Heaven
Another night at the club.
Another night of smiling warmly at men, unsure of whether she were madder when they looked at her like a piece of meat, or when they ignored her because a more-naked piece of meat on stage held their attention.
Another night of watching Dino Sinclair engage in a gropefest with a gorgeous girl in the corner booth.
Couldn't he go hang out in the industrial room? Or the dining room? Or on the balcony above the main dance floor?
Couldn't he do that somewhere she didn't have to see it? Like maybe Cleveland?
"Angela, drinks up."
Angela shook her head clear. The pace tonight seemed particularly hectic. Before she took her tray, she reached into her apron, uncrumpling a small bit of paper to reveal four purple pills. She wondered if they'd be enough. Yesterday she'd had three, and by the end she'd really been dragging -- not quite so jangly-freaky as the Xanax withdrawal, but low enough that it affected her work. She didn't need to get another tongue-lashing from Sasha -- man, his accent was annoying after the first minute -- so she'd brought five tonight. But the way her mood was going, she might need more.
She slipped a pill between her lips and swallowed hard. Saliva was enough to get it down -- she was getting better at taking them dry. She supposed she could have waited -- she still felt pretty good, almost like she was wearing her sapphires -- but she was tired of the constant crest-and-crash the Xanax put her through. Perfectua was already a lot smoother, and Angela was determined to keep it that way.
"Thanks, Dave." She nodded to the bartender before she sashayed off to Dino's table.
The trip across the room was only a few seconds, but the way Angela's brain was buzzing, it seemed to take minutes. Last night's revelation should have softened the blow of Dino's licentious behavior -- indeed, she should be seeing it as an opportunity. Problem was, she couldn't figure out how to get from where she was to where she needed to be. The conversation in the hallway had been brutally brief:
"Hey, Sasha."
"Dino chooses dancers."
Shut down before she'd even asked the question. How did he know? Was she that transparent?
So after everything was said and done, it was still Dino who had power over her. Damn! Like he was ever going to let her do it, if he knew she wanted to. And if Sasha knew, Dino surely knew.
"Here you go. Four jello shots."
"Thanks, Angela." Dino didn't even look at her. She felt her temper flare at the sound of her name. It would be better, she'd decided, if he could just pretend he didn't really know her.
"Sweet girl," she heard him shout above the music as she walked away.
It was hard not to turn around and smack him.
Once the bachelor party left, the room got pretty quiet. For a strip club, anyway. Drink orders trailed off, and Sasha had already let half the girls go home early -- nobody complained, since they weren't making much anyway. Between the basketball game and the baseball playoffs, there wasn't much left.
Angela found herself spending a lot of time hanging out at the bar. Too bad Mike wasn't working tonight; Dave wasn't much for conversation. And Angela kept catching him checking her out. She hoped he wasn't going to ask her out. She probably shouldn't be hanging out at the bar to give him the opportunity, but Sasha didn't like waitresses hanging out in the break room where they couldn't see (and be seen by) the customers.
Angela absent-mindedly pulled her miniskirt down. Both of her work skirts were supposed to be the same, but for some reason this one always seemed to ride up more. It also seemed to get her better tips.
"Hey, you're supposed to pull it *up*," someone said as they laid a playful smack across her bottom.
Angela jumped/turned to see Monique. "Oh, hey Monique." She usually hated the way Monique would grab at her, but tonight she didn't mind much. Weird. Maybe because her mood was too darkly focused elsewhere to mind.
Dave handed the dancer a bottle of water. "Slow night, huh Monique?"
"Since the bachelor party left, yeah."
"It's not slow for everyone," Angela groused. She was watching Dino nibble on his date's ear.
"Oooh. Somebody's *jealous*!"
Angela just grunted.
"Well, if you want to get anywhere with him, protecting your modesty isn't going to do it."
That was just it. She'd already gotten somewhere with him. She just needed to get *back* to where she'd been.
Jealous wasn't it -- she was just frustrated that she couldn't get Dino's attention peeled away from his sluts long enough to set him up. She knew what it would take to do it -- Miguel had flat-out told her what she'd have to do. His rant echoed in her head:
"You're gonna get close to Dino... Use every *ass*et you have at your disposal... Be his little freak... Upgrade from waitress to stripper... Get friendly with his important Mafiya buddies... *Intimate* even... Because if you don't, I'll sell your ass out to Moroshkin."
Angela knew she should have been disgusted, or horrified, or traumatized at the very idea of using her body like that. But she wasn't.
