Pregnant For My Billionaire Stepbrother

Sash stands anxiously at the checkout, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Behind her, a large queue snakes towards the center of the supermarket, irritated customers happy to glare at her angrily.

“Come on, please”, Sash quietly whispers to herself. Every so often she cranes her neck to try and look at the till, before looking back to her left, horrified to see someone else join the everincreasing line.

The plump assistant clicks chewing gum against her teeth while she waits for the machine to tell her what to do next. Her skin is so faketanned and dented by acne, she looks like a gigantic orange. Next to her, Sash could be a completely different species. She’s compact but perfectly proportioned, with delicate features and gorgeous eyes.

The human orange looks from the computer up to Sash and blinks slowly, one eyelid slightly behind the other, like a treefrog waking up.

“Denied”, she says lazily. Clack goes the chewing gum against her teeth.

“That can’t be”, Sash says. “I put money in there on Wednesday.”

“Today is Friday”, the assistant says flatly, as though Sash may have overlooked a crucial piece of information. “Maybe it went somewhere else on the days in between.”

“What’s the hold up?” comes a voice from the queue behind her. Seemingly happy to ignore the question, she just continues to look across to Sash as though examining something uninteresting, she’s just had the misfortune to step on.

People tap their toes impatiently. Others drum their fingers on the long since stopped conveyor belt. A child folds his arms, mimicking his scruffily dressed father.

“Let me try again”, Sash says. “It must be a problem with the machine.”

Moving at a snail’s pace, seemingly unaffected by the enormity of the queue that has begun to swell so much it’s now impossible to see the end of it, the assistant rubs her fingers along the black stripe of the credit card and langorously reswipes it. Any slower and her heart would stop. The till hums. The eyelids blink, out of synchronization. She pauses briefly, like a game show host at the moment before revealing the winner of a year long event.

“Denied”, she says again, emphasizing the first syllable of the word.

Someone’s hands go up in the air. “Come on”, he says. “That’s four times now. It isn’t going to work.”

“Do you have another card?” the assistant asks, handing back her broken one.

Sash looks down at her shopping. A bottle of wine, a prepackaged salad, a beef steak, a punnet of strawberries, a health food bar to eat on the way home. She rifles through her purse, practically tipping the coins out in front of her to count them.

“This is ridiculous”, the same man from the queue says. Others nod their heads in agreement. One says, mostly to himself, “call the manager already.”

“I have three dollars, eighty six cents”, Sash says, trying her best to follow the assistant’s lead and ignore them.

The assistant looks at the shopping. She looks at Sash and then she looks at the till. “That’s not going to be enough”, she says.

Outside, the sky has clouded over. Sash looks up into the black stormy swirls as though expecting to find a reasonable answer there. Instead, all she gets is a spot of light rain dampening her cheek. She feels like the world is spitting on her.

“Looks like it’s rolling in again”, an old lady says, holding on to her hat while she passes, in case a sudden gust of wind might blow it off.

Sash sighs. “What happened to the fucking sun?” she mumbles, the old lady already out of earshot.

At the entrance to the train station, a dark skinned man taps enthusiastically on upturned plastic buckets with a wooden kitchen spoon.

Sash pauses for a moment to listen, losing herself pleasurably in the hollow, vibrant sounds.

The man blinks at her kindly to say hello, lifting the corner of his mouth into a smile, and tilting the top of his head downwards, in a way in which Sash mistakes for an attempt to indicate the collection hat on the ground in front of him.

She smiles sweetly at the old man, whose leather skin reminds her of her grandfather, immediately embarrassed she can’t tip him. As if she’s already outstayed her welcome, she heads into the station, rushing quickly towards the train that’s already pulled up to her platform.

Her three dollars eighty six cents were just enough to buy the health food bar and leave a sufficient amount for the train ticket home. Digging it out of her purse now, she realizes for the first time, in her haste to get out of the supermarket, she’s bought the only flavor she doesn’t like.

