Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(21)

I want to run.

But I can’t. I force my attention back to the pole, seizing it with one determined hand. My brain may be going haywire but my body knows what it needs to do.

I begin.

Years of competitive-level gymnastics has given me physical strength, balance, and coordination to hit just about every move I learned in pole-dance classes and I don’t hold out now, executing the most complex spins, drops, and transitions with ease.

It feels surprisingly organic, the moves coming naturally to me. And if I keep my eyes glazed and my attention on the brass, the heavy beat of the music, and the soft blue hue of the stage lights, I can almost forget that I’m surrounded by leering men.

Almost.

But I can’t shake the feel of their eyes on me. And Cain . . . Somehow, his attention is more nerve-wracking than that of the hundreds of others combined. Probably because his opinion is ultimately the one that matters. When I make the simple mistake of letting my eyes graze over him during a boomerang hold, I find that same steely expression on me, only heavier. Heavy enough to halt my racing heart for a beat. And unsettling enough that my grip slips. Luckily, I’m not in the midst of a nose-breaker drop or another dangerous move, and so I quickly recuperate.

I hear a couple of hoots and hollers of “come on!” I can’t stall the inevitable any longer. Gritting my teeth, I reach up with my free hand to pull the snaps of the vest open. I let it fall from my shoulders and I toss it aside, exposing the stringy top beneath. The buzz from the crowd spikes with pleasure.

My stomach is no longer churning. The second those snaps popped open, numbness took over. I’ll gladly take it, because I have another minute and a half of this song and that vest wasn’t the last thing that needs to hit the stage if I want this job.

And so I push away the catcalls and shouts as I continue with my well-practiced moves and I let my mind drift elsewhere. To the valleys of Tuscany, where I could run a small vineyard. To the African hills, where I could watch lions bask in the hot sun; the Swiss Alps, where I could fly through the air on a snowboard. I don’t know how to snowboard. But maybe one day, I’ll learn.

By the time I reach up to tug the strings of my bikini top, to let the scrap of material drop, fully exposing my breasts to the cool, air-conditioned room and the cheers and whistles, I’m tanning on a private beach in the Maldives.

I’m anywhere but trafficking drugs. Or stripping on this stage.

Anywhere but in my shameful life.

It isn’t until I’ve escaped backstage—my body shaking as the rush of adrenaline fades—that I’m able to breathe again. I did it. I made it through my first strip show. I swallow the revulsion bubbling up. I just stripped on a stage. I just stripped in front of a club full of men. They may not have touched me, but . . .

I have the bikini top on in seconds and yet I feel the need to curl my arms around myself, to hug my own body. And I wish Ginger were here, because I sure could use her friendly comfort again right now.

By the looks of the black-haired woman in an electric-blue leather outfit glaring at me with a crooked smirk, I’m not going to get it from her. “You’ve never been on a stage before, have you?” Her eyes skim my body as I quickly do up the snaps on my vest.

I take a deep breath to steady the wobble in my voice and appear confident. “Not in Miami. Why?”

Raising one eyebrow at me, she mutters, “No reason.”

A rare sting bites my eyes. I wasn’t good. I was bad. I was up there, on the stage, thinking that I might be doing okay but I wasn’t. I reeked of amateurism. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to burst out in mortified tears before I can control it.

I will not cry in front of her, or anyone else.

“Next up is . . . China!” Terry’s voice calls out over the system as the first notes of “Like a Prayer” comes on. With a smirk, the woman—who I assume is China—brushes past me to take to the stage. I fight the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

I’m fully dressed again, running down the steps, and making my way out into the bar area, when I realize that I didn’t pick up a single bill off the tip rail. “Shit!” I curse, tears now scorching my eyeballs. I just stripped for free. A trip to hell . . . for nothing!

I blink several times to keep from bawling in the middle of a strip club and, when I’ve refocused, clear-eyed, I see a fistful of money, attached to a tall, attractive blond smiling bouncer, in front of me. “Here . . . You may want this.” I’m not sure if it’s because I just stripped in front of a crowd or the conversation with that bitch—who is now stalking around the stage like she owns the place—or the way this guy is smiling at me, but I just stand and stare at him, utterly speechless.

“I’m Ben.”

Ben is my knight in shining armor.

It takes me a few moments to gather my wits. Ben waits patiently while I do. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me,” I say behind red cheeks, muttering a “thanks” as I accept the wad of bills. “Wow.”

“Yeah, you did well for your first night.” He takes in my frown of confusion and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just . . .” I cast a sidelong glare at China in time to see her dress hit the ground as she blows a kiss at a short, bald man. She doesn’t waste any time. “I didn’t think I did very well. I didn’t really interact with anyone.” I did exactly zero interaction.