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The moment someone finds out what I do for a living, the question was always: “Why stripping? Why resort to such a low, low?” But I never understood why stripping had to be considered a bad thing.

I loved everything about it.

Okay, maybe not everything.

But being able to dance freely, make more money than I ever had, and gain an insane amount of confidence in my body was a breath of fresh air. Especially when so many people lived their life to tear women down in order to make themselves feel better.

When I had allowed doubts and comments from strangers to get the best of me, I tried to walk away from the industry. But every other job I attempted never felt right. In the past, I’d hosted parties where I sold sex toys. Mostly for bridal showers and bachelorette parties. Don’t get me wrong, I had a blast being around sex-positive women. But sales? Not for me.

There was a moment in my life before the sex toys where I really tried the whole “sales gig.” The guy that hired me made it sound like the business was lucrative, and I had this huge opportunity to make it. Oh boy, was he wrong. Selling solar panels door-to-door on the hottest days in Las Vegas? It was over before it ever began. Not one person took me seriously when they opened their door. They either chose to slam it in my face the moment the words solar panels slipped out, or the men that answered assumed I had to be lost and in need of their help or some bullshit. As if I’d need a man? Yeah. Fucking. Right.

Putting it simply—even if it sounded crazy as hell—my path in life had always led me here.

I grew up in a small town in Colorado. Even though there wasn’t much to do in Alpine Peak, I found joy in dancing.

When my parents fought all hours of the night, I’d put on my Walkman and drown out the noise, dancing to the beat.

When my father’s fist slammed through the thin walls of our trailer? I’d dance.

When my twin brother left to hang out with his friends, leaving me to deal with our parents by myself? I chose to dance.

When I realized I’d never get the proper training because my parents wouldn’t be able to afford it? I always chose to dance, no matter how that would come.

The moment my feet hit the ground and any type of movement flowed through me, it had healed my body in a way nothing else could. Dancing had always been therapeutic. And as I got older, dancing was where I felt the most like myself. It didn’t matter if I had clothes on or not, it brought me joy and allowed me to be in control of my emotions.

Most of my coworkers walked into The Royale Room with a different mindset. They had to be there. They didn’t want to be there. Over the years, I’d met a lot of women who took on stripping for one major reason—the money. But why they needed that money? It was always different.

For me, the money was a perk. I was able to live a life I never experienced growing up. I had a savings account that I was proud of, clothes for every occasion, a car that was in my own name, and I could afford to take a day off here and there. I could vacation with my friends and go to a fancy dinner every now and then. But even having saved up a pretty penny over the time I lived in Vegas, I never allowed it to go to my head.

I lived with my best friend, Peyton, because I wanted to. Having someone at home made nights feel safer. Even if I could afford my own place, I was never one to flaunt the money I made from the club.

Let’s be honest, I wouldn’t be able to strip forever. Eventually, I would need to set something up for my future.

So, as I walked into The Royale Room for another Friday night shift, I put a smile on, not just for myself, but for my coworkers who had feelings opposite of mine about being here.

Unlike the stereotypical strip club, The Royale Room was a high-end gentleman’s club. Only the richest men in the city had memberships. Not everyone that walked into the club lived in the city, though. Men from all over the country that came here on business had a membership. It was a hidden paradise for sleazy rich men to cheat on their wives.

The normal twenty-dollar lap dance that most men experienced on their eighteenth birthday for their first time at a club wasn’t what you’d get when you walked into The Royale.

Drinks were priced high, memberships priced even higher, and private—more intimate—dances in the back rooms wouldn’t even put a dent in the wallet of the type of men who came through here.

Depending on my mood, I was game for it all. On the days where I wanted to feel creative, I’d dance the pole. I would put on a whole show and rake in cash from anyone watching around the floor.

Tips weren’t necessary or expected since we were paid based on memberships. But in a city like Las Vegas, just about everyone had cash on hand, and they were more than eager to throw it away if it meant marking their territory. I’d never deny the extra tip to stash away for a rainy day.

When I wasn’t dancing the pole, if I felt like keeping to myself, I’d spend my shifts walking the floor, picking up the most eligible bachelor for a private one-on-one dance. No talking. Just getting lost in the music.

Today was one of those days.

After locking up my belongings in my cubby, fixing my makeup, and choosing my outfit for the night, I was ready to roam the floor.

It didn’t take long for my eyes to catch a familiar face. One I’d known for a few months now. We actually met one night in Denver when I was on a trip for one of my best friend’s birthdays. Turns out, he wasn’t just any billionaire, but the owner of the Las Vegas Neon hockey team and recent frequent flyer at the club.

After spotting him, I made my way across the club, heading straight for the hockey hottie himself.

Once I was within arm’s reach, I glided my fingers along his back. Taken by complete surprise, he shivered the moment his name slipped from my lips.

“Hunter.”