Exquisite Redemption (Iron Horse MC Book 3) (3 page)

Adrenaline coursed through me, giving me a high as addictive as any drug I’d ever done, making me want to move. The pulsing beat rattled my bones while I stood next to one of the giant speakers that flanked the stage and I continued to stretch out. Even with my earbuds in the sound was deafening, but it had to be that loud to reach the cheering horde of people watching the stage with drunken, yet rapt attention as the girls strutted their stuff.

A group of women dressed in biker-babe meets slutty-schoolgirl outfits did their dance routine with a crisp perfection that made me proud. They were my opening act and I’d brought them to Sturgis with me from Vegas. Some I’d stripped with, some I’d pole danced with, while others were Vegas showgirls. They all knew how to work the audience and while I was thankful for the energy they raised, I couldn’t help a hint of apprehension moving through me.

Ironic that the last crowd I’d perform for like this was also my biggest. And this wasn’t a crowd full of tourists enjoying the Vegas nightlife, who had come to watch my act in a show at a luxurious casino theater. No, this was a seething throng of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of bikers getting their party on with a vengeance. Even the backstage was rife with people whooping it up, but I had a group of scary-as-hell bikers acting as my bodyguards and they’d secured me my own large bubble of space no one violated.

By now my nipples had hardened to bullets behind my black leather-looking sports bra, but not with arousal. Nervous energy zipped through my body, making my skin tingle as goose bumps rose up along my arms. The tight top held my big chest in place while I did my routine, and looked sexy as hell with the shiny studs lining the collar that went around my throat. Yeah, lots of women gave me shit about the size of my breasts, snide comments about fake tits and being a slut and all of that, but fuck ’em if they thought they had the right to judge me because of how I looked.

Even before I got implants, I had good-sized boobs that had drawn attention, but when I’d dedicated myself to winning the World Pole Dancer of the Year title, I’d gone for it hardcore. By hardcore, I mean working out with the same dedication I showed during my pageant and figure-skating days which had toned me to the point I had very little excess body fat and a lot more muscle. That dedication to getting in shape had deflated my boobs, giving me saggy breasts at almost eighteen, and it looked really weird when I spun fast on the pole. I had to get them lifted and got double D-cup implants that were slightly larger, and a hell of a lot perkier, than my real breasts.

I’d paid twenty-two thousand for them, a crazy amount, but they’d earned me hundreds of thousands of dollars in return and I loved them.

The song blasting through the night began to wind down and I shook out my arms and rolled my neck, trying to burn off my nerves. I swear I could feel the roar of the crowd wash over me as the women on the stage bowed, then waved and blew kisses as they made their way to the backstage area. The hosts of the event went out on stage and talked to the crowd about some charity run they were doing tomorrow while the last of the girls strutted off. When they passed me they all smiled and wished me luck. Kaitlin, my fellow showgirl from Vegas who specialized in the trapeze, bounced up to me and gave me a brief hug then pulled back.

I easily read her lips as she said, “You look amazing! Oh my God, you’re going to have guys creaming their jeans. Go get ’em, tiger!”

I couldn’t help but laugh and hug her tight. She was cute as a button with her big brown eyes and pigtails that swung as she waved and headed for the trailers. A Midwestern girl who’d moved out to Vegas with a boyfriend who’d tried to pimp her, Kaitlin had been as out of place at the strip club we’d both worked briefly at as could be. While I’d grown up with an evil bitch of a mother and could handle the cattiness of the strip club, she’d been painfully naive. In a way she’d reminded me of my super shy and sheltered twin sister, Swan, and I’d made sure everyone knew if they fucked with Kaitlin, they’d have me to answer to. No one had been there to protect my innocence and tender heart, and I’d be damned if I let someone as genuinely nice as Kaitlin get hurt.

On the stage, the announcer for the evening was pumping up the crowd for me while the bouncers made sure everyone backstage kept their distance so I could focus and get in my zone.

What I was about to do was dangerous, and would require my intense concentration, but I excelled under pressure out of both necessity and pride.

