Offensive Behavior

d fishnet bodysuits, but was fascinated by crotchless thongs with stimulating beads.

“Women actually wear those?”

There was still a good deal of fifteen-year-old boy in Reid. She tsked. “So much still to teach you, Back Booth.” She pointed out the panties with the built in vibrator and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

“Do I get to buy you those?”

She caught his chin in her hand. “I have you, what do I need those for?”

She got a wry grin; he was pleased, but not entirely convinced. And it reminded her to put a little vibrator play on their list.

She needed something sophisticated, but sturdy enough to stand up to the rigor of the pole, for one wear at least. The sheer variety made it hard to choose and given she was more your boy shorts kind of lingerie wearer, and many of the styles called for more tits and ass than she had, this was a challenge.

It’s why she’d always gone for cute and flirty, sassy and playful instead of fuck-hot. But Reid was right all those weeks ago to challenge her on that and for Madame Amour she needed to sex up her game.

She’d woken with Pharrell William’s “Freedom” in her head, an omen. That’s what she’d dance to. It had an old-style jazz swing feel to it, a ripping rhythm that you couldn’t help toe-tap to. It wasn’t your usual sultry or hard-core pole dance sound, and that’s exactly why she liked it. She needed something to wear that worked that sense of sophistication and funk.

It couldn’t be anything wet-look and she didn’t want frills or bows. Waspies and garters were out and so was clothing remotely fetish wear; absolutely no rubber or studs, they’d be lethal. The cat’s ears might work. They made Reid sidle up behind her and purr in her ear. She banished him to a café across the street after that so she could focus.

A hot pink bustier with thigh highs had potential, but the deal was sealed with a black fine-mesh teddy leotard with a swirling jacquard pattern that ran from the high neck to the leg line and matching thigh highs. She’d wear a black G-string underneath it and be more naked than she’d ever been on stage.

Maybe she should warn Reid, but he’d been watching the Madame Amour website so he knew she had to push the limits to compete. And anyway he was the one who’d encouraged her to own her occupation, and owning it on stage at Madame Amour meant the barest of coverage.

She used the cash Reid’d poked into her pocket to pay for the lingerie, throwing in the cat’s ears at the last moment. If she did her hair just right, all blown out and big, they’d look fantastic.

They spent the afternoon strolling down the Champs-Élysées, had lunch at one of those cafés with the red and white chairs under a shady awning, and ate ice cream and people watched in the sun in the Jardin des Tuileries.

Two hours after strolling hand in hand under plane tree shaded arcades, she was in the guest artist dressing room at Madame Amour, having warmed up and then vomited the steady confidence she’d been channeling all day in the sink.

She’d never barfed before a performance in her life. She sat on a chair in the dressing room, hands gripping her thighs. Maybe it was the cheese or the salted butter caramel or the fact that there was a famous DJ here tonight and he’d brought his equally famous popstar girlfriend who was currently on stage belting out her latest hit.

She was a long way from Lucky’s and this felt like a kind of bridge between one part of her life and the next, whatever that was meant to be.

She straightened her cat’s ears. Reid was in the audience. He loved her. It mattered that she was trying, not if she won. This wasn’t the goddamn Olympics. Except that was crap, not the part about Reid loving her, it was all over him and had been for longer than she cared to think about it. She hadn’t recognized it as far back as the altercation in the alley, but soon after. The way he’d looked at her could melt concrete it was so filled with heat, but the way he wanted to know her beyond their bodies was hotter still.

It was a lie she’d cope with not winning. She wanted to win to the bloody roots of her teeth. It wasn’t a gold medal, it wasn’t a job or a new place to live, it wasn’t a career. But succeeding was part of who she was and it’d been a long time since she’d had a win.

She reapplied her lipstick, watching the other two competitors she shared the dressing room with warm up. Both were going on stage before her. A German woman who did a striptease with big feather fans in a burlesque routine, and a Chinese contortionist who’d toured with a Spiegeltent show and was performing naked but for a flesh-colored thong, a fire-breathing dragon tattoo on her back and red lacquer chopsticks in her hair.

“Ladies, good evening.”

Madame Amour’s entertainment manager, known as the Stage Master, stood in the doorway. He wore an old-fashioned dinner suit with tails and a top hat, but with no shirt he showed off his gym-earned abs and a suntan. The Stage Master was pretty but his performance was all business.

“Welcome to Madame Amour. My friends call me Master,” he said with no hint of a laugh, which concertinaed Zarley’s into a stilted cough. “Heidetta, Biyu, Lux, we’re delighted you could be here.” He executed an elaborate bow. “If there is anything I can do to assist you tonight, please let me know.”

“Is Madame Amour here tonight?” Heidetta asked.

“Madame Amour is always here on contest night and sends her regards.”

“Where is she sitting?” The woman gestured with a fan. Excellent question. It was always a good idea to know where in the room your judges were.

Master tutted. He wasn’t answering that. Madame Amour’s real name was Eglantine Archambault. She’d qualified as a surgeon using her married name, Foss. She’d be in her late sixties now, and it would be difficult to pick out anyone under the stage lights, let alone a no doubt still beautiful older woman.

Master looked to Heidetta and Biyu. “Please take your places at the side of the stage.” Zarley had a half hour wait until her slot. The two women left the room, Heidetta taking her gorgeous pink ostrich-feather fans.

“Could I ask about my pole?”

“Indeed,” Master inclined his head. “The pole is titanium rose gold-plated chrome, forty-millimeter grip. It is fixed floor to ceiling. Do you wish for it to be spinning?”