“Fuck”, she says, a little bit louder than she wanted to. A wideeyed child sat on the edge of the seat opposite, regards her with a mix of fear and excitement, as though he’s heard something he’s not supposed to and because of that, he likes it. His feet dangle down, a good twenty centimeters from the floor.

“Sorry”, Sash says to the boy who looks far too young to be traveling on his own. She looks at the health food bar and then hands it over to him. “Here”, she says, “you like apricots right?”

The city shoots by, framed through a toughened plastic window covered in scratches and graffiti.

A fat attendant checks Sash’s ticket, eyes the boy as though he were her own and then shuffles along the compartment, his company issue trousers frayed at the bottom and hanging off his ass where a belt does nothing to keep them in place.

There is a quarter mile walk uphill back to Sash’s apartment over pitted pavement slabs not designed for high heels, and by the time she gets there, she’s soaked through and absolutely exhausted.

A stack of bills jam the progress of the door momentarily. Some of them have been there for months, as though now forming part of the apartment’s design. She fights her way past them, kicks her shoes off in the hallway and swings the door shut behind her without bothering to look. Just before it hits the latch, a hand comes up to stop it.

“Miss Cole?”

The voice freezes the blood in Sash’s body. She makes fists with her bare toes in the worn carpet. Her head hangs at the end of a long, deep sigh. Finally she turns.

“Martin”, she says.

Martin is a man of extreme proportions. His nose, his fingers, his belly and his ankles. It’s as if he has been beamed down from another planet, or belongs to a completely different race entirely.

“The rent”, he says, tapping the part of his wrist where a watch would sit if he wore one. “It’s late.”

“It’s not a good time”, Sash says.

The door still isn’t fully open. The effect is that only half of Martin’s immenseness can be seen, as he hovers on the periphery. For all his bulk and presence, he’s reserved, and a little bit timid. To be polite, and because she knows he won’t do it himself, Sash takes the three steps back to the door to open it fully.

“I’m sorry, Martin”, she says. “It’s just been a bad day, that’s all.”

“It’s been over two months”, Martin says. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Just give me until the end of the month”, Sash pleads.

“The end of the month is twenty eight days away”, Martin says.

“The end of the week?” Sash asks hopefully.

“I’ve got to eat too, you know. I have people queuing up for this apartment. It’s a good apartment. I’m a good landlord. Not everyone is like me. When you were late with the money I said, “sure no problems, you take as long as you like”, but enough is enough. Two months is too long. I’ve got a little girl to feed.”

Sharing the proportions of her father, Sash would call her anything but little, but she knows what he means. She sighs again. She was in a fix and she knew it.

“Can you give me until the end of the week, please, Martin?”

“Are you going to get a job by the end of the week?” Martin says, eyeing her suspiciously.

“I sincerely hope so”, Sash says.

“Final deadline, no extensions”, Martin says fighting each other in the air in front of him in an act of exhausting expression. “The end of the week or you’ve got to leave.”

“Thank you, Martin”, Sash says. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

He’s still stood there, looking suspicious, while Sash closes the door, kicks off her shoes and slumps down into the sofa.

That morning’s interview had been a complete and utter waste of her time.

She was sick of spending hours filling out application forms, weeks waiting to hear back from companies she had no interest in working for, and whole morning’s trying to sell herself for roles she knew were beneath her.

They hadn’t told her either way, of course, but she knew from the moment she walked into the room, based on the atmosphere alone, that it was going to be a no. It was the same old story, day in day out.

Either she wasn’t qualified, or she was too qualified, or she was qualified in the wrong way, or she was too pretty, or not pretty enough or pretty but just not in the way they were looking for right now.

She went to one interview last week where they told her she was too young. Too young to work in a college library putting books back on shelves. She looked the interviewer in the eye, shook her head in disbelief, stood up and walked straight out.

