Chapter 19: Pole Position
The stale, recycled air of McCarran Airport was a slap after the perfumed musk of the hotel room. Jack stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Jason shoulder his single, heavy duffel bag. The goodbye felt strange, formal, edged with the ghost of what had happened just hours before on the crisp hotel bedspread.
“Flight’s boarding,” Jason said, nodding towards the gate. He looked like any other college kid leaving town—worn jeans, hoodie, scuffed sneakers. Only Jack knew the hidden intensity in those hands, the hungry submission in those eyes.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. What else was there? ‘Thanks for the mind-blowing three-way?’ ‘See you around?’ It was a one-act play, and the curtain was falling.
Jason shifted his weight. “Look… thanks. For last night. For… before.” He met Jack’s eyes, a flicker of the old shyness there, but overlaid now with a hard-won certainty. “You guys… you changed the game for me.”
“You did the work,” Jack said, meaning it.
A faint smile touched Jason’s lips. “Yeah, well.” He glanced over Jack’s shoulder to where Raven leaned against a pillar, a dark sentinel pretending to study her phone. “Tell her… I get it now.” He turned and merged with the shuffling boarding line without a handshake or a hug. It was cleaner that way.
Raven fell into step beside Jack as they walked back through the terminal. “He’ll be fine,” she said, her tone dismissive, but her arm linked through his held a trace of possession.
“I know,” Jack said.
“He wanted a souvenir,” Raven shrugged. “He got one. Now we move on.”
Back at the penthouse, Holly and Red were a whirlwind of restless energy. The space felt too big, too quiet, after the density of the previous night. “We’re in fucking Vegas,” Holly declared, pacing before the floor-to-ceiling windows. “And we’re just… what? Ordering pancakes?”
Red, sprawled on the sofa, nodded vigorously. “My thoughts exactly. I feel like a tiger in a cage. I need to… move.”
“Club?” Jack suggested, already knowing the answer.
Holly’s grin was feral. “Better. I heard about a place. ‘Open Pole Night’ at the Sin City Strip Club. Amateur hour. Big prize for the crowd favorite.”
Raven’s eyebrow arched. “Amateur?”
“For the performers,” Holly clarified, her eyes glittering. “Not for us.”
The Sin City Strip Club was a throbbing, dark heart in the chest of the Strip. The air didn’t just smell of perfume and smoke; it tasted of it, a metallic tang of desperation and cheap excitement layered over spilled liquor and sweat. Bass vibrated up through the soles of their shoes, a physical pulse that matched the frantic glitter of the lights scanning the main stage, where a professional dancer moved with robotic, disinterested grace.
They claimed a plush booth in a shadowy corner, a bottle of overpriced vodka on the table between them. Holly’s leg bounced with nervous voltage. Red’s eyes scanned the room, absorbing the mechanics of the place—the tired waitresses, the clusters of men with glassy eyes, the ‘open stage’ to the left, currently empty save for a gleaming brass pole under a single, stark spotlight.
“I’m going up there,” Red announced, her voice cutting through the drone of a 90s rock anthem.
Holly leaned forward. “Seriously?”
“Fuck yes.” Red’s grin was all teeth. She’d changed before leaving, into a simple black lace bodysuit that left little to the imagination. “It’s open night. What’s the worst that happens? I turn this depressing shithole into a party.”
Jack watched her, a familiar, warm current of arousal mixing with a protective spike of anxiety. This was public, dangerous in a different way. Raven just sipped her drink, her gaze fixed on Red with a look of intense, clinical interest.
Red didn’t wait for further discussion. She slithered out of the booth and made her way through the smoky haze toward the side stage. A bored-looking man with a clipboard nodded, said something they couldn’t hear, and handed her a number. Red pinned it to her hip.
When her number was called, the transition was jarring. The main stage lights dimmed. The single spotlight hit the open stage. A few patrons turned their heads, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright mockery.
Then Red stepped into the light.
She didn’t slink or pout. She owned the light. She grasped the pole not like a prop, but like a weapon. The first chords of a heavy, synth-driven track pulsed through the speakers, and she moved. Her body, usually all fluid curves and playful mischief, became a study in controlled power. She walked the perimeter of the small stage, her eyes locking on men in the front row, a challenge in her gaze that instantly wiped the smirks from their faces.
