The dancing prowess of Jun and Odile paved the way to fame for musician Vincent Friday. Seven years on, as his album sales stagnate, Vince summons the stars of his best-known music video to stage a one-night-only reunion show in Vegas. That night, h...
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"What kind of stripper dances to a feminist anthem?" Missy wondered aloud over the sinewy bassline.
Ray smirked into his drink. "A ballsy one."
Like she had on Broadway years ago, Odile owned the stage she performed on. One of the latest pop hits about female sexual liberation made for a beguiling background to her mind-bending pole act. She danced barefoot, in a fluffy sweater worn over a sequin-studded leotard. Slick with sweat, strands of her short hair stuck to her face or whipped round her skull in sync with her movements.
The audience looked on, enthralled, although not necessarily buzzing. Unsurprisingly. The kind of men who frequented such establishments came for the gratification that their money could buy, not that they had to earn.
Downing his drink, Ray dared hope that it might turn out easier than expected to talk Odile into Vince's scheme. Her stage charisma could only go so far in keeping her hungry patrons hooked to the edges of their seats.
And yet, heady gunpowder lingered in the lights, waiting to be ignited. The air thickened with anticipation by the second and when a ring trapeze descended behind her, Odile pulled the trigger.
She hopped onto the ring and the trapeze began to rise. Once it was high enough, she let her body drop, clinging onto the ring by her knees. Her loose sweater slid off her arms. Wolf whistles erupted in the club and Ray clicked his tongue.
"Dammit."
The shiny leotard had a cut-out back that extended onto her sides. It exposed her shoulder blades and squeezed her breasts into an enticing cleavage.
"Well," Missy piped up beside Ray, "she's definitely ballsy."
Odile contorted within and without the ring, hanging by a thread one second, flipping in the air the next. The trapeze travelled into the audience, for its mistress to collect her tips.
"Damn, she's good," Ray muttered.
The trapeze never tarried long above any one individual table – it made her descent unto the mortals that much more titillating. She stooped to touch them only if she deigned the tribute worthy and as a result returned to her stage with her leotard stuffed full of bills.
Ray and Missy headed for the exit, lying in wait for Odile by the back door of the cabaret club. The director lit a cigarette, visualizing potential scenarios of how his interaction with Odile could go. Would she flip him off or stop to listen?
Although he'd never admit it out loud, Ray couldn't deny the stroke of genius that had carried Vincent Friday to unimaginable heights. So maybe his latest idea could catapult them both into the stratosphere, after all. Or crush them into the concrete like the burnt stubs under Ray's heel.
The director had time for three smokes before Odile showed up.
"Hey, stranger," he greeted as soon as she stepped outside, making sure to stand in the light so she could see his face.