She should be furious at being manipulated and blackmailed by Miguel. But she wasn't.
She should be apoplectic at the way Dino was reaching around behind his date to cup her tit. But she wasn't.
She was just... focused. Patient. The fires were burning hot, but the blaze was contained.
But apparently she'd already developed a reputation among the staff as something of an innocent, because Monique was trying to steer her toward a destination she'd already reached.
"Earth to Angela."
"What?"
"Staring at him like that isn't going to solve your problem."
"I know."
"Girl, you gotta ask yourself, what's different about the girls you see him hanging out with? What do they have that you don't?"
"They act like sluts." It was as much a personal mission statement as a disparaging comment. But Monique didn't know that.
"Well, that's *one* interpretation. But I've got a different one for ya. None of those girls are wallflowers. None of those girls are ashamed of their bodies. None of those girls are afraid to enjoy themselves. None of those girls is letting some other girl steal their spotlight."
"Some of us don't have a spotlight."
"No offense, sugar, but if you think you're going to get his attention as a *waitress*..."
"What are you saying?"
"If you want to win big, you gotta bet big."
"Easy for you to say. You're already at the table."
"You could be."
"He won't let me."
"Have you asked?"
"I don't need to."
Monique looked confused. "Exactly what's going on between you two?"
"I wish I knew. It's like he sees me, but he doesn't see me. Like I'm his..."
"Kid sister?" Monique finished.
"Yeah, I guess."
"So it's like that. Man, Dino sure is twisted. Honestly, I don't know what you see in him. Okay, that's not true, but... he doesn't seem right for you."
"I'm not the girl you think I am. Not that I'll ever get the chance to prove it."
"What do you mean?"
"I asked Sasha to let me dance tonight. He said 'Dino chooses dancers.'"
Angela's impromptu imitation of Sasha's dour monotone made Monique chuckle. But then she turned serious. Like she was... *scheming*.
"Is that so," Monique said, tapping her index finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe..."
"What?"
"You sure you're serious?"
Angela took a deep breath. The look in Monique's eyes said she could get Angela on stage. Suddenly Angela questioned her bravado. It was one thing to pull at a yoke that would never be removed; it was something else to charge headlong into the unknown with no one holding you back.
But that was just it. She was tired of being held back. She was tired of being told her place. All her life, she'd done what people had told her to do, been what they'd told her to be, deferred to their wisdom. Even her mom -- she'd never really said No, but all the lectures about being responsible and taking life seriously and doing what's right were just another kind of limitation. It all flooded back to her now. It was so clear. She was shy because her mom had taught her to be shy; she was a good girl because that's what had been expected of her. But what good did it do? Angela had to stop thinking small. She had to stop living in fear. There was nothing to be afraid of.
The pill paused under her tongue only long enough for her to say, "Hell yes."
"All right. I can get you up there, but it's gonna cost you."
"Cost me what?"
"Whatever you make tonight is mine."
Angela knew what a dancer could make in a night -- Monique's price wasn't cheap. It seemed almost unfair. Angela didn't think anyone should profit so much from a favor for a friend. They were friends, sort of. Coworkers, at least.
On the other hand, the place was totally dead. And even if it wasn't, it was money she wouldn't be allowed to make otherwise.
"Okay," Angela agreed.
"I need about twenty minutes. Maybe a half-hour. You'll know when it's time. You better not wimp out on me, girl."
"I won't."
"You have something to wear?"
Well of course she... oh. Right. Angela suddenly felt very stupid. Strippers didn't wear normal clothes. Normal clothes didn't come off easily enough. Here Angela had come to work bound and determined to get on stage, but she hadn't really come prepared at all.
"Didn't think so. We're close enough in size. I'll leave something out for you in back. Only problem is shoes... well, what you're wearing is good enough for your first time. Just be careful, or you'll end up doing what I'm about to do."
Just what was Monique planning? The dancer saw the waitress' raised eyebrow. "Just go back to work. And try not to think about how your life is about to change."
Sasha was spitting mad.
The club was packed.
And there were only three dancers.
Where the hell did all these customers come from?
Angela overheard him ask the nearest patron, who was in between beers.
"I heard this was where all the most beautiful women were hiding."
That's all any of them said. Like it was a secret code.
Angela looked out over the room. It was like every frat house, art house, coffee house, and whorehouse had disgorged its male constituency upon Dino Sinclair's upscale club.
Okay, the room wasn't actually big enough for that, but still, it was by far more crowded than she'd ever seen it. Dave had told her they'd never run out of seats before -- there were at least a dozen guys standing tonight.
