Page 5 of Never Distract a Biker

"Doesn't matter," I tell myself, stepping down from the podium with my head held high. His absence can't distract me. Not when every bill tucked into the band of my thong means another day my mother can keep fighting.

I take a breath, letting the persona of Electra, the dancer, fade away, replaced again by Scarlett, the daughter, the protector. This duality defines me—sweet but feisty, vulnerable yet unbreakably strong. And tonight, like every other night, I've conquered the stage for her.

I glide off the podium, my skin still humming with the rush of adrenaline. The heat from the stage lights fades as I weave through the crowds of onlookers, their applause lingering in my ears like the afterglow of a storm. I push open the door to the changing room, the sanctuary away from prying eyes and leering faces.

Inside, it's quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos beyond these walls. I let out a long breath, one I didn't even realize I was holding. The cool air kisses the cheeks of my naked bum; for a moment, it's just me and my racing heart. But there's no time to dwell; the hustle doesn't stop, not when every dollar brings me a step closer to easing Mom's burden.

I slip into a fresh costume, another layer of armor against the world outside. My hands are steady, but my mind is anything but. It races back to him — the man with the striking blue eyes. Why does he stick out among the faceless crowd?

He was different. His gaze wasn't like the others, not hungry or lecherous, but intense ... searching as if he saw right through the façade to the desperation woven into every move I made.

But why then did he vanish like a ghost?

Shaking my head, I force his face out of my mind. Focus, Scarlett. This is no place for daydreams. I have a job to do, a purpose that outweighs the luxury of curiosity. With each step I take towards the next performance, the weight of my reality grounds me once again.

"Keep it together," I mutter under my breath. "You need to keep going."

Heels clicking against the floor, I walk away from the sanctuary of the changing room.

I allow my mother's face to swim before me, her sweet, gentle smile marred by the dire reality of hospital bills and whispered diagnoses. I can't let her down. Not now, not ever. Love, pure and unyielding, fuels every step I take towards a different podium in the club.

We, strippers, rotate among the dance stages until you have covered all the dancing platforms in the club. That way, the guests are entertained by different strippers, giving them value for their money.

I fucking feel like a cheap commodity.

The music envelops me once again, its beats pulsating through my veins. My body responds naturally, a marionette to the rhythm, but my mind is miles away—in a quiet hospital room where beeps and soft murmurs paint a picture far removed from the vibrant chaos of the club.

As I twirl and sway, each movement a silent prayer, a vow stamped into the space between heartbeats. ‘I will save you, Mom.' And somehow, I know she hears me, her strength woven into the very core of my being.

A collective gasp rises as I arch my back, offering a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability wrapped in the guise of seduction. I release an inner sigh as I spot wades of notes waving in the dim light. It's working—they're enchanted, trapped by the narrative I spin with my almost naked body.

Turning on the charm comes as easy as breathing. A second nature born from nights spent mastering the art of the tease. Around the dance pole, I move with calculated grace, every inch the temptress they crave. A strategic bend, a slow pivot, and I gift them a view of my perfectly round bottom—a promise of what could be, but never will.

In this fractured moment, I am both the architect of fantasies and a warrior in a battle all too real. Every dollar that falls at my feet is a step closer to buying my mother’s health back.

Keep going.

I urge myself silently, the mantra a steady pulse amidst the chaos. For her, for me, I will dance until dawn breaks, until hope is no longer just a distant dream.

And then it happens. Like leaves in an autumn storm, the bills flutter around me, green promises of hope. I exhale silently, grateful for the club's strict rules that keep hungry hands at bay. The distance between us is sacrosanct — they can look, they can want, but they cannot touch. This barrier allows me to dance with abandon, to lose myself in the music and the movement.

With one final move, I run my tongue across my lips while cupping a lace-clad breast in one hand. I strike a pose that says sorry, you can’t touch, but I can. My audience erupts in appreciation. For a moment, I bask in the adulation, the mistress of illusion who has left them spellbound.

Once again, my fingers fumble with the lock, and I push into the changing room again to switch my outfit for a bunny costume. Keeping my clients satisfied and giving them different versions of me keeps the bucks rolling in.

How I hate feeling like a dangling piece of meat that must somehow make itself remain fresh and alluring.

"Scarlett," I whisper to my reflection, "Concentrate."

My hands are steady as I pull on the outfit. It's a second skin now; black and white lace mixed with satin hugs my curves, whispering promises I won't keep. The heels come next. Pure silver glinting under harsh lights.

I hurriedly redo my makeup. My face stares back at me, all smoky eyes and steel gray that seem to hold secrets.

"Electra, you're up in five," calls the manager from outside.

"Got it," I call back, but really, I'm talking to myself.

"Got it," I say again, quieter this time, a self-reminder that I’ve got this.

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