Page 4 of Never Distract a Biker

2

Scarlett

It’s been one whole fucking since my conversation with Marina, and that bitch still hasn’t gotten back to me. How difficult is it to get a fucking old man who is interested in a young girl?

My desperation has me calling Marina, but she is not reachable. Who would have thought a day would come when I'd be begging to sell my soul to the devil?

I'll think of consequences later when my mother is out of the hospital and recovering.

Pushing through the velvet curtain, I enter the club’s dimly lit changing room. The air is heavy with perfume and hairspray, but I hardly notice it anymore. My fingers tremble slightly as theywork the buttons of my faded jeans, the fabric slipping away to reveal skin about to be put on display.

"Focus," I mutter to myself, shedding my cotton top like an old identity. In its place, I hook the clasps of the black leather bra and thong, its daring cut both a costume and armor. The cool touch of the fabric sends a shiver up my spine, a reminder of why I'm here.

I catch my reflection in the smudged mirror, strands of sun-bleached blonde hair framing my face like a halo in the murky glow of backstage bulbs. Time for the transformation. With practiced ease, I pick up the eyeliner and begin to trace the contours of my eyes. The smoky pigment deepens the steel grey of my eyes until they are almost blue.

"You've got this," I say, my voice steady even as my heart races against my ribcage. My hands are steady now, confident as they wield the makeup brush like a wand, casting an illusion of sultry confidence. I can't afford to be Scarlett with the trembling hands and the worried frown. Not tonight. Not any night I find myself here. In the dim interiors of DanceCheck, I am Electra, the seductress.

The reflection staring back at me is one of calculated allure, a mask that hides the weight of the world resting on my shoulders. There's a power in this façade, in the knowledge that I control the narrative under this spotlight.

The air in the changing room is thick with perfume and anticipation. My hands dive into the depths of my dance bag,fingers dancing over the various props I've accumulated over the months. Like businessmen lug their briefcases to work, this bag must accompany me to work. In here are assortments of handcuffs, dust feathers, foldable whips, and other items to heighten my performance. Each one has its own story, a memory of nights past and the secrets they hold. But tonight, I need something that whispers danger and authority.

I find it—my special whip. I grasp the handle; the leather is cool and empowering against my skin. It feels cool and familiar in my palm; it's power and control. With this in hand, I'm fierce on the stage, capable of commanding attention and demanding respect with just one crack.

"Showtime," I breathe out, rising from the chair with newfound poise. "Time to bare my ass and shake my tits."

As usual, my heart races, but my steps are sure as I leave the dressing room, the whip dragging behind me. Symbolizing the sacrifices I’m making and the ones still to come. Tonight, like every night, I dance for a cause greater than myself. I’m ready to jiggle my boobies if that’s what it takes to keep the cash flowing in.

The club's dim lights cast shadows that flicker like ghosts over the walls. It's another world, a nocturnal kingdom where fantasies reign supreme and reality skulks in the corners, unwelcome. Here, men with more money than they need to indulge in their every whim, and I’m here to lure some out of their pockets.

The pulsating bass of the music is a heartbeat under my feet, and I let it draw me in. Synchronize my steps to its rhythm. I sashay towards the podium, the nerves and determination from the changing room now a cocktail of adrenaline in my bloodstream. My every sense is heightened—the heavy scent of musk, cigar, and liquor, the low hum of conversations, the display of dimmed lights playing over skin and fabric.

A magnetic pull draws my eyes to an unusually darkened corner, and my gaze snags and entangles with the stare of an unfamiliar man. A man with tattoos peeking out his collar and wrists watches me with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

His powerful gaze sends thrills through my body and my fingers itch to trail his tattoos. In this place of shadows and sin, he's an enigma wrapped in tailored elegance, his presence commanding the space around him.

Time seems to hold its breath. The music in the club fades into a distant throb. The chattering voices blur into insignificance, and there's no one but this smoking-hot stranger who is causing some other parts of me to pulsate with longing. My steps falter, my practiced poise momentarily forgotten.

In that stretched heartbeat of connection, I understand—he sees me. Not the glittering façade or the sultry smiles of Electra. But me. The girl behind the smoky, sultry makeup.

It's terrifying and exhilarating, this thread of electric current flicking through the charged air between us.

But the moment breaks as I reach the podium, and I'm suddenly back in the charisma of my role, my feet moving of their own accord. The encounter lingers, though, a whispered promise on my skin, and it fuels me as I step into the light, ready to become someone else for a while.

My hand grips the pole, cool metal against my palm, but in my mind, it's not the pole—it's him. The fantasy takes hold, my dance a seduction meant for one. I twirl, my hair a fiery cascade around me, imagining his fingers slipping through the strands. Every arch and bend of my body screams for his touch, though we've never met, never spoken.

I'm lost in the fantasy, each movement a wordless dialogue between us. There's power here, in the way I command the space, drawing eyes in a captivating and controlling manner. The crowd is a distant murmur, their cheers, and whistles mere background noise to the roaring in my ears, the sound of my heartbeat keeping time with the lustful gaze locked onto mine.

“See what you do to me?” I mouth along with the music.

I want to scream it, but it's written in the grace of my limbs, the tilt of my chin, the fierce pride in knowing I hold him captive as surely as he's ensnared me. I spin, the silver stilettos glinting like stars against the dark backdrop of the club.

The music peaks, and so do I.

I crack my whip through the air, and just as the lyrics “I need you in between my legs” boom through the speaker, I slide mywhip in between my thighs back and forth, and a collective sigh of longing leaves my audience.

There is no doubt that a lot of them wish to replace the whip sliding back and forth between my legs with a rod of their own. With a final, elegant twirl, I bring the performance to its climax, and I'm met with applause that rushes over me like a wave. They're spellbound, these faceless patrons of the night, lost in the fantasy I weave around them.

But even as I bask in the adulation, part of me wonders—where did he go? The stranger had stood up abruptly and walked away. Why didn't he stay?

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