Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel Read Free

pretty clean. And it’s not like I’m about to lick them. I don’t think I am.
    A buxom blonde with three nipple rings and a neon green thong—made of lace, of course—does a final split at the edge of her stage. Then she collects the singles that didn’t make it under the straps of her thong, stands, and saunters in my direction.
    I wonder yet again if this is such a good idea. But what could possibly happen? No one’s allowed to touch me, and I’m perfectly at home onstage. Well, on a theater stage, anyway. Still, a performance is a performance, whether you’re wearing clothes or not.
    “Your turn, Daisy Dukes,” Babs murmurs as she brushes past me. Up close, I can see the sweat on her brow, beading atop her thick makeup. I resist the urge to touch my own face, which, except for lipstick and a little eyeliner, is as bare as the day I was born. It was one of the many concessions my friend, Missy, was forced to make when I accepted her dare to get up on this stage tonight.
    “Them lights are damn bright, girl,” she’d said emphatically. “Gonna wash you right out.”
    “That’s fine. I don’t need to impress anyone. Well, anyone except you.”
    Missy laughed. “Long as you don’t chicken out or get booed offstage, consider me impressed. Only rules I’m settin’ are you gotta use the pole, and you gotta strip down to your knickers.”
    As if getting a few men to look at me with no clothes on could possibly be harder than performing a grand jeté in front of an audience of thousands.
    Tentatively, I take one step out from the curtain. The heels they gave me are higher than anything I’ve ever worn, but they’re sturdy and well built. And after decades in pointe shoes, anything that doesn’t require me to stand on my toes feels like a cakewalk.
    I take another step, and then another, and suddenly I’m out, exposed. The women performing on either side of me don’t pause, but I see their eyes flicker in my direction. Watching. My heart pounds, and I can feel the blood rushing to my face, my fingers, my toes. My body is primed. I never feel as alive as when I take the stage, and even without tulle at my waist, the feeling is the same. Pure exhilaration.
    “Don’t look at their eyes,” Missy had warned me. “Look at their collars, or their receding hairlines, or their wedding bands if you have to, but avoid their eyes.” When I asked why, she gave me a look of pity. “Because, babe, you’ll just get distracted. It’s a rookie mistake. Don’t do it.”
    Following her advice, I gaze out beyond the heads of the men clustered at my stage. The lights black out the rest of the room, so all I can see are vague shapes, with the occasional flash of silver here and glitter of gold there. Come here , I beckon to all of the suited, shaven, money-laden men. Come watch. Come pay. Because sure, the bet with Missy was to see if a traditional ballet dancer could “handle” getting up on stage and “make it in the real world.”
    But I saw the looks the other girls gave each other in the dressing room. “Miss Prim and Proper thinks she’s going to show us how it’s done?” “Can’t wait to see this train wreck.” So I don’t want to just “handle” it, I want to nail it; I want to pull in more cash than any of them.
    As I reach the center of the stage, I grasp the pole, aware of every set of eyes trained on me, trailing along my outstretched arm. The smooth metal surface is warm beneath my palm, and I wrap my fingers around it, relishing its solidness. A partner who won’t falter. I like it already.
    “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” was the song Missy picked for me. A bit cliché, I thought, but it’s slow and has an easy beat to it that should be easy to move to. As soon as the tempo begins, I transform into the cowgirl of these men’s dreams.
    Showtime, Skylar.
    Lifting my feet, I swing around the pole, arching my neck back so my hair streams out behind me. I know what I look like: I look like