She found Jack’s eyes across the room and winked.
Then she was on the pole. She planted her hands and lifted her body into the air with a fluid strength that drew a collective “whoa” from the crowd. She spun, her red hair a whip of fire in the spotlight, her legs extended in a perfect V. The black lace of her bodysuit revealed everything—the pale swell of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs. She descended slowly, wrapping one leg around the pole, grinding her hips against the cool brass in a circular motion that was utterly lewd.
“Holy shit,” Jack breathed.
Dollar bills started to rain onto the stage. A bouncer stood nearby, ensuring no one touched, but the money fluttered down like obscene leaves. Red ignored it, lost in the rhythm. She inverted herself, hooking the back of her knees over the pole, letting her head hang down. Her hair brushed the stage floor. With a deliberate, breathtaking slowness, she spread her legs wide in mid-air, presenting herself to the room.
The lace between her legs was dark with moisture.
The crowd roared. Whistles and crude shouts filled the air. Red brought her hands up, pulling the damp fabric aside to reveal her glistening, pink flesh. She traced a finger through her own wetness, then brought it to her mouth, sucking it clean with a pop the microphone picked up.
“Fuck me,” a man at a nearby table groaned, too loudly.
Jack felt a surge of possessive heat, mixed with a weird, swelling pride. This was Red, their Red, reducing a room of strangers to a horny, chanting mob. She was a force of nature.
She finished by sliding down the pole, landing in a crouch, her chest heaving. She scooped up a handful of the dollar bills, blew a kiss to the crowd, and sauntered off the stage, her number fluttering from her hip. The applause followed her like a wave.
She collapsed into the booth beside Jack, smelling of sweat, perfume, and sex. “Well?” she panted, her eyes sparkling. “Think I’ll win the toaster?”
Holly was laughing, a bright, unhinged sound. “You’re a goddamn menace. You made that guy in the front row spill his entire beer.”
Raven handed Red a glass of water. Her expression was thoughtful. “You showed them everything,” she said, not a criticism, just an observation.
“They paid for a show,” Red shrugged, gulping the water. “Might as well give them the real thing.” She turned to Jack, her damp shoulder pressing against his. “Your turn.”
Jack choked on his own sip of vodka. “My what?”
“Open pole night,” Red said, as if it were obvious. “You can’t let me have all the fun.”
“I’m not going up there,” Jack said, the blood draining from his face.
“Not you, dummy.” Red rolled her eyes. “Her.” She nodded at Raven.
All eyes turned to Raven. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the open stage since Red descended. A slow, dark smile was spreading across her face, the kind that usually preceded something deliciously cruel. She’d been quiet since the airport, a contained storm. Now, she looked at the stage like it was an opponent.
“Okay,” Raven said, simply.
She stood up. She was wearing a simple, tight black dress that ended mid-thigh. It wasn’t meant for this, which made it perfect. She approached the clipboard man, spoke to him briefly, and got her number.
When Raven took the stage, the energy shifted. The spotlight felt colder, more interrogative. She didn’t smile. She surveyed the crowd, her gaze sweeping over them like a queen examining disappointing subjects. The music changed to something darker, a throbbing electronic beat with a sinister, crawling bassline.
She didn’t touch the pole immediately. She began to move in place, a slow, hypnotic roll of her hips. Her hands slid up her own body, over the curve of her breasts, her neck, tangling in her own dark hair. It was a private dance, performed in public. She was utterly self-possessed, utterly untouchable. The catcalls died in men’s throats. They watched, captive.
Then she moved to the pole. Her technique was different from Red’s—less athletic flash, more sensual contortion. She pressed her back against the brass, arching so her chest pointed to the ceiling, and slid down in a slow, excruciating descent. When she reached the bottom, she turned, placed her hands on the stage floor, and kicked her legs up, scissoring them around the pole in a move that defied physics and highlighted the perfect curve of her ass under the thin fabric of her dress.
She came back to her feet and did the most audacious thing of all. She walked to the edge of the stage, directly in front of a table of three men in cheap suits. She locked eyes with the oldest, a balding man with a loosened tie. Then, with deliberate slowness, she lifted the hem of her short dress, inch by inch, up her thighs, past her hips. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
The man’s jaw went slack.
