Page 11 of Hurt

Kurt didn’t say anything else. Not that he could really be heard over the music that began, signaling the start of the show.

Willow wriggled into another set of tight shorts. They seemed to get shorter by the day, shrinking to her skin and hanging on for dear life. This pair was black and glittery with a matching halter top. The sequins sewed into the fabric caught the low lights and twinkled. They were cut to exaggerate her assets. She wasn’t quite as curvy as Evan or Opal, but she didn’t do too badly for herself.

Looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror, she turned to be sure nothing was hanging out.

Dark curtains heavy with dirt and dust made up the backdrop for the stage. There was a small room set off behind the curtains that served as a dressing room/backstage for the dancers. One makeup station was shoved into the corner, and clothes littered the floor. They shared everything.

The dancers had a strange sort of friendship. Willow knew more about Evan and Opal than she did about her own brother. Whoever said the strongest friendships were borne in the trenches of war had never had to share a makeup station with someone.

“Is he here?” Evan peered out between two curtains.

Willow came up behind Evan and looked over him. “Who? Roland?”

“You know his name?” her short friend asked, jerking back and falling into Willow.

Setting Evan upright, Willow laughed. “I told you those heels were ridiculous.”

Evan was trying to wear a pair of Opal’s boots. She promised to buy him some rare poetry piece he had been eyeing for weeks online. He went on and on about how much he loved it but wouldn’t purchase it for himself. So she bet him if he could do a performance in one of her crazy pairs of shoes, she would buy it for him.

He was currently wearing a pair of thigh-high, neon pink holographic boots. They went with this BDSM peek-a-boo leather top he was wearing. Willow had to admit he looked good.

But could he walk?

Evan wobbled a little but remained upright. “Do you know him?”

“Not really,” Willow said as she tightened her high ponytail. And she didn’t. Of course, she knew what Roland did, she knew what he was, but she didn’t know who he was. Willow had even done some asking around. No one knew much of anything about the silent young Weaver.

Willow couldn’t help the burning curiosity. Maybe it was because the guy showed absolutely no favoritism to the dancers, or maybe it was because he didn’t drink. Or maybe it was the hard way he stared at her when she danced—like he was unmoved in any way.

But he had to be, or else why would he keep coming?

She didn’t know, but tonight was the night she was going to find out. Swiping some of Evan’s body glitter, she doused her high cheekbones in it. Her costumes and makeup were never quite as exotic as Evan or Opal’s. She relied less on clothes and more on dancing. Music choice was far more important to her than the clothes no one really cared about.

Tonight, she chose something closer to jazz. It was a sultry piece, a little slower than her usual fare. It reminded her of illicit nights at speakeasies. Of hushed voices getting drunk off the stolen liquor and the thrill of being caught. The melody was alluring and hypnotic.

Willow had the lights turned down low and the spotlight on her.

Most strippers’ dances were hip thrusting, oiled abs, and blasting bass. Willow was different. She was slow and sensual, effeminate while maintaining an obvious rhythm. She liked the challenge of using the pole, of the dance moves mimicking euphemisms for sex. Usually, the moment a dancer like her walked onto the stage, the audience lost its interest—reaching out and stealing it back was where Willow’s thrill lay. She adored watching their mouths drop as they shifted in their seats and their mind went blank. Seeing a patron’s face fall slack was like seeing an error message pop up on a screen.

Willow loved it.

From a young age, she loved to be the center of attention. If she wasn’t playing music, she was cracking jokes or playing pranks. No one had ever accused her of being a wall flower. She got her high off of people watching her.

Of their complete rapture in her.

It was like for a moment, for the length of a song, she was all that mattered to them. The hole of loneliness in her heart was filled with their attention. It was fake. A lie she could tell herself over and over again until they all walked out the door and the high came crashing down.

Roland’s gaze gave her the best high. The way those eyes glowed in the dark, how they followed every minute move without losing the whole. It was intoxicating and unfair. She wanted more of that look, of that complete attention.

Tonight, she would have it.

There’s a formula to dancing. You have to start slow, ramp it up, tease them with just a little bit more, and then yank it back. Have them following your every movement, only to take it away. They’ll be frustrated but hooked. They won’t be able to look away because they can’t. At that point, it becomes a need. A carnal desire that won’t be silenced by logic.

Willow was a good dancer, but she was better on the pole. She defied gravity, clinging to the stainless-steel rod with little effort. Her lean body on display as she hung upside down and flashed a smile.

When the song crescendoed, she flipped down the pole, ending up with her legs splayed and the pole between them. One hand steadying herself, the other flicking her ponytail out and then sliding down her chest. Fingernails would taunt her pert nipples, flicking them once while she closed her eyes and licked her lips. She could practically hear the audience panting.

Opening her eyes, she looked up flirtatiously to see Roland staring at her. Face impassive, hands on the arms of his chair and legs crossed. He looked like he was watching a power point presentation on the dynamics of paint drying.