Page 66 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

I found him quickly. No words passed between us. I simply, seductively, reached down to snag his tie in one hand. I pulled and he complied, standing to follow me. The private dance room was smaller than most people imagined, intimate without being claustrophobic, dimly lit with recessed purple lights that cast long shadows. I pushed the Alpha in black down against a plush chair after we entered, door already shut behind us. I turned away from him, swaying my hips as I closed the distance to the round dais with its pole.

When I stepped onto the raised circle, twirling to face him again, I found his attention fixed on his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen. I didn't take it personally. At Club Midnight, clients often brought their business with them, and the private rooms were as much for deals as they were for dances. Eventually, I’d capture his attention. I began to sway,body rolling, legs bending to dip slightly. I kept my eyes on his face, waiting for the moment he would look up and see me.

He didn't. He kept focusing on the cell.

I gripped the pole and continued anyway, professional to the core. I executed a perfect spin, the momentum carrying me upward.

The music shifted, growing louder, more insistent.

He glanced up briefly, sharp eyes grazing over me, then returned to his phone. The screen illuminated his face from below, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the concentrated furrow between his brows. Important business, apparently.

I kept dancing, shifting into more elaborate movements. I climbed the pole with practiced grace, inverting my body at the top before sliding down in a controlled spiral. My hair brushed the floor as I descended, a move that usually drew at least a murmur of appreciation.

Nothing.

A flicker of irritation sparked in my chest. Not that I needed constant validation, I'd performed for silent audiences before, but there was something almost insulting about paying for a private dance only to ignore it entirely. I pushed the feeling away. Professional. I was a professional.

I tried a new technique, abandoning the pole. I circled the raised platform, moving with predatory grace. When I was directly in front of him again, I twirled and dropped to my knees.He still wasn’t looking, dammit.

Crawling toward him, my body moving in sinuous waves, I put my all into being what he wanted. I built the fantasy. I was desire and lust. He didn’t even glance at me again.

Once, I'd danced the Dying Swan for an audience of thousands, holding them spellbound with nothing butmovement and music. Now I couldn't capture the attention of a single man ten feet away.

His phone rang. He answered it, turning slightly away from me, his voice low but clear enough that I could hear him discussing some sort of financial arrangement. Numbers and percentages, acquisitions and forecasts. The language of money exchanging hands.

I pushed myself harder. It became a test of not just capturing his gaze but also proving something to myself. That I still had it. That I could still command attention with my body, even if not on the stages I'd once dreamed of.

I stopped crawling when I was a foot away from his legs. I stood, swinging my ass out and pressing palms against my thighs before straightening posture. Nothing. Not a furtive look. Not the slightest shift in his expression. So, I returned to the pole, executing a series of moves that required significant upper body strength. Prolonged holds and graceful spins that had taken months to perfect. I lifted myself into a butterfly position, legs extended in a split while supported only by my arms, before transitioning into a jade spin that showcased the muscle definition in my back and shoulders.

Sweat beaded on my skin, catching the purple light like tiny diamonds. My breath came harder, but I controlled it, just as I'd been taught. Never let them see the effort. Make the impossible look easy.

The Alpha's voice grew more animated on his call, but still, he didn't look. Not even a glance. His free hand tapped on the armrest of the chair, keeping time to a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music I was dancing to. I dropped into a slow, controlled split against the floor, then rose in one fluid motion that would have made my former ballet masters nod in approval. Technique was technique, regardless of the venue. I'd alwaysprided myself on excellence, on standing out. Even here, even now, I refused to be mediocre.

And the effort was getting me nothing right now.

"And that's the best they can offer?" his voice was loud now, angry. "We're prepared to walk away if they can't meet us halfway."

Finally, I stopped dancing for him. I moved mechanically, because I had to. I hated when this kind of thing happened, zapping every ounce of my confidence.

"Yes, I understand the timeline," he said sharply, “but quality can't be rushed."

The song was nearing its end. I had perhaps forty-five seconds of this torture left. I returned to the pole for my finale, my heart not in it. I mounted the pole, the elaborate spin lifeless. As the music faded, I descended, finishing in a kneeling position, my knees spread apart. The fantasy of offering more to the client.

The Alpha was finishing his call. He checked his watch in annoyance. "We'll continue this tomorrow. Send me the revised figures before noon."

He hung up, slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, then stood in one quick motion.

I rose as well, prepared for the usual exchange. Compliments, maybe a request for a second dance or he’d ask what night I worked next.

Instead, he reached into his wallet, extracted two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the small table beside his chair. His eyes met mine briefly, unreadable but not unkind.

"Thank you.” Was all he said to me before striding past me out of the room.

I stood alone in the private room, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne. The money sat on the table. It was more than the standard rate, despite his apparent disinterest.

A hollow feeling spread in my chest, familiar and unwelcome.Had I lost my touch?

I shook my head, pushing away the spiral of self-doubt before it could take hold.