Zane calls four girls’ names once we’ve finished our routine, each standing in our underwear and nipple pasties. I’m not one of the girls called, and immediately I feel exposed and nervous waiting for him to tell me my fate.

“If I’ve called your name, thank you very much for coming but I’m afraid we won’t be hiring you. You’re all free to go.” I quickly look around to see that Katie and two others are still standing here with me. Katie catches my eye as she shoots me a wink; I’m relieved to have made the first cut, but still too tense to return her a smile.

“Okay ladies, let’s take five, gather your costumes and then I’d like to see you perform the piece again.”

Annie, Lauren, and Rae are talking in hushed tones as they dissect our performance and carefully scrutinize each of us. I watch as their conversation comes to an abrupt halt. Annie’s face is full of concern as Lauren and Rae look me over, quickly dismissing whatever it was they were looking for with a side glance and head shake to each other. They turn back to Annie and pick up the discussion. There’s nothing like a group of beautiful women obviously talking about you to knock your confidence, even when you have a pretty strong sense of self-worth. I’ve always been confident when it comes to dance, and to date no one’s ever been able to shake it. I know I’m good. But I have a strange feeling that they’re not assessing my dancing abilities at the moment.

The other three girls on stage begin picking up the discarded gloves and Basques, sorting through to find which ones are theirs, and I’m hit in the chest with my clothes.

“Here you go, daydreamer,” Katie says as she starts dressing.

“Thanks,” I mumble and follow suit.

“Robyn, can I talk to you for a second?” Annie asks as she grabs my arm and leads me off the stage to a quiet corner, not giving me a chance to answer.

“Look, I’m going to ask this once and I’d appreciate an honest answer. Are you hooking up with Zane?”

“What!” I laugh, and then realize she’s serious. If the murderous look on her tiny little pixie face is anything to go by, she’s pissed that I found the question funny.

“Annie, no. Why would you even think that?”

“Well, he seems to know you, and Zane doesn’t have platonic female friends.”

“Wow, well you can relax because we’re not friends. I met him outside a bar two nights ago when I knocked him over and vomited in front of him. He helped my friend get me home. There’s absolutely nothing going on and there never will be. Trust me, my ex has sworn me off relationships for life.”

“Oh…”

The scowl’s been replaced with a small smile. “Well, that’s good to know. I’m sorry, I just…I don’t know. Zane and I are…” She’s struggling for a description of their relationship and honestly, I couldn’t care less.

“Look, no worries,” I reassure her and she looks relieved.

“Okay, ladies, back into positions! Rae, cue the music, let’s get this done,” Zane shouts, not lifting his eyes from his phone.

“That’s me,” I say to Annie as I climb onto the stage and she returns to her seat.

We go through the routine again and the other two girls are dismissed, leaving just Katie and me. We’re told we have three minutes each to perform to a piece of music of our choice. It doesn’t have to be polished as long as it gives a glimpse of how well we move and our abilities. Katie’s up first, and I’m a little shocked when Tweet’s Oops, Oh My begins to play. She doesn’t miss a beat as she begins a hip-hop routine that incorporates street and burlesque. It’s pretty uptempo, and she’s killing it. The whole three minutes is crammed full of shimmies, bump and grinds, and teases. There’s no denying that she’s a good dancer, and I watch enraptured as she turns, pulls an accidental exposé, then winks and takes a bow.

I’m impressed.

I’m also second guessing my music as she climbs down from the stage with a knowing grin on her face. She’s happy with her performance and she should be, it was great. Unfortunately for me.

“You’re up, Robyn!” Zane shouts, and I take a deep breath and walk to center stage.

I figure I need to stand out, so I choose Indiana’s Solo Dancing, deciding to go with contemporary. I was sure Katie would pull an old school big band number. I was wrong. Now it’s really all down to the dancing since I’ve lost the edge on my music choice. I get into first position. The music starts and washes over me and my body moves instinctively, there’re no conscious prompts. I’m in the zone from the first beat and everything else fades to black. I move in time, exaggerating each extension, gliding across the space and filling it with movement. I set my stance for a pirouette, turning once, twice in a classical turnout and then transitioning into a Fouettés. I’m spinning as fast as I can while making short work of unhooking the Basque and letting it drop to the floor. The whole intention of this routine is to discard my clothes as craftily as possible; I want the audience to appreciate the dance before they notice the flesh. Burlesque differs from stripping in that the sensuality comes from the sense of mystery and subdued sexuality as opposed to overt sexuality. The emphasis is on the tease, not the strip. At least that’s my rationale. I finish the piece with a grand jeté, landing into the splits and I mirror Katie’s earlier expression and wink. I’m out of breath and still myself, letting my body calm as I wait for some sort of response. I’m met with only silence as the music fades, and still nobody speaks.

Shit.

I stand, wiping my brow and look up to notice my audience has widened. There’s a guy here that wasn’t before, standing to Zane’s left.

“You’re hired,” he says in a low growl like I’ve somehow pissed him off.

“Sort it,” he tells Zane. I watch the muscles beneath his black T-shirt flex across his shoulders as his form retreats, and before I can contemplate the whole exchange he’s disappeared.

And I’m a burlesquer.

I LIVE BY two pretty simple philosophies: Don’t shit where you eat, and temptation is easier to avoid than resist. They’re simple enough ideas that have served me well.

Until now.

I’ve just hired a dancer that is temptation personified. She’s sex and innocence wrapped up in a beautiful box, begging to be opened. And I’m battling to understand whether the ache of knowing I need to resist her will outweigh the pain of conceding.

Either way…I’m fucked.

“SO YOU’RE STANDING me up, even though you’re dressed and ready to go.” It’s not really a question, more a statement. I’m saying it aloud for my own benefit.

I’m here.

She’s here.

I can see that she’s clearly dressed and ready to go: her lips are slick with gloss, and she’s poured herself into a dress designed to induce heart attacks in the opposite sex. The bright red fabric looks like a second skin, it hugs her so tightly. I cock my head to the side, evidently missing something as she fixes me with apologetic eyes.

“I’m just not convinced this is a great idea.”

I’m trying not to undress her mentally as she leans against the chipped doorway of her apartment. Her breasts are pushed together from her stance, and it’s clouding my ability to form a cohesive sentence. Desire has its podgy, fat fingers closed tightly around my neck; I can feel the pulse throbbing in my throat as I swallow.