Good Time(45)

“Oh. That’s sad.”

“Some of them are just regular perverts, if it makes you feel better.”

“It does a little.”

“Let’s focus,” Staci says, directing my attention back to the task at hand. “First thing you want to do is sanitize your pole. They’re cleaned between each dancer and every night, but it’s a good habit to learn.” Staci squirts her pole with a bottle of spray sanitizer before handing it to me along with a clean towel. I’m still doing my best not to laugh at ‘sanitize your pole,’ but I do my best to keep my giggles in check and follow instructions.

“Next, we stretch. Normally you’d do this backstage, obviously.”

“Obviously.” I nod along as Staci leads me through a series of warm-up stretches. “Is this a club policy?”

“No, it’s common sense.”

“Sure, that makes sense too.”

“Okay, now which is your dominant hand?”

“My right.”

“Good, me too, so you can mirror what I’m doing. We’ll start with a basic wrap-around. I’ll show you once then we’ll go through it step by step.” Staci grabs the pole with one hand and swings, hooking the pole with one leg as her body rotates. Back arched, she completes a few rotations on the pole before straightening, her foot returning to the floor, hand still on the pole as her momentum comes to a stop. “Easy,” she says. “Now I’ll show you step by step.”

It’s a lot easier than it looks. A whole lot. I’m on my third attempt when we’re interrupted by another wannabe customer. I figure Staci will direct them to the main stage as I twirl badly around the pole, but when I come to a stop I realize why she’s not saying anything.

It’s Vince.

He doesn’t look impressed.

“No.”

That’s all he says. No. He doesn’t even blink but a muscle in his jaw most definitely twitches. It’s enough to send Staci on her way, Vince not breaking eye contact with me as she exits. It’s a small stage, elevated only a few feet off the floor, but I still have the height advantage over Vince. I place a hand on my hip and toss the other in the air in a gesture meant to imply ‘what the fuck.’

“I’m taking an interest in your hobbies,” I explain, because clearly he’s not understanding the effort I’m making here.

“Get down.”

“Get down? I’m not a cat.”

“Payton,” he starts then stops, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and rubbing his forehead with his hand. I wonder if he’s about to tell me he’s going to count to three? I’d be totally into that. “Please get down,” is what he says when he opens his eyes again. It’s a bit of a letdown to be honest.

I didn’t come here to pick a fight so I grab my heels and step off of the platform, stopping directly in front of him. I drop my heels on the floor and then use Vince for balance as I slip them on one at a time, smiling at him when I’m done.

“Staci wasn’t busy, she said it doesn’t pick up until after lunch. It’s just retirees and newspapers until then so I wasn’t really distracting her.” I bite my lip, wondering if I should reimburse her for lost tips. I should, I decide. “Also I told her it was okay with you, so don’t be mad at her. It’s not her fault.”

“My office,” he instructs as he turns, holding an arm out to indicate I should walk in front of him.

I do, following the path I recall from the week prior. It’s so loud in the main room of the club that I can’t hear my heels click against the floor, or Vince’s footsteps behind me, but I know he’s there because I can feel him hovering directly behind me.

Vince closes his office door behind us as I plop onto the same chair I sat in last week, sitting across from his desk. I cross my legs and arms, prepared to defend my right to learn how to pole-dance, but Vince surprises me by not sitting. He stops at my chair and places his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning down until we’re inches apart.

“What would possess you to show up here half naked and think I’d be okay with it?” He says it softly, his voice gravelly and seductive.

“I told you, I was taking an interest in your hobbies.” My own voice is much less confident in my reply. Less confident in my plan than I previously was.

“Payton, you cannot be here dressed like that.”

“Why not? Everyone else is.” Excellent opening argument, if I do say so myself.

“I’m not married to everyone else,” He looks surprised that he mentioned it, the marriage. I do enjoy the reminder that he’s aware that we’re married. Also, it really seems to bring out the alpha male bullshit in him, which I love—as long as I still get to do whatever I want, obviously.

“It’s our one-week anniversary,” I point out. I mean it as a joke, sort of. Since he brought it up. But I realize it’s true, it’s been one week since I sat in this exact chair. One week since we got married. A week in which we’ve spent every day together—every evening, in any case. Which is basically like having seven dates.

Which is irrelevant because no one gets married after seven dates. Except for the couples on those reality shows I love about strangers marrying each other. Or arranged marriages, I bet they don’t date much beforehand. There’d be no point really, since it’s already arranged. And we all know those marriages have a higher rate of success than the average bozos who get to know each other first.