A STUDENT OR STRIPPER? (1)
817 Words
TRINITY.
The bass is pounding through my bones when I step onto the main stage.
Thursday nights are always packed, but tonight feels different. The energy is charged, electric, and I'm feeding off it as I grab the pole in my signature red set—barely there scraps of lace that leave almost nothing to the imagination.
I'm Daisy here. Not Trinity Lambert, graduate student drowning in debt and thesis anxiety. Just Daisy.
The lights hit me and I begin to move, letting the music take over. This is the only time I feel completely free—when I'm dancing, when I'm in control, when nothing else matters.
I'm mid-spin, hair flying, when I see him.
Professor Damien Valor.
Sitting alone in the front row, whiskey in hand, watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
Holy s**t.
Our eyes lock and I see the exact moment recognition hits him. His expression shifts from casual interest, to shock, to something darker, hungrier.
I don't miss a beat—I'm too professional for that—but my heart is hammering against my ribcage. Damien Valor. The Victorian literature professor whose lectures I attend twice a week. The man I've spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about during his discussions of Brontë and Wilde.
And now he's watching me strip.
I finish my set with shaking hands, collecting bills and trying not to look at him. When I finally dare a glance, he's still watching, those dark eyes tracking my every movement.
I disappear backstage as fast as I can.
"Girl, you killed it out there," Rose says, touching up her makeup. "That guy in the front couldn't take his eyes off you."
"Yeah, I noticed," I mutter.
"You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine. Just need a minute."
I'm changing into my floor outfit—still revealing but with marginally more fabric—when Lana pokes her head into the dressing room.
"Daisy? You've got a private room request."
My stomach drops. "Who?"
"Didn't give a name. But he's waiting in room three. And honey, he's fine as hell."
I know who it is before I even walk down the hall.
The private rooms are tucked away in the back—red velvet and low lighting and expensive privacy. I pause outside room three, taking a steadying breath, before pushing through the door.
Damien stands when I enter, and god, he looks out of place in the best way. Expensive suit, rolled sleeves, that professor demeanor that shouldn't be hot but absolutely is.
"Professor Valor," I say, closing the door behind me.
"Trinity." My real name sounds different in his voice. "Or should I say Daisy?"
"Here, it's Daisy." I cross my arms, suddenly very aware of how little I'm wearing. "You should probably leave. This is... complicated."
"I know." But he doesn't move. Just studies me with those intense dark eyes. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you been dancing?"
"That's really none of your business."
"You're my student."
"And you're at a strip club," I counter. "So we're both in interesting positions right now."
His mouth quirks up slightly. "Fair point."
"Why did you ask for a private room, Professor?"
"Damien. In here, I'm just Damien." He takes a step closer. "And I asked for the room because I needed to make sure you're okay. That this is your choice."
"It is my choice. I'm good at it and it pays a hell of a lot better than grading freshman essays."
"I don't doubt that you're good at it." His eyes drift down my body, slow and deliberate. "I saw you out there. You're... exceptional."
Heat floods through me at the way he says it.
"You still haven't answered why you're here," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "In this room specifically."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Because I saw you up there and I couldn't just leave. Couldn't just pretend I didn't see..." He stops, jaw tightening. "Why do you do this? You're brilliant. Your thesis proposal was one of the best I've read."
"Brilliant doesn't pay student loans. Dancing does." I tilt my head. "Are you here to judge me or did you actually want something?"
"I'm not judging you."
"Then what do you want, Professor?"
The air between us shifts, charges with something dangerous.
"I want to see what you do," he says finally. "In here. I want to understand what makes someone like you choose this."
"Someone like me?"
"Smart. Talented. Capable of discussing the s****l politics of Victorian literature one day and dancing in barely anything the next."
"Maybe I contain multitudes," I say, echoing Whitman.
He smiles—actually smiles. "Maybe you do."
"Private dances are expensive."
"I'm aware." He pulls out his wallet and sets several hundred-dollar bills on the small table beside him. "Is this enough?"
- Writer
