. She was in full costume – catholic schoolgirl, a true classic – but without the makeup, and she looked younger than she had last night. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three.

Emily stopped nervously in the doorway, bracing herself with one hand, and the redhead glanced up, her surprised look turning to one of recognition.

“Hey, there. Come on in,” she said, sitting up and smiling. “I wondered if you’d be back.”

Emily stepped into the room, still gripping her bag. “I wondered that myself,” she said, trying to smile. “I’m pretty nervous, or I was before I got myself drunk.”

“Well, you’ve already taken care of step number one. Clearly you have good instincts. Anyway, you don’t need to be scared. Men are easy. Why don’t you get dressed and then I’ll give you a few pointers. My name’s Cheryl, by the way.”

Emily smiled gratefully and introduced herself, then set about smoothing shimmery lotion over every inch of skin. Next she put on her sexy librarian costume – white blouse, tweed skirt, even a pair of fake horn-rimmed glasses. Underneath all that she wore red lace underwear. It was a bit garish for her own taste, but then her own taste would bore everyone to tears.

When she was fully dressed she studied her reflection – not exactly the Swan Queen, but she’d do. Sitting on a stool in front of the mirror she took out her cosmetics bag and began to make up her face. Luckily she’d been doing her own stage makeup for years and was pretty good at it. Even freaked out and drunk she managed to make her eyes sultry and dark-lashed, her mouth fuller than it really was and deep red.

Some of the girls wore wigs, but since her hair was long and thick and wigs were hot and itchy, she’d decided to go with her own hair. She teased it around the crown until it was full and reminiscent of a Victoria’s Secret model, then smoothed it until it was sleek and slid over her shoulders when she shook her head.

She was planning to throw her hair around a lot tonight, but not until she took it out of her librarian’s bun, so she twisted it into a loose knot and secured it with a pencil. Then she pulled on her garters and looked at herself in the mirror.

A feeling of unreality washed over her as she looked at the stranger reflected back at her. Who was she really, when her entire identity had been based on her life as a ballerina? Would a few weeks here make her nothing more than a hard-up stripper? Would she even recognize herself anymore?

“You look great. How do you feel?” Cheryl said, coming over to inspect her.

“Pretty bizarre, actually.”

“Try not to think too much. This will help,” Cheryl said, pulling a flask out of her bag.

Emily wasn’t sure drinking even more would cure what ailed her, but she was willing to try. A few sips later her she was able to look at herself without having an existential panic attack.

She’d stretched and warmed-up in her hotel room, but that was a while ago now. Kicking off her heels she pulled on a pair of pink legwarmers, grabbed a folding chair for her makeshift barre, and began to move – plié, grand plié, the familiar motions soothing her until she was in her zone.

Two other women wearing only thongs and money came in, their laughter fading as they looked at her in surprise. Emily recognized the tall one as the dancer who’d been on when she came in.

“This is Emily. She’s trying out tonight,” Cheryl explained.

“You sure you’re in the right place?” the tall one asked, her voice sharp. She was pretty in an angular way but her eyes were hard, like maybe she’d been around the block a few times. “This ain’t the ballet.”

Emily had been a bit nervous about how she’d get along with the other women, but she wasn’t about to let anyone push her around. She’d been dealing with whole companies of competitive dancers since she was a teenager and knew how to hold her own.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, looking the woman in the eye. “This is my first time and I’m trying not to freak out. This relaxes me.”

Admitting she was scared did the trick. The woman smiled and came the rest of the way into the room. “I’m Nancy,” she said, kicking her heels off and taking a sip from Cheryl’s flask. “This is Tina,” she said, gesturing to her friend, a petite Hispanic woman who glanced up to say hi before typing something on her phone.

Emily let the women’s chatter float around her. By the time she was done with her warm-up she felt relatively calm and centered, as if she’d just meditated. Pulling her heels back on, she sat down on one of the chairs to wait.

“So what brings you to our little slice of paradise?” Nancy asked.

“I
was
a professional ballet dancer until I landed wrong and hurt my foot. Now I’m broke and need to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”

“Wow, it’s like
Flashdance
, only in reverse.”

Emily groaned and let her head fall into her hands. “Oh God, you’re right. All I need is my welder’s license. Maybe that’s what I should do next.”

“Nah. I’d skip all that and go straight for the rich older guy.”

Nancy and Tina headed back out to work the floor and other women started to filter in, some coming on shift, others on their way out. Emily introduced herself to them if they looked curious, but mostly she listened as Cheryl filled her in on everything she needed to know. Like the fact that they each danced for three songs and you needed to have your breasts on display by the end of the first song and be down to your thong by the end of the second. Then you just showed it all off and raked in the money during the last song. Luckily, she had pretty much figured all that out last night and had planned her dances accordingly.

