Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
“Shhh.” She rips her arm away, straightening her shoulders. “She’s a little… well, she reminds me of someone, but still…” She waves her hands. “She can dance and she’s beautiful. She’s got the innocent angel thing going on. That’s what we could use.”
She turns and smiles at the girl who takes her leg and extends it straight up. Again, I blink because what in the ever-loving fuck is happening? This kind of shit doesn’t just happen. A fucking ballerina doesn’t walk in off the street and want to be a stripper.
“Oh wow,” Crystal purrs. “Can you use a pole?”
“Of course.” She smiles and lowers her leg, completely ignoring me.
“Good. Okay, come on, Axel, we need to make our choices.” Crystal reaches for me again.
I don’t move.
“Whatever.” She huffs and marches down the stairs. I step closer, forcing her to turn and look at me. “What’s your name?”
She bites her lower lip; her eyes dart around. “Cookie.” Her voice… it’s slightly raspy.
“Cookie?” It’s impossible to hide my smile. She blinks and her cheeks flush. I’m borderline obsessed with the way this girl moves. Fuck, the way her nipples harden as I stare.
Her breath stutters and I know. I’m gonna fuck her. Take her, ruin her and her uptight persona. I’ll unleash myself on her if only to see if she can take it.
“Yes,” she snips. “That’s it—that’s my name.” She clears her throat as her hand nervously checks to make sure her bun is still tight.
She’s like my fantasy woman, except that I don’t have a fantasy.
Ever.
This is fucked up, and I’m pissed that I smoked Rip’s shit.
“You do know that you’re in a full-nude strip club, right Cookie?” Her eyes dart up to mine.
“Of course.” She frowns.
I nod, letting my eyes explore her body. She’s all wrong, and someone needs to tell her. I need to tell her. Instead I say, “Fine. I need to see your moves.”
“My moves?” She swallows.
“Yes. And this time, all clothes off.”
She looks around the room. “You want me to dance… for you?”
“Yeah, Cookie. I’d love you to dance for me.”
ANTOINETTE
Two days prior - Los Angeles, CA
Sweat pours down my face and I relish every drop of it. This is by far my favorite dance class. The instructor is amazing, even if she is five months pregnant.
“Toni?” Wiping my face with my last clean towel, I turn. I need to go to the laundry, but I’m too broke. It’s come to the sad fact that I either have clean clothes or food. So, I guess I’ll be washing my dance clothes in the sink for the second time this week.
“Yes?”
Tilly stands holding her dance bag over her shoulder, smiling at me. “A bunch of us are going across the street for some beers and a burger. Want to come?”
At first, I look around because no one ever invites me out. And then reality slaps me in the face. Even if I could go across the street for a beer, which I can’t because I’m only nineteen, I have no money. Instantly my cheeks, already flushed from jazz class, burn hotter.
I straighten my shoulders. “I can’t,” I snip, then force a smile despite the look of surprise on her face. “I have another class tonight.” I should turn and leave, but I can’t stop from saying more. “Also, I don’t eat meat.” It sounds accusatory, and my stomach rumbles at the lie.
She cocks her head and her eyes travel down my body all the way to my beat-up, barely held together jazz shoes. They’re more duct tape than shoes.
“Are you sure? I’d love to pick your brain on where you studied. You’re an incredible dancer.” She’s being sincere, even nice, which, let’s be honest, is way worse than if she’s a bitch.
“Thank you, but no. I… can’t.” Turning, I walk to my corner and grab my dance bag.
“Wait.”
Straightening, I heave it onto my shoulder and take in her appearance. She’s tall, with firm muscles from years of vigorous dance and dark brown hair and pretty brown eyes.
“I’ll buy.” She smiles again and I notice a diamond stud in her nose.
“I have money. I’m busy, that’s all,” I say, wanting the ground to swallow me up. I love this studio. The woman who owns it used to know my family, so she always lets me dance and take classes for free. My mind races. Will I have to switch back to ballet? It’s a sure way to segregate myself. None of the latest group of dancers I’ve been hanging with would be in ballet.
Ballet. I can barely think about it, much less step foot in a class.
“Okay, maybe next week.” She smiles again.
That feeling—like an elephant is pressing on my chest—makes me ignore her as I look at myself in the large mirror. Big cat eyes blink and stare back at me as I give her a curt nod.