The Biker’s Stripper

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Two full weeks passed.

Rector did not call. He did not send a single text message. Nothing.

At first, a wave of heavy relief washed over me. No tight black dress. No smoky private room. No heavy, calloused hands on my body making me feel things I didn't want to understand or admit. I could finally breathe without my chest tightening into a knot.

But that relief didn't last long.

After a few days, every single time my phone buzzed on the counter, my heart would jump into my throat. I would grab it as fast as I could, my fingers flying across the screen hoping, praying to see his number flash at me. It was never him. It was always just spam notifications, a reminder from the electric company, or sometimes the hospital desk. Each time I realized it wasn't him, a strange, hollow feeling settled deep in my chest.

I was completely surprised by how much that emptiness bothered me. I should have been thrilled by the quiet. Instead, I found myself constantly thinking about him.

I thought about the way his dark eyes watched me move around the pole. I remembered the low, rough sound of his voice right by my ear when he whispered slower. I could still vividly feel the intense heat of his hands on my waist and higher, tracing my ribs, and how easily my body had betrayed me—answering his touch even when my logical mind was screaming at me to stop.

I hated how much space he took up in my head. He was dangerous. He was the ruthless president of a violent motorcycle club, and he had trapped me in this bizarre arrangement entirely because of an accident I caused with my own carelessness. Yet every single night, when I lay alone in my quiet bed, my mind drifted right back to that private room, over and over again.

To keep the thoughts away, I threw myself into taking care of my mother.

Every single morning, I woke up early, dressed quickly, and took the bus across the city to the hospital. I sat with her for hours at a time. I helped feed her when her arms were too weak to hold a spoon. I read old magazines out loud just to keep her entertained and stop her from staring at the sterile white walls. I talked to the nurses, asked about her charts, and made sure she had everything she could possibly need.

The doctors were genuinely thrilled with her progress. The advanced treatments that Rector’s money paid for were working miracles. Color slowly returned to her pale cheeks, and her energy levels improved daily. She smiled more often, and one afternoon she even laughed out loud at a silly story I made up about a clumsy bus driver. The sound of that genuine laugh made my eyes fill with tears of pure happiness.

"You look different these days, honey," Mom said one morning while I fluffed and smoothed her pillows. "You look exhausted, but you also look... stronger somehow. Like you're carrying less weight."

I forced a small, convincing smile to my lips. "I'm just glad you're finally getting better, Mom. That's all that matters."

I never told her a single word about the strip club, the Skull MC, or the dangerous man paying the steep medical bills. Some secrets were just too heavy to share; they were better kept locked away in the dark.

In the afternoons, after leaving the hospital, I went back to my apartment and cleaned until my arms ached. I cooked simple meals for myself, even if I sat at the small table entirely alone. I washed clothes, folded blankets, and even started taking long walks in the small park near my building just to keep my body moving. I would do anything, try anything, to stop my mind from drifting back to Rector.

But it never fully worked.

When night fell, the thoughts always came back stronger than before. I would sit on the sagging couch and stare blankly at my phone resting on the coffee table. Sometimes, a dangerous impulse would take over, and I would start typing a message to him, wondering if I should just ask when he wanted me next. Then, my common sense would kick in, and I would delete it word by word. He had made the rules clear: he would call when he wanted me. I wasn't supposed to reach out first.

I started to wonder if he had completely forgotten about me. Maybe the debt was already considered paid off in his eyes. Maybe he had found another girl to dance in that private room for him. The mere idea made my stomach twist into a tight, uncomfortable knot in a way I deeply resented.

Then, one evening after two full weeks of absolute radio silence, I came home from the hospital much later than usual.

Mom had an exceptionally good day. She had eaten a full, healthy meal and spent half an hour talking excitedly about coming home to her own bed soon. I felt light, warm, and happy when I finally unlocked my front door and stepped inside.

I dropped my heavy bag on the counter and kicked off my shoes. That was when I saw it.

My phone screen was glowing brightly on the wooden table.

One new message.

My breath hitched. I picked it up with a visibly shaking hand and unlocked the screen.

Tomorrow. 8. Same place. Black dress.

Just those few short, demanding words. From him.

My heart immediately started beating fast and hard against my ribs. A confusing mix of sharp fear and something much warmer, much more eager, spread rapidly through my chest. Two whole weeks of dead silence, and with one tiny message, he was back in my head completely, pushing everything else aside.

I sank down onto the couch and read the words over and over again.

I was honestly surprised by how much I had missed this exact feeling—the nervous pull in my stomach, the breathless anticipation, the vivid memory of his hands. I had repeatedly told myself that I was only enduring this nightmare for my mother's sake. But looking at the screen now, I had to admit the bitter truth: part of me had been sitting in the dark, waiting for him to call the whole time.

Slowly, deliberately, I typed back a two-word reply.

Okay.

I tossed the phone onto the cushion and stared up at the blank wall.

Tomorrow night, I would put on that thin black dress again. I would climb onto the back of his roaring motorcycle. I would walk down that hallway into his private room. And deep down, I already knew my body would react the exact same way it had before—without permission, and without hesitation.

I pressed a trembling hand flat against my stomach and let out a long, shaky breath.

The two weeks of silence were officially over.

Rector was calling me back into his world.

And even though it terrified me to my core, a quiet, reckless part of me was entirely ready to go.