Her injury wouldn’t pose a problem for the kind of dancing she’d be doing tonight, so there was that to be thankful for. Mostly she had to stay away from jumps and extended periods on her left leg. Ironically, she felt better now than she did when she was still with the company. Back then she had too many aches and pains to count. She’d also gained close to ten pounds since she no longer danced seven hours a day. The extra weight was probably a good thing as far as stripping was concerned, since the gaunt look wasn’t too sexy.

At six-thirty Cheryl went on and Emily followed to watch her from the wings. She also gave her song selection to Stan, the audio guy.

She’d chosen three of her favorite songs, the ones she liked to dance to alone in her apartment. She’d start out with Nina Simone’s “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl,” then “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield, and finally “Little Red Corvette.” That way she’d start off slow and work up to a nice frenzy. Maybe they were a bit old school, but she wanted to dance to music that made her feel sexy. She’d always preferred soul and blues when she wasn’t listening to classical.

“What’s your stage name, sweetheart?” Stan asked. A skinny guy of indeterminate age who looked like he smoked about five packs a day, he was also in charge of announcing the dancers.

Emily hadn’t even thought about a stage name.

“Um, Star?”

“Why not?” he shrugged. ‘We don’t have any others right now.”

Okay, so it wasn’t very original, but it sounded like a stripper name. It also had a nice layer of irony that only she understood.

Before she knew it, it was her turn to go on. Her legs were shaking and her heart slammed frantically in her chest, but even the attack of nerves felt good in a way, since she’d never expected to perform again. She knew how to do nerves. How many nights had she waited in the wings to go on, terrified she’d screw up?

So she counted out her entrance and then walked out onto the stage in time with the slow, sensual music, a woman arriving home from work, moving dreamily as she unbuttoned her demure white blouse. Stopping in the middle of the stage she let it slide off and fall to the floor, revealing her red lace bra. She ran her hands down her breasts and over her hips, as if she were thinking of someone else’s hands.

Then she caught sight of Cutter. He stood in the middle of the room, those dark eyes following her around the stage. But instead of feeling self-conscious or embarrassed, the thought of turning him on sent an electric thrill through her.

She was no longer pretending. It was his hands she wanted on her, his mouth. Her movements became more sinuous, a private seduction played out in front of everyone.

The crowd was making noise, hooting and calling out, clapping for her. She pulled the pencil out of her hair and shook it so that it swirled around her shoulders. Swinging her hips she spun as she unclasped her bra, letting one strap and then the other slide over her shoulders before letting the whole thing fall.

She moved faster as a sense of freedom, of total abandon swept through her. She danced without worrying about perfect technique or what her line looked like. This was primitive, like dancing around the fire or praying for rain.

The second song was building toward the finish when she teased the zipper on her skirt down, driving everyone wild to see what was underneath. Standing at the very tip of the stage, Emily looked right at Cutter and let the skirt drop. Her smile was wicked, daring him to think she didn’t have what it took. He watched her every move, his eyes following the skirt down her legs, then back up until his heated gaze held hers.

For the space of a few heartbeats she forgot to move, held by the grim desire she saw there, as if he’d look away if he could. Breaking eye contact, she kicked the skirt to the side just as “Little Red Corvette” started to play. A song made for stripping, it propelled her across the stage until she spun fast and wicked, her kicks higher, her hips moving with every beat.

Men crowded around the stage, leaning forward with money in their hands. Emily moved closer to them and several men at once tucked bills into her thong. Even though she’d been expecting it, she had to resist the urge to pull away from their strange hands and hungry, even desperate looks. Then the moment passed and she was Star again, prancing along the edge, kneeling down and slithering along. It was all part of the game, and she did her part, tossing them a wink and a naughty smile before moving to the other side of the stage.

She whirled around as the song built toward its climax, her movements faster and more urgent, mimicking the urgency before release. Without even planning it she grabbed hold of the pole and spun around it, surprised by how easy it was, another toy to tease the crowd, tease Cutter.

The song wound down and she worked the perimeter again, letting men cop a feel as they thrust everything from one to twenty dollar bills at her. Then it was over. Tossing her hair one last time, she left the stage.

Stan looked up from the audio equipment. “Not bad, kid.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, her body still humming. “Hopefully it was good enough for Steve.”

“Oh, it will be. That was good enough for anyone.”

Cheryl ran in from the floor to give her a hug.

“If I hadn’t seen you before you went on, I’d never believe that was your first time,” she said, shaking her head. “That was unreal. I’m just glad I don’t have to follow you.”

Emily drank up the camaraderie, the good wishes and compliments, but her mind was full of Cutter. Should she go out there and find him, or wait and see if he came to her?

“It was way more fun than I thought it would be,” she said, trying to keep up her end of the conversation. “I didn’t even care that I was naked up there.” She paused and looked down at herself. “But now I do. I’d better go get dressed.”

She turned around and nearly ran into the manager.

“You’re hired,” he said without preamble. “I can give you Sunday through Wednesday nights for starters. You’ll work six to two and we’ll see how it goes.”