They kept her busy. Thank God most of them just wanted beer.
Well, that wasn't true. They wanted more than beer. They wanted entertainment.
Monique wasn't behind this, was she? All these men weren't here to see *Angela*, were they?
The old Angela might have been terrified. Okay, even the new improved Angela Barrett was terrified. But at the same time she found it thrilling.
If this wasn't a demonstration of the power of woman, Angela didn't know what was.
Angela took a look over at Dino's corner. He was still here. Sasha was talking to him. He looked a little irritated. He was completely ignoring his date, who looked a *lot* irritated.
Sasha gestured toward Dino's date. She took on a "Well, I never!" look. Sasha genuflected. Then he looked over his shoulder...
Angela quickly looked away. Was he looking at her? She casually turned herself a little so she could pretend to look bored while she was waiting for her drinks and sneak a peak.
Yep. Now Dino glanced at her. When he looked back at Sasha, he shook his head firmly No.
Damn. Whatever Monique's plan was, it had almost worked.
But almost didn't cut it.
She grabbed her filled tray and hustled off back across the club, snaking through more grabby hands than could be attributed to close quarters alone.
"Once again coming to the stage, stand at attention for... Mooooo-nique!"
The DJ's words were almost lost in the din of a hundred drunk and horny guys cheering.
And that was before Monique took to the stage in a tied-off sheer dress shirt and a tearaway plaid skirt.
The music pounded the eardrums -- Angela swore the DJ always turned it up extra for Monique.
Rag Doll, livin' in a movie
Hot tramp, daddy's little cutie
So fine, they'll never see ya leavin' by the back door, man
Hot time, get it while it's easy
Don't mind, come on up and see me
Rag Doll, baby won't you do me like you done before...
She wasn't even halfway through the first song and already she'd ditched her top and skirt. (Normally it took the whole first song to get down to the thong, sometimes halfway into the second depending on the crowd.) And when Angela saw Monique turn back from the curtain and eye the pole, the waitress knew why.
Traction. You needed bare skin to get a grip on the pole.
Monique wasn't that good at using the pole, but there was one move she was always practicing before the club opened. "Everyone should have a signature move," she'd told Angela. Unfortunately for Monique, whenever Sasha caught her trying her move he'd yank her off the stage and chew her out for five minutes straight. Which was a lot of words for someone like Sasha. Though most of them were variations of either "It is too dangerous" or "do that again and you will be fired."
It wasn't like Sasha could fire her for it tonight.
Monique took three quick steps and grabbed the pole with both hands, swinging herself past the pole, up and around until she was practically standing upside-down in mid-air, chest pressed up against the pole, legs pointing straight up. The crowd held its breath.
Monique slowly lowered her hips away from the pole, arching her back, legs arrow-straight, pointed toes sliding down the pole.
Then she did the splits.
Dollar bills fell on the stage like snow.
But Monique wasn't done yet.
This was the part that sent Sasha into orbit. The dismount.
The dancer's legs came back together, then folded over to one side of the bar in a pike position. Her hips humped toward the bar three times, each time more forcefully than the last. On the third thrust, Monique slipped one shoulder and arm up and pulled herself past the pole, launching herself into the air, twisting sideways as she brought her feet down hard on the stage, straightening up in a comical naked version of a gymnastics dismount.
George Washington found himself joined onstage by Abraham Lincoln.
Angela gasped. Monique actually did it. In heels. She was nuts. Angela probably wouldn't have even tried a move like that as Sapphire.
But something was wrong. Angela saw Monique wince as she took her first step; on her third step, she collapsed.
Sasha was up on the stage before anyone else realized what had happened. His fireplug presence kept anyone in the crowd from "helping" the wounded dancer off the stage. The music kept playing.
Angela got backstage just as Sasha pushed through the curtain with Monique in his arms. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" he shouted, as much concerned as angry.
"I'm sorry, Sasha, I just thought with such a big crowd and only three girls we had to kick it up a notch."
"Well, now we have only two girls," the chunky little Russian growled.
Angela looked at her new friend's face, contorted with pain. "Is it broken?"
"Just sprained, I think," Monique grimaced, "but I'm done for the night."
"You are done for the week," Sasha said as he set her down gently on a dressing-room chair. "And we are done for the night. We must close now before the crowd becomes unruly. With only two girls there is no one to give private dances."
"There's no *room* to give private dances. They're packed in, even in the back room."