Everything that Sash chose to do of late seemed to be a waste of time and money. University debts, bills stacking up, behind on rent and nothing but a jar of cents to her name was seriously beginning to bum her out. There wasn’t even anything decent in the fridge to eat.

She knew what she had to do, but she just didn’t want to admit to it. Seeing him was such a last resort, she’d have to be so desperate there was no other way.

The trouble was, she knew she’d already exhausted every other option.

“That’s a Siamese fighting fish”, Alex says, “They tend to be rather aggressive. Your brother is quite keen on them.”

“He’s not my brother”, Sash says, straightening back up to face her.

“Oh”, Alex says, raising her eyebrows and forming an O shape with her thick, perfectly painted lips. “My mistake. It’s just in the appointment book it says ‘little sister.’”

“Our parents are married, that’s all. I think he thinks it’s cute calling me it. We’ve never really been all that close.”

Alex is a remarkable woman. She has wrinklefree skin like recently pumped oil, and stands over six foot tall, towering above Sash when they find themselves side by side.

“I didn’t even know he had a sister”, Alex says.

“Step”, Sash says, reminding her of the distinction.

“Of course”, Alex says, her face curling up into a well practiced smile.

“Well”, Sash says, continuing to eyeball the huge tank of tropical fish that dominates the room, “maybe there’s a lot about your boss that you haven’t realized yet.”

Time passes agonizingly slowly. Alex returns to her desk and Sash listens to her answering a telephone that seems to never stop ringing, her voice clipped, polite and expedient. There are huge paintings that fill the vast wall space around them, a floor to ceiling window of glass that frames the ever changing city below, carpets of oriental design and lampshades that look like they’ve been lifted from a movie set of the latest futuristic blockbuster.

Back at the fish tank, she walks with them as they swim about in their world, one side of the tank to the other, trapped in a never ending circuit of unhappiness, broken only by the inability to remember it for more than fifteen seconds at a time. Clown fish, butterfly betta, loaches and swordtails, every single one of them beautiful and absolutely unique.

After another thirty minutes has ambled by, at which point Sash is about to give up completely and leave, Alex finally tells her he’s ready.

He’s stood to greet her, arms out passively, the offer of an embrace. His tousled hair a little bit longer than she remembers it, his chest even more robust, his eyes magnetic and debilitating, a universe and more inside each one.

“Sash”, he says. The word familiar on his lips, but rusty, as though too much time has passed since he’s had reason to say it out loud. Sash lets herself be taken, pressing herself close to her stepbrother for as long as she feels is acceptable, long enough anyway to breath in his familiar scent.

“You’ve got bigger”, she says coyly, pulling herself away from him to stand a foot away, her arms by her side now, but his still around her protectively.

“I’ve got older”, he says modestly.

“It doesn’t look like it”, Sash says, stealing a look into his eyes that lasts longer than she knows it should.

Dante smiles his contagious smile, and Sash can’t help but smile too. She looks to her feet and then back up to her gorgeous stepbrother. Three years and the feelings still haven’t gone away. She knew it too. She knew they wouldn’t.

‘What?” he says flirtatiously, knowing exactly what Sash is thinking.

“Nothing”, Sash says, shaking the moment away in a playful push to gain distance, desperate to show her stepbrother the meaning of their relationship now, desperate to show herself really, how much she has matured over the last three years, and how capable she has become of controlling her own emotions, even if the opposite is true.

“So, this is it, the beating heart of the Dante Hix empire”, Sash says, keen to change the subject. She brushes past her brother, their shoulders rubbing together slightly, enough to make her skin buzz, and her heart skip a significant beat.

Dante watches her glide around. He watches the careful way she moves her feet, and the sensual way she touches everything. She has her back to him intentionally, keen to have him observe her, and not the other way round. Like this, she has the illusion of being in control. Dante knows his stepsister well, but more than that, he knows about control and how best to achieve it.

