Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
My shirt falls to the floor with timed perfection. The crowd eats up the hot-pink bra my plain white shirt couldn’t conceal before they chant for me to lose it.
I wiggle my finger at them, sending them into an uproar about my inability to follow orders.
More bills float to my feet as I prance to the pole in the middle of the stage. I work it for barely thirty seconds. I don’t have the skills to incorporate it into my routine like Mars and the other dancers do, though the crowd of mostly men don’t seem to mind. They shout and holler before promising to rain the stage with cash once I lose my skirt.
I can’t help but oblige. It isn’t that I’m a person who jumps on cue. I merely refuse to miss a timed-to-perfection beat. This routine was devised fast, but that doesn’t mean I won’t act as if it was choregraphed by Shakira herself.
I’m having so much fun that it takes longer than I care to admit to notice the dulling of the crowd’s chants the longer I perform. The occasional shout hollers between hip thrusts, though they’re far and few between compared to when I started.
Desperate to unearth what the hell is going on, and too curious for my own good, I move toward the edge of the stage. Perhaps the lights bouncing off the sequins on my bra-and-panties combination are too reflective for the clubgoers to take full advantage of the provocativeness of my performance.
My stomach gurgles when my vision clears enough to see the first row of chairs. The number of people filling the seats is thin. Barely a backside fills a chair, and the ear-piercing whistle of my shocked sigh loses me the last of the stragglers as well.
“Keep going,” Mars encourages when I peer back at her, seeking assistance.
After rolling my shoulders back and sticking out my ample chest, I strut to the side of the stage still in view of half a dozen patrons.
I barely jiggle my bra-covered breasts before the paltry number of guests remaining slim further. They practically sprint for the exit, racing through the doors like recently pronged cattle burst out the gate.
Within minutes, the club is empty.
Not even the male bartenders remain.
Yet my confidence climbs out of the trenches instead of seeking a safe place to hide. The stage is littered with bills, and I have someone so desperate for a private show they’ve scared off the other admirers.
This may be my biggest payday to date.
I shoot my eyes to the side when a deep, booming clap breaks the quiet. The stage lights hide the man’s face from view, but even with his features hidden, my intuition switches my excitement to unease.
Something feels wrong.
Very wrong.
This isn’t how my first performance is meant to go.
Artic-blue eyes break past the shadows first.
Then a malicious smirk.
Although they’re the same features that find their way into my dreams every night, the lines bordering them keep my heart rate at a leisurely jog instead of a sprint.
It isn’t Andrik as my heart is endeavoring to convince my head.
It is his father.
“Brilliant. Wonderful. Keep going.”
Ellis moves to the front of the stage before he spins around a chair and straddles it backward. He’s so close to the action hotspot that every breath he releases batters my scarcely covered vagina.
When I remain frozen, he assumes my lack of motivation is because he hasn’t paid for the honor. With a smirk that is as condescending as it is sickening, he pulls a thick wad of bills out of his wallet before tossing five at my feet.
He tilts his head to hide his smirk when I step back from them like they’re covered with the blood of his firstborn son.
“Not enough?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He removes another three bills from the stack before holding them out in front of himself. Their denominations are larger than their predecessors, but not close to the amount he’d have to pay to convince me to finish my performance.
He could offer me millions and I still wouldn’t take his money.
I have class—it’s just hard to demand respect when half your ass is hanging out.
An annoyed huff commences his barter. “Come on, Zoya. I know I’m not the man you were hoping to see tonight, but any money is better than none, right? And you won’t get a single penny from him after the stunt you pulled last week.”
It takes everything I have to walk away, but he continues to push like I’m not seconds from ramming my fist into his face.
“Two thousand, and you can keep your panties on.”
I continue walking.
“Five thousand.”
Mars looks set to jump on stage and do my routine for me when the bids keep coming in. “Ten thousand… Twenty thousand… Thirty thousand, and I’ll make out to Andrik that not the slightest bit of disappointment crossed your face when you realized he doesn’t care enough about you to respond to you selling parts of your body for money… again.” He snickers his last word like being on the verge of starving to death isn’t a valid excuse to get drastic with your attempts to earn some funds.