Sasha looked at Misty and Emerald -- the two other dancers. They were all he had left. They were attractive -- everybody who worked at Ten was at least a nine -- but they were definitely the B Team, and everybody knew it. Misty was flat as a board, and Emerald had exactly two moves.
"No," Sasha said, "it is better to close rather than fail to maintain our standards."
"What about 'The Show Must Go On?'" Monique prodded through her pained expression.
"This is not Broadway."
Dave poked his head in the dressing room. "Hey, boss."
"What?!"
"Listen."
The crowd was chanting something.
"What are they saying?" Sasha asked.
"They're chanting 'Heaven.' Apparently somebody started a rumor that we've got a new dancer."
Sasha's eyebrows danced like a pair of epileptic caterpillars. He was beyond furious. The situation was fast turning to shit.
"I'll do it," Angela blurted out.
All eyes turned to the young waitress.
Well, this was the moment of truth, wasn't it?
A brief twinge of shame made itself felt. What would her mom think?
What would Gladys Barrett think if her baby girl became a stripper?
But, what would she think if Angela ran home with her tail tucked between her legs? Fighting crime was serious business. She had to prove she could do it.
It wasn't like anyone was taking advantage of her. If anything, *she* was taking advantage of *them*.
Still, this was about getting *naked*. And acting like it was *fun*.
Well, wouldn't it be fun? A room full of nice guys, cute guys, every one of them totally focused on *her*.
Exactly. I should just go home.
What are you gonna tell Miguel?
The truth.
What, that she could expose herself in front of evil men who wanted to defile and destroy her, but she couldn't do it for men who weren't allowed to touch her and were desperate to give her money?
She thought of Chris Cogan, smartass car thief, slipping away into the night.
She thought of Dino Sinclair, looking right at her and smugly shaking his head No.
She thought of Noel Aquino, scolding her...
She felt a rush at the thought of besting them.
"I'll do it," she repeated. "I'll dance."
Sasha's eyebrows hardened into a dismissive gesture. "Mr. Sinclair says you do not dance."
"Fuck Mr. Sinclair," Monique spat. "You're the one who keeps this club running day in and day out. What do *you* say, Sasha?"
"I do not-"
"Sasha," Monique interrupted, not giving him a chance to say No, "you know he's gonna blame you if you shut down. Letting girls go early, letting me do my dismount..."
Sasha's eyes flared at that, but he didn't say anything for a moment.
Dave knew what Sasha was thinking. A bad amateur performance was hardly Ten's stock in trade. But Dave had an answer.
"They want a new girl. At this point I doubt they'll care if she's any good. Christ, Sasha, just look at her."
Sasha took a step back. His eyes moved up and down Angela's frame hyper-critically.
Angela untied her apron. Taking a deep breath, she began to unbutton her blouse. She knew if she didn't do it now in front of Sasha, he wouldn't believe she could do it out there on stage.
"No," Sasha said, reaching out and grabbing Angela's wrist. His eyes looked off to one side.
Angela gently removed his hand. "Come on, Sasha. I know you've wanted to see me naked since I started here."
Sasha could only grunt.
Angela quickly shucked her blouse and shrugged off her bra. It occurred to her that she'd never willingly been topless in front of two men before. Somehow, considering her goal, it didn't seem all that significant. There was no dark edge to the way they looked at her. No dark edge to the room. No dark edge to the world.
Not when she was about to be on top of it.
Sasha turned to Dave. "Is he still here?"
He who? Dino?
Apparently Dave knew who he was talking about. "He just came down from the balcony suite a few minutes ago. He's sitting with Dino. I guess the chanting got his attention."
Sasha turned back to Angela. She expected him to ask if she was really sure she wanted to do this. But he didn't.
"Three things," he said with trademark gruffness.
Angela knew that meant "Yes." She wanted to hug him. But she kept her cool. She wanted him to know she was taking it seriously. "Three things," she parroted.
Sasha raised one finger. "Thong stays on." He waited for her to repeat it.
"Thong stays on," Angela nodded.
Two fingers. "Always be moving."
Angela wanted to smile at the pidgin-English, but this was no time for levity. "Always be moving."
Three fingers. "You are a goddess." He cracked a smile.
"I'm a goddess." Angela smiled back. She *was* a goddess.
Sasha lumbered to the doorway. "Five minutes," he said on the way out.
Shit! That wasn't much time!
Angela felt hands all over her. Freeing her of her clothes. Spreading scented lotion. Applying makeup where she didn't know she needed it.