Sash turns to face him. The measured spin of a seasoned professional. Several meters split them, but even from here Sash can feel herself being pulled back towards him. Never underestimate how dangerous the game is you’re playing. The words an internal memo, Sash takes a moment to tell herself.

The silence is palpable, almost alive. Like gunslingers locked in a wild west duel at high noon, they face each other down, each one looking for a sign to pick up their weapon and shoot. Three years in the wilderness and suddenly back in the same room. Nothing has changed.

“It’s been a while, Sash”, Dante says eventually, the tension between them too big not to break.

“Has it been long enough?” Sash asks enigmatically, unsure who the question is really meant for. Immediately embarrassed, she looks away.

“You tell me”, Dante begins. “You were the one that couldn’t ”

He can’t finish the sentence, partly because he knows he doesn’t need to. Sash shrugs her shoulders, the skin there exposed by the cut of her dress. Her bone structure light, poised, elegant.

“It could have been different”, she says, lost in the memory, almost too lightly for Dante to hear. “If you’d. It doesn’t matter anyway, that’s not why I came here.”

She brushes it off and looks at him again. “There isn’t any point going back over.”

Now she’s the one who can’t finish her sentence. Lost in his beautiful stormy blue eyes, that familiar look that turns somersaults in her stomach, her heart can’t help but yearn.

“You look good”, Dante says, quick to take advantage. “I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t Dante”, she warns him, at the very edge of letting herself go. “I didn’t come for that. You know I didn’t.”

She turns away, making for the leather sofas in the corner of the room. Climbing into the single armchair, she kicks off her shoes and folds her bare feet up to the side of her.

“Do I?” Dante says, turning to watch her. He wants to reach for his stepsister again. He wants to go back to that earlier embrace, to that buried time, much further in the past, and pull her out of it. He will, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

“Please”, Sash says softly. “I came here to ask for your help.”

Dante takes the half a dozen or so paces across the room to join her, and as Sash watches her stepbrother advance, unable to take her eyes off him, she can’t help but find herself spellbound by the natural sexiness he effortlessly exudes, in an action so unquestionably simple. In the few seconds in takes him to get to his chair, he knows he’s already won her over.

As he leans back into the sofa, it gathers him like an old friend. He stretches his legs, smooths down the pleat of his bespoke suit trousers and steals a brief but necessary moment ,to admire his beautiful stepsister. He shifts his gaze across her face, lingering just long enough to remind himself of her huge, chocolate brown eyes, the cute button nose that she’s always hated, and the plump, perfectly proportioned lips that bring forgotten memories floating back to the surface of his mind.

He continues, across the petiteness of her frame, the awkward fragility of her collarbones, that stick out to make dimples across her upper torso in which he fought at one time to leave secret kisses, past an ample bosom she always complained was never enough, and onward, deep into the crevices of a dress tucked neatly between her legs, that follows the shape of the perfect, athletic body she hides below it.

“I was surprised when you called me”, he says finally. “I thought you didn’t ever want to see me again.”

Sash is about to contradict him, but she thinks better of it. Again she reminds herself that digging up the past and playing the blame game is not the reason she’s come here.

“I’m in trouble”, Sash says, leveling her eyes at his. “I wouldn’t have come at all if I wasn’t desperate. You know I wouldn’t. The last thing I want to do is open up the past.”

Dante regards her, aware he’ll need to select his words carefully.

“I’m done with that”, she continues. “Done, completely. As far as I’m concerned it’s over.”

If she’s looking for agreement, she doesn’t get it, principally because Dante knows she’s lying. He would be too if he’d been the one to say it.

“How can I help?” he offers, reaching forwards to pour them both a glass of water from the jug that sits permanently on the hand crafted cherry wood coffee table. Sat forwards like this, their knees are almost touching. Sash shifts in her seat, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

“I need money”, she says, gathering up her glass and pausing to drink. “My rent. I’ve got no food. Then there’s University. I’ve got bills, Dante. The fucking door won’t open properly.”