Raven wasn’t just exposing herself. She was performing an act of psychological dominance. She spread her lips with her fingers, displaying herself completely, a direct challenge. Her expression never changed—it was cool, almost disdainful. She held the pose for three agonizing beats, letting them look, letting them sweat.
Then she dropped her dress, turned her back on them, and returned to the pole for her finale. She spun, a fast, furious series of turns that made her dress flare, and finished facing the crowd, one hand on the pole, the other on her hip, breathing hard, a goddess of judgment.
The silence held for a moment before the room exploded. The applause was louder, more frantic, edged with a kind of stunned desperation. Bills littered the stage at her feet like tribute.
She walked off, not with Red’s playful saunter, but with a calm, regal stride. She didn’t look at the men she had humiliated. She came back to the booth and sat down, smoothing her dress.
“Fuck, Raven,” Holly whispered, her voice full of awe.
“Fuck, Raven,” Holly whispered, her voice full of awe. She watched the bills being swept from the stage, a glittering heap of validation. “You didn’t just dance for them. You fucking eviscerated them.”
Raven picked up her vodka, took a long sip, and set it down with a quiet click. “They were already empty.” She turned her dark eyes on Holly. A competitive spark had been lit on that stage, and now it glowed between them. “Your turn.”
The two words hung in the smoky air. Holly’s spine straightened. She looked from Raven’s cool, satisfied face to the stage, then to Jack. A slow, dangerous grin spread across her lips. “Oh, it’s my turn,” she agreed. Her hand snapped out, fingers wrapping around Jack’s wrist with surprising strength. “But I’m not going alone.”
“Wait, Holly—” Jack started, his voice a dry crackle.
“No waiting.” Her grip was iron. “You’re part of this. Of me.” She stood, pulling him up with her. The club’s pulse seemed to quicken, the bass thumping in time with his racing heart. “We’re giving them a show they’ll fucking bankrupt themselves to forget.”
He didn’t resist. A part of him—the part that had thrived on the penthouse balcony, that had surrendered to Jason in a quiet hotel room—wanted this. The fear was a metallic taste on his tongue, an intoxicant. Red whooped, clapping her hands. Raven just watched, her expression unreadable, a queen observing her subjects.
Holly dragged him through the haze, past tables of leering faces. She didn’t go to the clipboard man. She marched right up to the edge of the open stage, released Jack’s wrist, and placed her hands on the scuffed wood. In one fluid, powerful motion, she vaulted up. Then she turned and looked down at him, her hand extended. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.
He took her hand and let her haul him onto the stage. The spotlight was a physical weight, a blinding heat. The crowd’s murmur swelled, curious, anticipatory. This was different. A couple. An amateur guy, skinny, glasses glinting.
Holly turned to face the sea of shadowy faces. She didn’t speak to them. She spoke to Jack, her voice low, just for him, but the microphone pinned to the stage rim picked it up, broadcasting her intimacy to the entire room.
“They think they know what they want,” she said, running a finger down his chest. “They don’t.” Her hands went to the hem of her tiny, silver dress. In one swift motion, she pulled it up and over her head, tossing it into the darkness. She stood before them in only a pair of black lace panties, her skin glowing under the stark light.
A collective intake of breath hissed through the club.
Holly stepped into Jack, her back against his front. She reached behind her, her hands finding his belt. Her fingers made quick work of the buckle, the button, the zipper. He was already hard, a fact the thin fabric of his jeans did little to conceal. She pushed them down, letting them pool at his ankles. His boxers followed.
When she stepped aside, his cock sprang free, thick and erect in the punishing light. A rumble—part shock, part hunger—rolled through the crowd.
“Look at him,” Holly purred into the mic, her voice a vibration in the hot air. “My secret weapon.” She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her lace panties and slid them down her legs, stepping out of them with a graceful kick. Then she turned, completely naked, and faced Jack.
She was exquisite. The light worshipped every curve, every hollow. She took his hand and placed it firmly between her legs. “Feel that?” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “That’s for you. That’s for them.” She was soaking wet, her heat seeping into his palm.
She guided his fingers, making him stroke her, opening her for the hungry eyes watching. She let out a soft, theatrical moan that echoed in the silent club. Then she pushed his hand away.
“Now,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his. “Fuck me. Right here. Show them what this is for.”