Monique barked orders at the other two girls from her chair. "Right there, my schoolteacher outfit. Leave her stockings on -- the older guys like that shit, and anyway we don't know if she's smooth enough."
"Speaking of shaving, what about...?"
"Shit. Angela?"
"What?"
"Are you shaved?"
Angela felt her panties being pulled down; she would have resisted by reflex, but her arms were trapped in the sleeves of the blazer Misty was slipping on her.
"Somebody's ready," Emerald smirked.
Angela felt herself spun around for Monique's inspection.
"I'll say," the lame dancer remarked. "What do you use?"
"Huh?"
"Razor? Wax? You look twelve years old down there. No bumps, no burn... what's your technique?" Monique just kept staring at Angela's privates; she couldn't help but blush. As soon as her arms were free, she covered herself with her hands. Angela looked down at Monique; was that jealousy?
"Never mind, tell me later. Misty, grab the white lace one out of my bag there."
Angela felt a tap on her ankle; she lifted her foot, and then the other one. She felt a thong being snugged into place and then hiked way *way* up on her hips. Monique tugged and smoothed it; Angela gave up any thought of protested and just let herself get handled. It wasn't like they were guys or anything...
A voice came over the loudspeaker. "Two minutes."
"Shit! The skirt. Hurry." Angela heard velcro, then felt something the size of a washcloth being stretched around her. It was so tight it felt like it would come flying off any second. Which was of course the idea. "Emerald, fix her makeup."
"In two minutes?"
"Just blush and shadow. Misty, the blue wig."
"Why? She's got great hair."
"So nobody recognizes her. Five minutes ago she was serving them drinks."
Misty let out an exasperated sigh worthy of a five-year-old. "All right."
Her head was tugged harshly as her hair was quickly pulled and pinned. "Hold still," Emerald scolded.
"I'm trying," Angela said, feeling the lipstick smear.
"Shhh!"
She never got the chance to get nervous. Before she knew it, she was standing on the stage, inches from the curtain -- nothing but a single piece of fabric separating her from a roomful of lust-crazed animals called men.
She looked down at her bright blue blazer with a gold crest on the pocket and short wraparound skirt.
Okay, a couple of pieces of fabric.
"Who were they talking about?" Angela asked as Misty preened her.
"God, your tits are *perfect*, you know that? I'd *kill* to have a set like yours."
"Thanks," Angela said as she slipped her last Perfectua pill between her lips. She thought maybe she should be embarassed at the comment, but hearing the anticipation of the audience outside, and feeling the swell of pride that it was *her* they were waiting to see, embarassment was a faint memory. "So who were they talking about?" she repeated.
"Oh, a friend of the family. Some big shot. That's all I know. But it's better if you just think of a guy you really like, and then pretend everybody out there is that guy."
Rapid drumming, sounding like an idling hot rod, suddenly filled the air. More drums joined in, building anticipation. Then cymbals.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, here she is, for the first time... Anywhere... Heaven!"
Misty mouthed "Good luck!", gave her a playful swat on the ass, and hopped down off the stage.
Fast guitar work came in over the drums. Now? No, the curtain was still closed. She looked down to the side; Misty was holding up her hand, miming "stop."
The guitar hit its first chord. The song was starting, shouldn't she...? Misty shook her head No.
The strong guitar riffs faded suddenly, down to a single guitar twanging quietly under what sounded like a couple of drunk guys talking:
"Oh wow, man!"
"Wait a second man. Whaddya think the teacher's gonna look like this year?"
Misty was counting down with her fingers.
Three... two... one...
"Wooahh!"
The curtain popped open just as the guitars hit hard. And Angela stepped out on stage.
The music propelled her, strutting all the way down the length of the stage like a runway, stopping and turning, like she'd seen fashion models do.
T-T-Teacher stop that screaming, teacher don't you see?
Don't wanna be no uptown fool.
Maybe I should go to hell, but I'm doin' well,
Teacher needs to see me after school.
Always Keep Moving. Angela swung her hips in time with the music. She wasn't the greatest dancer, but the tempo was quick; just keeping with the tempo put a sexy wiggle in her.
She glanced down.
Everyone was looking at her.
She'd never been the target of so much lustful admiration before.
It was... fantastic.
I think of all the education that I missed.
But then my homework was never quite like this.
As she reached for the button on her blazer, she watched the eyes of one man in particular. He looked familiar.
He looked like Noel Aquino.
The chill lasted but an instant.
The blazer opened, and mouths fell open with it.
You Are A Goddess.
Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad,
I'm hot for teacher.
A quick staccatto shrug sent the blazer to the floor in a heap -- and sent a curtain of bills to the edge of the stage.
Hey, I heard you missed us, we're back!
I brought my pencil!
Gimme something to write on, man!
Uunngh!
Angela kicked in time with the cymbal crashes. She could tell from the way eyes popped that they were getting good looks up her skirt.
I heard about your lessons, but lessons are so cold.
I know about this school.
Little girl from cherry lane, how did you get so bold?
How did you know that golden rule?
She strutted up and down the stage, stopping for a few hip wiggles and deep knee bends here and there. She felt a surge of energy with every new pair of eyes that locked with hers -- and gave a wicked smile every time those eyes slid down her body. The whole room seemed to sparkle in glorious technicolor -- she'd never noticed all the pretty lights from down on the floor...
The respect, the admiration, the pleading for a little closer look... how could any girl *not* love doing this?
She felt the end of the song coming. She'd almost forgotten why she was doing this! Her eyes darted quickly out over the crowd, taking a moment to get her bearings as she made her way back to the end of the stage.
There was his corner. Through the bright lights, she couldn't make out anything more than a shadow...
Angela put her hand on her hips, playing with the waistband of her skirt. They all wanted her to take it off. Off! But not quite yet... she needed to know she had his attention first...
The lights changed subtly. The DJ must have known what she was after, because the end spotlight faded just a bit and house lights came up ever so slightly...
And she caught Dino Sinclair staring, eyes big as saucers, mouth clamped shut, like he wasn't believing what he was seeing...
"Oh man, I think the clock is slow."
"I don't feel tardy."
Angela flipped the hem once, twice, three times. Each time Dino seemed to jump a little.
Now...
"Class dismissed!"
With a quick flourish, Angela ripped at the hem of the wrapaound skirt, taking it right off and waving it like a bullfighter's cape.
And Dino Sinclair's jaw hit the table.
About the same time Dino Sinclair's date left the table.
Angela's fingers played with the edges of her thong, reminding herself: Thong Stays On ...as she dove and twisted...
...falling to her knees...
...laying back...
...scissoring her legs...
...rolling over on her stomach...
...pumping her hips in time with the drum hits...
...rolling over onto her back, waiting for the song's climax...
...stabbing her pelvis up with the last cymbal shots...
...rolling her hips and tossing her head back and forth with the final thrashing guitar, as if caught in the throes of orgasm.
It was almost that good.
And then, the song was over. The crowd went bananas, raining dollar bills down on her supine form.
Angela was lost in the feeling of triumph. It took the DJ's announcement to bring her out of it.
"Give it up for Heaven!"
Another song started up. She recognized this one. Slower. Funkier. Raunchier. She got to her feet, looking over toward Dino's booth. Pointing, as if to say "this one's for you."
The singer's sultry spoken words gave voice to Angela's apparent desire...
I know I may be young, but I've got feelings too
And I need to do, what I feel like doing
So let me go, and just listen...
All you people look at me like I'm a little girl
Well did you ever think it'd be ok for me to step into this world
Always saying "little girl don't step into the club"
Well I'm just trying to find out why cause dancing's what I love, yeah
Here she was, wearing nothing but a white lacy thong, garter belt and stockings, and high heels, strutting and squatting and grinding and gasping like she was on the verge of losing control.
But of course it was she who was in control. The very breath of everyone in this room was hers for the taking. But it was Dino Sinclair's she wanted.
I know I may come off quiet, may come off shy
But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy
What's practical, what's logical, what the hell who cares
All I know is I'm so happy when you're dancing there
I'm a slaaaaave for you
I cannot hold, I cannot control it
I'm a slaaaaave for you
I won't deny it, I'm not trying to hide it
Baby, don't you wanna, dance up on me, to another time and place
Oh baby, don't you wanna, dance up on me (Are you ready?),
leaving behind my name and age
When the song was over, she found herself laying at the edge of the stage, high heels dangling off the side, the two nearest patrons touching them with the gentlest reverence.
She turned her head and opened her eyes.
And saw Dino Sinclair looking back at her.
His look went beyond surprise. Beyond respect. Beyond lust.
He was smiling.
He spoke -- too quiet for anyone to hear, but clear enough for her to understand.
"We'll talk."
Angela just turned away, got up, and strutted back offstage.
She wasn't going to make it *that* easy for him.
After all, it wasn't enough to have his interest.
She wanted him wrapped around her finger.