Dante sits back again. He sips his water and contemplates his stepsister, his mind turning over.

“Can you help me?” she says, pleadingly.

“How much do you need?” Dante asks her evenly.

“A lot”, Sash says. “I don’t know how much, but a lot. I’m looking for work, but no one wants to hire me. This city fucking sucks.”

Dante places his glass back on the coffee table, trying to match it as perfectly as possible to the semicircular water mark that indicates where he lifted it from. Once satisfied, he turns it a quarter turn to the right and leans back into the sofa again.

“What kind of work?”, he asks, his hands coming together to rest under his chin.

She pauses, the reality of what she is about to say almost too difficult for her to continue with it.

“We both know what happened, but that’s in the past now. I’m over it. I need you, Dante. I need your help.”

A long moment passes while Dante lets the reality of the situation sink in. Her phone call in the first place was a pleasant surprise, her desperation now unexpected.

She’s come back to him finally and she needs his help. Not only that, she needs him too.

“I may have something that I can offer you”, he says finally, his furtive mind already rich with possibilities. “Something that might suit us both perfectly.”

It takes her a while to find it. A door was hidden in shadow, at the bottom of a wide but shallow staircase, in an almosttoonarrow alleyway between two forgotten hotels. Outside, perched on a plastic chair chained to an iron railing, a welldressed guard with a lazy eye smokes the stub of what was once a large cigar, smoke climbing in thick pulses from his lips, disappearing against the brick work of the hotel opposite, or escaping plainly into the night.

Broken by his foot, a puddle attempts to reflect the neon lights from the small sign above, so most of the word ‘Wonder’ runs across it in bright, backwards green lettering, trapped and wobbling as though caught in a dream.

While she waits for the door to open, he eyes her greedily from the shadow cast by the peak of his hat, careful not to be spotted. Sash hugs herself against the cold, pulling her winter coat tight around her fragile frame, her lips curled into a thin, ironic smile.

Inside, deep shades of burgundy red  throb out across the fixtures and fittings. On stage, a young woman sings against a light piano backdrop, the hem of her skirt sweeping the floor as she sashays around it. A bright eyed girl with pigtails takes her coat, and Isabella, who will be responsible for managing her, takes her arm. Her smile is comforting, her touch familiar, her eyelids awash with glitter.

“So you’re Dante’s little sister”, she says affectionately, holding Sash out at arms length as though to check the girl herself more closely. “He always told us you were beautiful.”

The girl with the pigtails nods. “Beautiful”, she agrees, a chipped front tooth digging into her lower lip when she closes her mouth.

Sash touches her hair selfconsciously. “Thanks”, she says, although beautiful is far from what she feels.

They pass through the inner workings of the club, past dressing rooms and technical hubs, security and system maintenance. Isabella moves rapidly, gliding along as if connected to the floor by wheels, and more than once, something that is nothing more than a shadow in the darkness catches her eye and smiles, as though the building itself were greeting her, complicit in her role.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?” Isabella asks as they arrive at their destination, her slender fingers smoothing the ringlets of Sash’s hair. She asks the question in a way that makes Sash wonder if she already knows the answer to it.

“Never”, Sash says, shaking her head and smiling nervously.

The booth is smaller than she expects. There is a pole, a chair and very little else. It is one of several in a corridor that look out on private rooms through floor to ceiling mirrors, one side of which allows the client to see the dancer, but not the other way round.

This wasn’t exactly what she was hoping would be the solution to her problems, but she has been left with no other choice.

‘An opening in entertainment’, was the way that Dante had sarcastically described it, knowing full well his stepsister knew exactly what she was being offered and that she wouldn’t be able to refuse. Asshole.

“Each dance lasts for as long as the customer pays for”, Isabella informs her. “If someone wants to book you for the night, they can do. I guess Dante would have told you that though.”

“He didn’t say much”, Sash says, looking around the booth as though trying to divine what kind of thing might await her. What kind of person. She holds onto the pole and leans out from it, pressing her nose close up to the mirror to try and see through it.