Every inch of my skin erupted in goose bumps as I heard my stage name, Sarah Star, blast through the wild night.

Showtime.

The first strains of “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica came through the speakers, clean and perfect, bringing a roaring cheer from the crowd. Just like I thought, bikers loved Metallica. I smiled as I closed my eyes and strode onto the stage, mapping the steps out in my mind as I kept my head down, the strobing blue stage lights making everything around me seem super surreal. While I stroked the cool metal of the specially made two-story pole with my fingertips, I turned to the crowd and struck a pose any pinup would be proud of, arching my back before the first crash of symbols hit, changing the tempo of the song. The strobing light stopped and a warm overhead beam illuminated me fully as I nailed them with my trademark pouty smile. I swiftly grabbed the pole above my head and swung myself up, climbing higher as my muscles began to warm.

The song throbbed through my blood, taking me away from my messed-up life, giving me something beautiful to lose myself in. An almost unthinking zone in my mind where my body ruled. Every inch of my skin tingled as I climbed all the way to the top, then stretched out so my body hovered perpendicular to the pole, held solely in place by the strength of my arms. I can bench press more than my own bodyweight and I needed every ounce of that strength to get through the routine ahead.

A soft, melodic part of the song eased the tempo and I exhaled as I drifted down the pole, gracefully moving through the air with one arm and leg extended as I arched my back, my muscles screaming at the strain put on them while I defied gravity.

The melody picked up again and I couldn’t help but smile as I ascended the pole in an exaggerated crawl, the noise of the crowd increasing the higher I got. Having perfected my routine with the help of professional choreographers, I slinked up the pole then paused to look over my shoulder at the seething mass of people two stories below me, and winked. Seducing the crowd of wild men through my movements was fun, and I smiled when I got to the very top of the pole. Taking a moment, I tried to see the mass of people as best I could through the lights, before blowing them a kiss.

I paused for dramatic effect, and to center myself, before I threw my lower body off the pole, holding on to it as I whipped my legs around for momentum and begin to rotate, faster and faster, now curling my body in as well. The g-force was crazy as I continued to spin, my abs aching from the strain of slowing my descent while speeding up my spin. My mind, thankfully, remained clear as my heart beat strong and sure. One of the things I’d studied during my figure skating days was physics. Knowing how to work
with
gravity instead of against it was important in learning the different jumps. And, because I was a competitive figure skater, my body had been trained to endure the spinning like no normal person ever could. That particular skill was what had won me World Pole Dancer of the Year, the ability to spin, and spin, and spin without passing out.

With my hair stinging my face, I switched so now I was now fully wrapped around the pole, going fast enough that it was a struggle to draw a breath, drowning in the thrill of speed. Nothing mattered but the rush of the wind, the gentle strains of the guitar, the sensual pleasure of my body flowing to the music. Throwing my head back as I finally slowed, I undulated against the pole like it was my lover, giving the crowd of rowdy men the kind of show I knew they liked. With each roll of my hips, I showed them how good it would be to fuck me.

What can I say, I own my sexuality and I’m not ashamed to flaunt it.

Sure enough, they went wild and I gracefully slid my way down the pole, my muscles burning from the stress of suspending myself for so long. Once I reached the bottom I flexed my bare feet, trying to ease the strain on my weak knee, while turning and giving the audience a good shot of my butt, barely covered by my boy shorts, and pop my booty out then give it a little shake. Or a big shake—I have a lot of booty. The approval of the mass of people hidden by the lights fills the empty space inside of me and I stand up with my blood rushing to my head.

The next song in my set is “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd, and as it begins, I close my eyes, caught up in the lyrics. In many ways this song both heals and torments me, reminding me of the one and only time I’ve ever done heroine, when I was sixteen. I didn’t even know what it was, thought I was just doing another line of coke with my mom while we were at some high rollers party at a casino in Reno. Instead I’d spent the next four hours sitting on a couch in blissful numbness while the world seemed to move at hyperspeed around me.

