First Rule OF Strippin

"Get your fucking hands off her!"

The punch landed before Inés could step back. The drunk man's nose exploded in blood, spraying across the stage as he stumbled into the pole she'd just been dancing on.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go.

"I was here first!" the other man roared, grabbing the other man by his collar. "I get the next private dance!"

"Like hell you do!"

They crashed into a table as drinks shattered. The crowd erupted jubilation, half cheering, half scrambling away from the chaos.

Inés kept dancing. She had to. The music was still playing and stopping mid-set would cost her tips. So she moved around the chaos, her heels clicking over broken glass, her body swaying to the beat like two grown men weren't trying to kill each other over who got to pay her next.

It was just another Tuesday at P-Valley.

"GENTLEMEN!"

Uncle Clifford's voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. He appeared in a body on dress and six-inch heels, his wig perfectly styled despite moving at speed. Diamond, the club's massive security guard, flanked him by the side.

"Y'all know the rules!" Uncle Clifford snapped his fingers. "No fighting over my girls! If you can't act civilized, you can get the hell out!"

Diamond didn't wait for permission. He grabbed both men by their collars and dragged them toward the exit like they weighed nothing. They were still swinging at each other as the door slammed behind them.

The crowd laughed and went back to drinking.

Uncle Clifford turned to her and blew her a kiss. "You good, baby girl?"

She nodded, forcing a smile.

"That's my star!" He clapped his hands. "Now give these people a show!"

The music swelled on. Inés spun on the pole, letting the adrenaline carry her through the rest of her set. This was fine and normal. Men fought over dancers all the time. It didn't mean anything.

And she was good at pretending the chaos didn't touch her. Out here, under the red lights and cigarette smoke, she wasn't the quiet college girl who lived in her stepfather's mansion. She wasn't the daughter her mother used as proof she'd changed and deserved this new life of wealth and designer handbags.

Here, she was Red.

And Red didn't have problems. Red didn't owe three hundred thousand dollars to a gang that sent photos of her mother's face with crosshairs drawn over it. Red didn't lie awake at night wondering if this would be the month they stopped sending warnings and started dropping bodies.

Red just danced.

"Take it off!" some drunk guy shouted, waving money.

"Shake it, gorgeous!" another yelled.

"Look at that ass!" A short bald man with gross teeth practically fell out of his chair staring at her.

Inés smiled a fake kind that made them think she liked being here. Her fingers touched the strap of her bra like she might take it off. More money came flying onto the stage.

Three hundred thousand dollars. She needed so much more than what they were spraying tonight. She bent low, moving her hips with the beat.

And that's when she saw him.

He sat at the front row, middle seat. Completely still while chaos had erupted around him minutes ago. His tie was loose, whiskey in his hand, and his dark eyes were locked on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

Miguel Alvarez. Her stepbrother.

Her heart stopped.

No. No. No. No.

Her heel slipped. She almost fell but grabbed the pole just in time. The men cheered louder, thinking she did it on purpose.

"She's so good!"

"Look at her go!"

But Inés wasn't listening anymore. All she could see was him. Sitting there in his expensive suit, watching her the way he watched business deals at his father's company... cold, calculating, and completely focused.

With the wig, mask and makeup, and how dark the club was, he couldn't recognize her. They'd lived in the same house for six months and he never looked at her twice. She was nothing to him, just baggage that came with his dad's new wife.

She spun again, forcing her body to keep moving even though her brain was screaming at her to run.

*He doesn't know. He can't know.*

But then Miguel leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, and he smiled.

"Interesting," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

Her blood went cold.

He reached into his jacket slowly, pulled out a thick stack of cash... not ones or fives, but hundreds... and threw them onto the stage. They landed at her feet, and the crowd went absolutely insane.

"Holy shit!"

"Big money!"

"Someone's in love!"

Miguel's voice cut through all the noise. The same smooth and confident voice he used when he expected people to obey him. "Dance for me."

Inés's hands shook on the pole. She couldn't move, neither could she dance properly.

Then he stood up, and the cheers got even louder.

"What's he doing?"

"Private dance time!"

"Lucky guy!"

Miguel walked toward the stage like he owned the place. The crowd moved out of his way instinctively. Everyone could tell he was rich and powerful just by looking at him.

He stopped right at the edge of the stage. So close she could see his eyes clearly. Dark and hungry and fixed entirely on her. So close she could smell his cologne, the expensive kind he always wore at home. So close there was nowhere to hide.

Inés held her breath.

Miguel reached out his hand.

Not for the money on the ground.

Not to help her down.

He reached for her mask.