“I can take you to the other side”, Isabella says seeing her curiosity. “You know, just to show you what it’s like. You won’t be able to see the clients of course.”

“Ok”, Sash says. “I’d like that.”

“You rent the space for the night, so we charge you for that. Anything you make on top of that is yours to keep. You work for as long and as often as you like, as long as the booths aren’t booked out. The more customers you have, the more money you take home, it’s as simple as that. We’ve got almost twenty girls on our books, all making good money.”

“This is a dance club, not a brothel”, she says. “That is the first and most important thing to learn. If a client offers you money for sex, or any other service outside of the ones we offer here, and you accept, you will be asked to leave. This isn’t a place for pimping yourself honey, there is good money on offer here and no need to do anything else for it, do you understand?”

Sash nods.

“If you want to pimp yourself, there are plenty of places in the city where you can do just that.”

“Dancing is enough, believe me”, Sash insists.

“So this is it, how the other half live”, Isabella says. “Just to give you an idea.”

Sash walks around the room as though inspecting it for imperfections. She fingers the wallpaper and runs her hand along the line of books, before perching on the softened edge of the leather chair, picturing herself on the other side of the glass.

“Do they?” Sash asks innocently, dancing her fingers along the arm of the chair. “You know?”

Isabella tilts her head, like a dog that’s just heard a noise too high pitched for a human ear.

“Dante said he wanted to start you off slowly”, she says, ignoring the question.

“What does that mean?” Sash asks.

Isabella extends her arm and Sash takes it, pulling herself out of the chair. Still holding hands, the two girls head back out into the corridor and retrace their steps back to the booth. Another dancer passes them on the way, her tight ass shimmying in the soft fabric of her panties. From the look of weary resignation on her face, Sash can’t work out whether she’s just finished a dance or about to begin one.

“It means that tonight you only dance once. If the customer likes you, you get to come back.” Isabella says.

“And if he doesn’t?” Sash asks.

“He will”, Isabella says confidently.

They are back at the booth. Isabella holds the door open for Sash to enter. “Don’t look so worried”, she says. “You know how to dance, don’t you?”

“Yes”, Sash says.

“And you know how to take your clothes off?”

“Yes”, Sash says again, this time with a nervous smile.

“Then you’ll be fine. Look”, she says, lifting Sash’s chin with her index finger. “You’re a beautiful girl, the customers are going to love you. If you do what they ask, you’ll be making millions in no time.”

“Do what they ask?” Sash says, suddenly worried. “I thought this was just dancing.”

“This is a bespoke service”, Isabella informs her, “and part of that service is dancing. The rest is what you do after you’ve undressed yourself. I thought you knew that, honey. I thought that’s why you were here.”

Isabella holds onto the pole, one leg wrapped around the other. She is elegant and beautifully poised, the lines of her dress framing her perfectly.

“The client knows what is an acceptable thing to ask for, and an acceptable thing to expect, so there really is nothing to worry about.”

“I have to make myself come?” Sash asks, the words so hot on her lips they have to be said. Her innocence makes Isabella giggle a little. She puts her hands on her shoulders.

“Just do what they ask”, Isabella says evenly. “Most of the time they just like to be able to control you. You know, put you into different positions like a little doll. Remember, you won’t be able to see them. As far as you’re concerned, you’re just at home in front of the mirror.”

“Dante never said.”

“Well that doesn’t surprise me”, Isabella says. “Look, if you want to change your mind, you can always back out now. Course if you do that, you won’t get the five hundred dollars the client is offering to pay for your service. That’s a hell of a lot of money to do something fun.”

“Who is he?” Sash asks.

“Someone very important”, Isabella says. In the soft light from above, her glitter shines. “Someone Dante trusts you with.”

He watches the city swim by through the plate glass, bullet proof window, the horizon crisping sunset colors of red and yellow ochres, bleeding them into the bruised darkness of the approaching night, wondering how it was he was given this second opportunity.