She bent over, placing her palms flat on the stage floor, presenting herself to him and to the room. The view was brutally explicit. Jack’s mind went blank, wiped clean by a surge of pure, adrenalized lust. He stepped out of the tangle of his clothes, his cock aching. He spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly, and positioned the broad head at her entrance.
He drove into her in one deep, claiming thrust.
Holly cried out, a sharp, real sound that tore through the artificial music still pumping from the speakers. The crowd erupted. Not cheers, but a guttural, almost pained roar of approval. Money began to fly, not single bills but handfuls, a blizzard of paper that fluttered around their joined bodies.
Jack held himself deep, letting the sensation and the spectacle wash over him. Then he pulled back and slammed into her again. And again. Each impact jolted her forward on her palms, a symphony of skin on skin amplified in the quieted room. He fucked her with a raw, public intensity, each thrust a declaration. Her slickness coated him, making filthy, wet sounds with every movement.
“Harder!” Holly screamed, twisting her head to look back at him, her hair wild across her face. “Let them see! Let them see what you do to me!”
He obeyed, his hands gripping her hips, his thighs pounding against hers. He was a machine, a spectacle, a animal under lights. The heat, the smell of them, the roar of the crowd—it fused into a single, overwhelming sensation. Holly reached between her own legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles as he hammered into her.
“I’m gonna come!” she shrieked, her body tightening around him. “Oh god, Jack, I’m gonna—”
Her orgasm ripped through her, a visible convulsion that arched her back and made her scream into the void. The sound of it, raw and unrestrained, pushed Jack over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. His release pulsed into her, a hot, private claim in the most public place imaginable.
He stayed there for a moment, slumped over her, both of them panting, slick with sweat, illuminated like specimens. The money still rained down, sticking to their damp skin.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sight of her, filled and glistening under the light, was more obscene than anything that had come before. Holly straightened up with a shaky, triumphant grace. She turned to face the cheering, stomping darkness, a goddess of chaos, and took a bow.
She grabbed her dress, scooped up a fistful of cash, and pulled Jack off the stage. His legs felt like water. The crowd’s noise was a physical wall they passed through on their way back to the booth.
Red was on her feet, bouncing with glee. “You fucking animals! That was unbelievable!”
Raven just stared at them as they collapsed into the plush seats. Holly was trembling, her eyes shining with a wild, victorious light. Jack could only breathe, the reality of what they’d done crashing into him in waves.
Raven leaned forward, her voice cutting through the adrenaline fog. “We need to leave. Now.” Her eyes were scanning the room, noting the bouncers moving with new purpose, the manager on his phone shooting looks at their booth, the way certain men in the crowd were staring not with appreciation, but with a focused, predatory intensity.
The afterglow shattered. The neon fantasy was over.
Reality, sharp and hungry, had found them.
The manager’s gaze was a physical pressure against Jack’s bare shoulder. He fumbled with his jeans, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. Bills were plastered to his chest, his arms, caught in Holly’s hair like grotesque confetti.
“We need to be gone thirty seconds ago,” Raven repeated, her voice a low crackle of urgency. She was already standing, a dark silhouette gathering purses and the half-finished bottle. Her movements were efficient, lethal.
Red snatched her lace bodysuit from the seat, not bothering to put it on. “Exit. Now.” The playful glint was gone from her eyes, replaced by a hunter’s focus.
They moved as a unit, a four-person scramble through the maze of tables. The roar of the crowd had mutated into something else—shouts, the scrape of chairs, a thick, greedy energy pursuing them. A bouncer stepped into their path, his arms crossed over a barrel chest.
“Hold on a sec,” he grunted, his eyes scanning from Holly’s disheveled state to Jack’s half-buttoned pants. “Manager wants a word.”
“The word is ‘later,’” Raven said, not breaking stride. She walked directly at him, forcing him to either grab her or step aside. He hesitated, and in that second, they were past him, pushing through the heavy black door marked ‘EXIT.’
The alley behind the club was a sensory shock. The throbbing bass vanished, replaced by the hollow whir of a dumpster’s cooling unit and the distant, tinny echo of slot machines. The air was cool, smelling of garbage and wet asphalt.
“This way,” Holly breathed, pointing left. Her bravado was stripped away, leaving sharp, practical fear. She clutched her dress against her chest.