Morrie, my thirty-year-old lover, had been super pissed my mom had given me that shit, but she’d claimed she didn’t know and he’d made me promise never to do it again. Considering I thought I was deeply in love with him at the time, I’d promised and had never touched heroin again. Too bad no one warned me away from
him
, because he was far more addictive and dangerous than any drug.

My legs burned and it removed me from the poisonous hold of my memories, reminding me that at this moment, I was alive and it felt amazing.

The steady tempo in the song guides my movements, drawing me further into the moment, taking me away from my worries as surely as any drug ever had. Holding on to the pole with my good leg, I arched back and moved my arms with the beat, my stomach muscles aching as I began to whip my head back and forth, letting the song guide me. When I reached the midpoint of the pole I began to spin again, not fast, but slow and graceful as a butterfly. The song began to wind down and I slowly returned to reality, the pain of my body exerting itself to the point of collapse, clearing the music from my mind as I finally reached the hard wood of the stage.

My breath is burned my lungs, but I can’t help but smile as the crowd’s adoration washes over me, filling me with a sense of belonging, of being loved. False though it may be, I drink it in and try to fill the hollow emptiness inside of me that never really goes away, the space that should have been filled with my mother’s love.

With trembling legs, I strode to the center of the stage and smiled, giving the crowd a practiced, perfect wave I’d learned from hours of rehearsal with my pageant coach back when my mom had been convinced she could make me the next Miss America.

Bet the bitch never thought I’d be using those skills to win over a crowd of bikers.

The lights blind me to how many people were out there, but the roaring wave of their cheers washes over me, making the hair on my arms stand on end. This was the last time I’d be on a stage like this, the last night for me to be wild, before I finally got to start the next phase of my life as a responsible adult. I was going to have a new life somewhere they’d never heard of Billie Waylan—or whatever the hell she was calling herself now—and where I could begin to live a normal, respectable life along with a normal, respectable man.

That meant this was my final night of partying with abandon before I needed to buckle down and get serious. What better place to find a fantastic, dirty, awesome one-night stand than a biker rally?

With this in mind, I left the stage with the roar of the crowd moving over me like a caress. Pulling out my earplugs once we were far enough away from the speakers, I tried to graciously nod and smile at the people backstage, reminding myself I’m lucky to be here and it won’t kill me to take a second to make someone happy by saying a word or two.

As soon as I reach out, my assistant, Marley, is there with a big, fluffy white robe and a melancholy smile. We’d had a lot of fun during the last few months of my publicity tour for both
Playboy
and as a pole dancing champ. Without her organizational skills, I’d be fucked six ways to Sunday trying to keep track of everything. I’m not good at remembering things, my mind is too overactive, like a squirrel on those nasty orange candy Circus Peanuts, and I needed someone to help me stay focused. Thankfully, Marley was everything I’m not—mellow, quiet, and boasting a freakish ability to multitask. She lived in my guest house back in Las Vegas with her little boy and I can attest that the woman is so organized her soda is arranged alphabetically in her fridge.

Wiggling her eyebrows, Marley said, “Ready to party it up?”

Marley knows of my plans to have a wild night and while I know she’ll be staying in her hotel room, by herself, she doesn’t judge me for my somewhat vast sexual appetites. Sex was something I craved, plain and simple. I know that, my therapist knows that, and I’m okay with it. I yearn for the connection I get from the act, even if it’s false, which has led to more than a few heartbreaks. But that wasn’t going to happen anymore. Tomorrow I’m no longer pining after bad boys, only mature men who have good heads on their shoulders and were responsible. Someone who had the patience to teach me how to trust, someone I can rely on.

With Marley in tow and two big biker bodyguards in front of me and one behind, I was led through the backstage party. It was packed and I smiled and waved while people yelled congratulations to me on my performance. We made it to where my bus sat in the section of the festival grounds where the VIP entertainers have their RVs and big luxury buses, and I finally relaxed a little bit. The noise level is only slightly less than an airplane taking off, and when I reach the door of my bus, one of the guys escorting us, a hot-in-a-mean-way Latino lover, stopped me. The back of his patched-up vest held the symbol for the Iron Horse MC, an almost tribal-looking horse head with a mane like flames.