When I saw him in the club the next weekend, tingles of nervous anticipation shot through me. I tried to school my expression and continue with my performance as if I hadn’t seen him. I didn’t want him to know how much he affected me, how my body was aching to be pressed against his again. Keeping my eyes vaguely unfocused on the audience, I managed to make it through my performance without incident.
Walking to the edge of the stage to collect my tips, I dropped to my knees and started working my way from one end to the other. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to be there waiting for me or not. It dawned on me at that moment how foolish I was being. Just because he came back, didn’t mean he came back to see me. He could be looking for another girl to satisfy his needs.
That thought was crushing. I was ashamed to say that I thought about him almost constantly the entire week. And it wasn’t just about the way he looked, though he had been the star of every late-night fantasy since I first laid eyes on him. I was going to have to replace my vibrator in the very near future if I kept going at the same pace. There was just something about him that I was drawn to. Something in the way his pale green eyes tracked my every movement. The way his fingers dug into my skin while he rocked my hips over him. The way he expertly brought my body to climax with only the barest of touches. I even started calling him Boe—Best Orgasm Ever—in my mind.
I was suddenly embarrassed by my behavior, both during his private dance and the entire week after. Never had I fantasized about a client, let alone fooled around with one during a dance. Hell, as a rule, I didn’t even do private dances. I was overcome with the need to bolt from the stage and hide in the dressing room until he left, but I couldn’t, not just yet anyway.
Continuing to move down the stage, I collected my tips faster than usual. Typically, I tried to spend a few seconds with each man in hopes to lure them back to another performance. I had been working at The Booby Trap for a couple of years and had quite a few regulars. Even though I worked as a dancer for an entirely different reason, I made decent money from the tips alone, and I truly did enjoy my job, so I hoped I didn’t offend any of my regulars, but I had to get off the stage before I had a panic attack in front of everyone.
My pace increased the closer I got to the end of the stage. When I finally reached the end, I looked up to find piercing green eyes staring back at me.
I gasped.
He smirked.
Then, he slid a bill into the very front of my G-string and, just like before, he dipped his fingers a little lower than he should to brush them against my bare skin. Tingles shot straight to my core and a shiver went up my spine. He winked and walked away, while I tried to remember how to stand.
Once I was on my feet, I left the stage and all but sprinted to the dressing room, which was nothing more than a large room with vanities and racks of costumes. Collapsing into my chair, I dropped my face into my hands and shook my head. I couldn’t have a panic attack, not at work. No one at the club knew about my past. No one had ever seen me have a meltdown and I desperately wanted to keep it that way.
I had been doing so well. I hadn’t had a panic attack or flashback in months, maybe even a year, and I had long since stopped going to therapy. I desperately tried to recall some of the exercises I learned in school to work through an attack, but my mind was a jumbled mess of frantic thoughts, which caused even more feelings of panic to consume me.
A hand landed on my shoulder causing me to yelp and flinch away. “Pherra! Are you okay, honey?” another dancer named Ginger asked. Ginger was also dancing her way through college. I saw her on campus from time to time, but we didn’t have any classes together. I didn’t even know what her major was. It might seem wrong to some, but I tried very hard to keep my dancing life completely separate from the rest of my life. Ginger was a nice girl and someone I probably would have been friends with if she wasn’t a part of my dancing life.
Taking in a large breath, I raised my head and answered, “I’m fine, Ginger. You just startled me is all.”
She placed a hand on her cocked hip and appraised me. “Yeah, but were you okay before that?”
I nodded. “I’m good. Just tired. I had a tough week at school and I put in a lot of hours studying. I didn’t get as much sleep as I should have.”
“I bet Scott would let you go home early if you asked.”
“I can’t yet. I’ve got to be on stage two more times tonight because Cinnamon and Cherry both called in,” I explained.
“Well, try to get some rest until you’re up. I’ll come get you a few minutes before if you want to try to take a power nap,” she offered.
“Thanks, but I’ll be all right. Only a few more hours left anyway.”
I planned to stay backstage and out of sight until it was time for me to dance again. Rinse and repeat. After my last performance, I was going to hightail it out of there at warp speed. Then, I was going to go home and sleep. I was not going to think about the man from last week, who was currently in the main part of the club, and I was in no way, shape, or form going to touch on why his presence almost sent me spiraling into a panic attack.
“Pherra! You back here?” I heard Scott call from the front of the room.
My eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for some form of help or escape. Ginger answered him, “Don’t see her. She might be in the bathroom. You need her?”
“Just remind her that she’s up again in 10.”
I exhaled with relief. I thought for sure he was going to tell me Boe wanted another private dance. Ginger strolled over. “You heard that, right?”
“Yeah, I did. Thanks for that.”
She nodded and looked me over again. Hesitantly, she said, “You know you can talk to me if you need to. I know we’re not exactly friends, but I’m a good listener if you ever need an ear.” She extended her hand and patted my shoulder before strolling away. I would love to talk to her about my current issues, as soon as I figured out exactly what those issues were.
Several hours later, my two stage performances were done and I was ready to get the hell out of there. Despite my valiant efforts, my eyes landed on Boe multiple times throughout each performance. Part of me was hoping that he would leave and another part of me was thrilled that he was still there. However, all of me wanted out of the club before he had the chance to ask for another private session.
Pushing through the back door, I ran full speed ahead to my car and sped out of the parking lot with squealing wheels. I successfully avoided Boe and made it safely to my house, just as I wanted. So why did I feel like I missed out on something?
CHAPTER THREE
Carbon