The Strip

Part 2

Freen POV

You're hardly drawn to your customers, barely batting an eye at them no matter how high profile they may be. They're all just customers, and you're just a stripper. Although it may be a tad more sexual, it's still a simple business transaction. Your job is to make them feel wanted and you excel in that. You can twist your locks and bat your eyelashes and play demure when need be; you can straighten your spine, make yourself appear at least three inches taller and crack a whip, both figuratively and literally. You can read people and give them exactly what they want without ever becoming invested; it's why you're so good at what you do. So, it startles you when you find yourself looking her way right after you exit the stage.

Because it feels like the fluttering of want, and you haven't wanted anything in a long time.

When her gaze meets yours with a similar desire, it unhinges you.

Your fingers tingle with desire to capture that sharp jawline on paper, and you laugh because your fingers have always found a way to get you into trouble. Figuratively and literally.

Your heart falters a little when the blonde she is with takes the beer from her hands with a familiarity that can only be akin to a lover or family. You hope it's a lover. But when the magnetic eyes find their way back to you, drawn to your presence, a stone settles in your stomach. If it is a lover, you hope they're at least polyamorous.

You let your mind drift to thoughts of you and them, lost in the cupidity and the lust and the sensuous fantasy.

"Freen?"

Liam is leaning against the DJ booth, arms folded over his chest; watching you curiously. "Are you okay?" The lines of concern on his forehead are adorable; however, unnecessary.

"Yes, mom." You roll your eyes and pat his muscled shoulder before dipping past him into the locker rooms. He knows you too well, though; knows your heart like a big, overprotective brother, and knows when you're distracted.

"Let me know if you need a break," he calls as you slip inside. It's his subtle way of demanding you take one. He adopted the habit shortly after your first burnout when you moved to the city, desperate to distract yourself from thinking and thereby working constantly.

"Hola, Freeny," Sophia chirps as you enter the changerooms. She's sat on the sink to get as close as humanly possible to the mirror; a tube of lipstick in her hands, and applying the red to her lips.

"I'm pretty sure you're breaking at least seven health code violations, Rey."

"I'm pretty sure it's at least eight, and don't change the subject."

Perplexed, you stare at her back. "What subject? I literally just walked in."

"Right. Sorry, I already had this conversation with you, but you weren't here."

"Want to skip to the outcome and save us both some time?" You put the combination into your lock and jangle the locker obnoxiously. Sophia just watches you, tapping the edge of the tube of red against her chin in thought.

"Basically, you gave a lappy for a tenner when your goodies are head-hunted for at least a dub."

You blink at your best friend. "You need to stop watching those gang documentaries with Monty, Rey. In English?"

"You were grinding all over that brunette out there for ten bucks. I distinctly saw at least one move you always use in your lap dances. My question is," she waves her hand with flare, finishing with a point directed towards you, "why?"

You force a laugh and brush off the lingering thought waking up to eyes the colour of a forest of green.

You are not used to wanting .