Gripping the pole, I let out a sharp breath and swung around it, letting my body weight pull me in a complete circle. Momentum wasn’t hard to achieve. The heavier something is, the faster it can be whipped around three inches of brass.
You’ve got this, Jules. Staring down the pole and daring it to let me fall on my ass, I tightened my grip. Maybe attempt number thirty-seven would be the magic number. The muscles in my arm bunched, ready for action. I swayed and dipped to the music, creating a routine I’d gone over in my head. The smaller tricks helped distract me from what I was about to do.
I braced my arms and death-gripped the warmed metal. The blood rushed to my face as I lifted my legs over my head. I probably looked like a splotchy tomato. I wrapped my thighs around the pole, using my non-existent thigh gap to my advantage.
The intensity of the music drove higher, getting closer to the bass drop. I changed my hold and grabbed onto the brass, going high enough to nearly bang my head into the ceiling. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to climb this high when I tried this, but since when had anyone accused me of thinking things through? The stack of handwritten letters tucked under my bed were a testament to that.
I switched my hands, holding on behind my knee and kicking my other leg out straight. My heart hammered against my chest double-time to the driving beat of the music. Core muscles don’t fail me now. I let go with my hands and swung my upper body out using only my legs to anchor me. I was spinning like a character in a music box—albeit a kind of screwed up one. I stretched out my upper body perpendicular to the pole and struck a fierce pose. At least, I hoped it was fierce. The website had called it the Divine Diva. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
Sneaking a glance at my mirror, I looked more like a spider monkey clinging to a tree to stop from dropping out of the rainforest canopy into the jaws of predators down below, complete with profuse sweating and shaking. Panting and sweating didn’t feel very diva-like. Taking a deep breath, I relaxed into the pose, pointed my toe straight up at the ceiling, and extended my arm like the jiggly bingo wing it was.
A giddy laugh bubbled up from deep down. I snuck a glance at myself in the mirror again. I was a lumpy diva, but, fuck it, I was a badass, too. And I was slowly skidding closer to the ground as the sweat that gathered behind my knee loosened my grip.
Every move I nailed got me a little closer to appreciating how far I’d come. From the first days of slipping off trying to do a basic spin with my feet planted firmly on the floor, to being a diva. This was my freaking body and I loved the shit out of it.
And if I kept telling myself that, maybe one day I’d believe it.
I lowered myself onto my bedroom floor with a flourish, throwing in one more spin for my imaginary audience.
The song ended and I braced my hands on my hips, panting and sweating like I’d run a 5k, with a grin so damn wide I felt it in my toes. Jumping up and down, I gave myself a high five and a few club-worthy woos. It made it harder to figure out if I was doing the tricks one hundred percent correctly, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to record myself to watch later or head to a pole dancing studio with full-wall mirrors. I wasn’t at that level of okay with me in all my glory—yet.
I flopped onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. My hip-hugging short shorts and sports bra gave me little coverage, but pole dancing wasn’t exactly about modesty. I’d given it a try at the urging of my therapist during freshman year and hell if it hadn’t helped—some. It was a way for me to build strength, body confidence, and maybe attempt to feel a little sexy.
The door slammed downstairs and I shot up from the bed.
“Jules!” Berk’s unmistakable call sent me from pole dancing heart racing to ‘floor it, Louise,’ careening toward a cliff. I shot up and fell off my bed, rattling the perfume bottles on my dresser. Scrambling off the floor, I grabbed my sweatpants and tugged them on, hopping from foot to foot and sounding like I’d taken up bowling in my bedroom. I snagged my glasses off my desk and shoved them onto my face.
Berk was probably wondering how I’d trapped a wild animal up in my room. I grabbed my long sleeved T-shirt and hoodie off the back of my chair even though it was August. The fabric clung to my sweaty skin and I probably had a sweat-stashe going on, but that was better than him walking up here and finding me half naked. A panic spiral shot through me and I got dressed even quicker and threw open my door.
My feet barely touched any of the steps as I flew downstairs.
“Berk.” I fell into the kitchen, bracing my arm against the doorway. The butterflies in my stomach were replaced by a whole freaking safari. I tightened my lips to what I hoped was a non-serial killer level of smile. My heart was glowing like a spotlight, so I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. Tingles tiptoed up and down my spine at the sight of his floppy hair and jeans that hugged his ass and trim waist better than mine ever fit me.
His head shot up and the half of the cookie sticking out of his mouth broke off and dropped onto the counter. “There you are.” His words were muffled behind two manhole cover-sized cookies.
“Did you think I was hiding in my cookie box?”
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Killer smile and a direct hit. “The old cookie box.” The edges of his eyes crinkled and his mop of hair was tousled and still a little damp. Probably from the showers over at the stadium. He’d made it a habit of stopping by after football practice.
Do not giggle like an idiot. Be cool, Jules.
“Among other things.”
He tilted his head to the side, his gaze licking its way up and down my body. Okay, maybe that was wishful thinking, but it was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. “Why are you so sweaty?”
Oh. Of course he wasn’t actually checking me out. “From…” My brain stalled and sparks started shooting out at six different angles like an under-oiled engine. Abandon ship! Abandon ship! “Running down the stairs.” I squeezed my fingers into a fist at my side to keep myself from slamming my hand into my forehead. Awesome, Jules. Now he thinks you’re so out of shape you can’t even run down the steps without pouring sweat.
He nodded like a dude who streaked across a football field without getting winded had the same issue.
“Did you break in just to steal cookies or was there something else?”
There was a sheepish glint in his toffee-colored eyes. He dusted off his crumb-covered hand and held it up to his mouth, clearing his throat. “Do you have some milk?”
I laughed and grabbed some out of the fridge, pouring him a glass. Sliding it across the counter, I kept my fingers on the far side of the water droplet-covered glass and away from his.
Crossing my arms, I leaned against the counter. “Have you ever read that book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie? Although in this case it’s like, If a Mouse Breaks into Your House and Steals a Cookie.” I lifted the corner of my mouth.
“It was unlocked.” He downed the glass and set it back down. “Leaving your door unlocked on a street full of degenerates isn’t the best idea.”
“Exactly. Who knows what crazy person could show up and start raiding my food supply.”
“Exactly.” He tapped me on my nose with one of the cookies he’d weaseled out of the box when my back had been turned. “This isn’t a social visit. It’s time for some serious business.”