Rock Chick Revolution(133)

“Yeah, probably,” she agreed.

“So with my last name, I’m f*cked. And with the fear these girls have and my last name, no way we’re gonna get one to wear a wire.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled.

Crap.

This meant we had two choices.

Since the girls were never going to talk to me, my being undercover was a bust. We’d have to abort, find another woman to go undercover and possibly alert Steiner to our activities because of it. Worse, this would cause an unacceptable delay and make these women live in fear for even longer.

Or I had to make the girls talk to me.

Which meant I had to find a way to make the girls trust me.

And the only way I could do that was become one of their own.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door and when Meena called out, “Decent!” Lenny, one of Smithie’s bouncers, stuck his head in.

“Five minutes, Ally,” he said to me and his head disappeared.

Shit, shit, f*ck.

Lottie reached out and squeezed my knee. “You’re gonna be great.”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, straightening from my chair.

Lottie grabbed my robe and we headed out.

“Knock ‘em dead,” Meena encouraged, smiling at me as we passed her.

“I’m just hoping not to puke on any of them,” I told her honestly, and her smile got bigger.

“We all felt that way the first time,” she informed me. “And we all got over it. You’ll be fine.”

Right.

We headed out and Lottie led me backstage. Through a small part in the curtain I could see the dancers gyrating and I felt bile slide up my throat.

Lottie got close. “Breathe deep,” she advised.

I breathed deep.

The bile went away. The nerves didn’t.

“Two minutes, fifteen seconds, and it’s over,” she told me.

That was right. Two minutes, fifteen seconds then I was off the stage.

Though, my second song was longer.

Shit!

The place went dark and I felt the girls run by us, coming off stage.

Shit, shit, f*ck!

That was when I heard Smithie’s voice coming loud, saying into a microphone, “You’re all in for a f*ckin’ treat tonight! We’re debuting a new act. So put your eyes to the stage, put your hands together and welcome the Rock Chick!”

More darkness.

Lottie gave me a shove through the curtain and I walked through the dark, passing Smithie who muttered, “Fuck,” into the microphone as he tripped over the cord on the way out.

By rote, I went to my mark, in my head saying over and over again, two minutes, fifteen seconds, two minutes, fifteen seconds.

Then out loud, I whispered, “You can do this Ally.”

But I knew it didn’t matter. I could pep talk myself for another year.

I wasn’t going to be able to do it.

That’s when the guitars blared, the scratchy-fast “Yea,” hit, the lights came up, blinding me, and it happened.

It was like someone flipped a switch.

And the switch they flipped was rock ‘n’ roll.

Specifically, ZZ Top’s “Tush.”

I just started to move, everything Lottie and Daisy taught me flowing through my veins.

And then some.

I strutted. I squatted. I wiggled. I crouched low with one leg straight out to my side, slapped the stage and tossed my hair back as I pushed my breasts forward. I slithered. I undulated. I swung my black leather, short-shorts covered ass out and I did it wide.

Then I tore off the black tee that was cut off under my breasts and was held together at my shoulders by safety pins and tossed it aside, exposing a black bra with black and silver sequins.

Right after that, I ran on my black leather studded stripper platforms toward a pole, launched myself high, caught it, swung around, legs parted, and I felt a hush roll over the crowd.

I curled in, flipping my legs up high, well over my head and torso, straddling the pole, legs still wide, sliding down until I got near the bottom.

Once there, I put one hand down, then the other, swung out one leg, then the other until I was in a backbend. I pushed up off my hands to come to standing.

Immediately, I went into a squat, came up, swung my ass again while my fingers undid the heavy silver buckle of my studded black belt and I slid my shorts over my ass, hips, down my legs. I kicked them free and I was in black and silver sequined leather undies cut high in the back so they showed some cheek.

It was then I felt—actually felt—the crowd come to their feet.

In my platforms and sequined undies, I ran from pole to pole. Catching one, flipping over, wrapping my legs around it, letting go with my hands and arching my neck and back as I slid down, using only my legs until my hands hit stage.

A modified cartwheel then a run and grasp of the next pole, twisting around and around it at a dizzying pace, one leg curled around the pole, one leg held straight out.

Back to the next one where I caught it high and swung all the way out from my hands, toes pointed, legs spread wide and ended it curling in and doing a flip off the pole to land on my feet, ass near to the ground, knees bent high, legs spread and I slapped the stage with my hand between my legs.

I pulled out of that deep squat and strutted back up the stage with super-long strides, one foot in front of the other like the most kickass model in the history of models after she bitch-slapped all the other models before she hit the runway.