They hurried down the alley, their footsteps echoing too loudly. Jack’s heart hammered against his ribs. A shadow detached itself from a doorway ahead, then another. Two men, larger than the bouncer, blocked the alley’s mouth leading to the next street.
“Hey now,” one said, his voice a smoker’s rasp. “That was quite a show.” He grinned, missing a tooth. His friend just stared, his eyes fixed on Holly.
Red stepped in front, somehow managing to look defiant in just her heels and a clutch of dollar bills. “Show’s over, guys. Tickets aren’t refundable.”
“Thought maybe we could get a private encore,” Toothless said, taking a step forward. He was drunk, but his intent was clear as glass.
Jack’s fear crystallized into a cold, sharp point. He stepped beside Red, his body moving before his mind could protest. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a skinny guy with glasses. But something hotter than fear coiled in his gut.
“Back off,” Jack said. His voice didn’t waver.
The man laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. “Or what, four-eyes? You gonna physics me to death?”
From the club door behind them, more figures spilled into the alley. The manager’s voice cut through the gloom. “I just want to talk about licensing! You can’t perform that without a permit!”
They were trapped between a grimy wall and two converging threats. Raven’s head swiveled, assessing. Her hand dipped into her purse.
“Fuck this,” Holly muttered. She dropped her dress, letting it puddle at her feet. In the neon bleed from a rooftop sign, she stood naked and unashamed. “You want a show?” she shouted at the men in front of them. “Come and get it!”
The blatant, shocking defiance made both thugs pause. In that heartbeat of hesitation, Raven’s arm shot out. She wasn’t holding a knife or mace. It was a small, expensive-looking camera. The flash erupted, a blinding white star in the dark alley.
The lead thug flinched, throwing a hand over his eyes. “What the hell?”
“Facial recognition software is a bitch,” Raven stated, her voice pure ice. “Keep coming. See what happens.”
From the club entrance, the manager yelled, “Is that a flash? Who’s back there?”
“Cops!” Red screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice ricocheting off the brick. “They’re calling the cops!”
It was chaos layered on chaos. The thugs, momentarily blinded and confused, stumbled back a step. The manager’s people hesitated, unsure. Raven seized Holly’s arm, yanking her forward. “Run!”
They bolted between the two stunned men, shoulders knocking them aside. Jack grabbed Red’s hand, pulling her along. They hit the sidewalk of the next street, a garish wash of light and noise, and kept running, a barefoot, half-dressed, money-streaked sprint down the Vegas Strip.
They didn’t stop for two blocks, ducking finally into the mirrored, marbled lobby of a massive casino hotel, gasping for air amidst the cheery slots and oblivious tourists. They collapsed onto a plush bench near a towering floral arrangement, a bizarre island of scandal in a sea of normalcy.
Holly, still naked, shrugged into her silver dress, her hands shaking. Red bent over, hands on her knees, laughing breathlessly. “Holy. Shit. We are the worst at leaving quietly.”
Jack leaned against a cool pillar, his glasses fogged. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, buzzing exhaustion. Raven stood guard, the camera still in her hand, scanning the lobby entrance.
“They won’t follow,” she said after a moment, her breathing steadying. “Too much risk, not enough reward. We’re ghosts.”
Holly finished zipping her dress. She looked at Jack, really looked at him. A slow, genuine smile broke through her residual fear. “You told him to back off.”
Jack nodded, swallowing. “He was an asshole.”
Red straightened up, slinging an arm around Jack’s neck. “My hero. Using your big-boy voice.” She kissed his cheek, leaving a smear of her lipstick.
“They saw our faces,” Jack said, the practical worry seeping in. “That manager, those guys…”
Raven finally put the camera away. “The camera was off. No film. It was a prop.” She shrugged. “A bluff. They were too stupid to call it.”
The sheer audacity of it left Jack speechless. He started laughing, a raw, relieved sound that mixed with Red’s giggles and Holly’s quiet chuckles. They were a mess, a public spectacle, probably banned for life from the Sin City Strip Club. They had almost been cornered in a dark alley.
But they were together, and they were free. Holly, still on her high from her brazen display at the strip club, is clearly not done for the night. “Listen up. Everyone has 20 minutes to find someone in the casino to hook up with and bring them up to the room. We’re having an orgy.”