On the street outside a corner convenience store, a dog tied to a lamppost barks at nothing, a little further on a girl struggles up a hill on her bike and a bird swoops to collect the discarded remains of a sandwich, left hours earlier on the stairs at the entrance to the town hall.

While Sash closes the door on her new world, and moves carefully from pole to chair and back again, her seminaked body twisted into elegant poses, never once forgotten from her years in dance class, Isabella greets him. She kisses him lightly on each cheek, takes his coat and smooths the suit out across his shoulders.

“She’s quite something”, she says.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Dante responds. “How is she?”

“She’s about as nervous as I was when I first started.”

“Well then she’ll do just fine, won’t she?”

“Can I get you anything?” Isabella asks.

“No, thank you”, Dante says. “I have everything that I need. Just make sure everyone else is catered for.”

“I always do.”

“That’s why you’re here”, Dante says.

“She’s in number eight. I thought that might suit her.”

“I think it’ll suit her just fine.”

She’s sat when he enters, waiting patiently, the door opening so silently she is unaware of it. Dante closes in on the glass.

He stands there casually with his hands in his pockets, taking a moment to admire his stepsister, before he intends to make his presence known.

It’s been a long time since he’s been able to do this, since he’s been able to look at her without her knowing she’s being looked at, and he wants to take advantage of it for as long as he can.

On the raised stage, in hot pants and a tight white vest top that hugs the contours of her body, his stepsister looks like she’s being exhibited.

To him, she looks like the visual representation of a long held dream, better even then he remembers her.

She uncrosses her legs and sits forward slightly, as though suddenly realizing she may no longer be alone.

“Is there anyone there?” she asks. “hello?”

She gets up and goes to the mirror, trying as best as she can to look through the glass again, still unable to see anything on the other side.

Dante goes to the leather seat. He stretches his legs and makes himself comfortable.

He watches his sister peer out through the glass, one hand above her, the other rested on her hip. On the table is a microphone, which he taps twice. Inside the booth, Sash jumps in fright.

“Hello”, Sash says again, looking up to the speakers. “Are you there?”

“Dance for me”, Dante says, the sound system designed to distort his voice.

“Ok”, Sash says, nerves creaking through her.

“Dance for me”, the distorted voice says again. “Don’t be shy.”

Music begins to crackle through the speakers. Sash has no idea where it comes from, but soon it begins to wash over her, the slow hypnotic beats almost impossible not to move to.

She begins to swing her hips, tap her toes to the rhythm, close her eyes and lose herself in it. The only thing she ever wanted to do when she was a kid was dance.

She couldn’t stop it, like she had a natural rhythm that ran through her and an even more natural urge to move with it. She couldn’t stop it even if she wanted to.

She danced all the way through high school and college, in any and every discipline she could get her hands on, and when she graduated, she did a pole and lap dancing class one evening for fun, sticking with it for almost a year because she loved the exercise and discipline.

One drunken evening in her bedroom, desperate to show Dante just a tease of what she had learned in her classes, was where this all started. Her a dumb, inexperienced eighteen year old virgin, eager to impress and hopelessly in love, and him twenty, already on the way to earning a fortune, and completely out of her league.

Now, repeating the moves she was so keen to show him the first time around, she’s not the only one who has the memory come back to her.

Dante can see she is nervous. He can see she is selfconscious and awkward, much like she was the first time she danced for him.

She had a tendency to go red when she was embarrassed, and Dante liked to tease her about it, until she had to hide her face and wait until it had gone back to its normal color.

She always complained to him and begged him to leave her alone, but secretly she liked the attention.

Moving with the beats now, Sash stretches her body, angling her neck from side to side, lifting her Tshirt to expose her belly, twisting and turning, pivoting around the small space to the evocative music, perfectly aware of the size of the area she’s confined to, and manipulating it perfectly.