Riley: The Dance
“You’re federal? You work for the government?” I suddenly realize that the girl next to him is Ariadne, the cop from the night of the poker game. It’s such a different context and different outfit that I hadn’t recognized her immediately.
“Something like that,” Byron says.
“I thought you were a beat cop?” I ask Ariadne.
“New assignment—new project we’re working on,” she says.
“From what I’ve seen, around here, the cops work for Jack.”
“I’m not that kind of cop,” Byron says. “And neither is she.”
My heart races for a second. Opportunity. Resources. Allies. Freedom.
My voice catches in my throat, “Are you really federal? What are you doing here?”
“Looking to talk to you, for one.”
“Really?” My voice comes out in a hiss.
“Sure.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you have?”
I don’t even stop to think if this is some sick test from Jack. I only yearn for a chance put a chink in these bastards’ empire. “I’m with Jack in the San Sorreno. He lets me wander around the top floors. I don’t have keys or access to anything, though.”
He doesn’t bother to ask if I’m there against my will or if I need help. I can tell it’s not going to be that kind of deal. Byron isn’t interested in helping the damsel in distress. But maybe he’s interested in killing the dragon.
“Come here,” he says, and I slide in close next to him. “Do you know how to use a phone? Like, do you know your way around technology? Are you an idiot?”
“Yeah, kind of, honestly.”
“Fine. Look, you just gotta remember what I show you.”
He takes out his phone and flips through the menus. “Get a phone from one of them and hide it, so they think they lost it. First, you got to know how to unlock it.” He closes his phone then opens it to the lock screen. He taps buttons until a window of code opens up, then puts in a few simple lines of code. “Got it?”
“I think.”
“Try it.” He has me do it five times in a row until I can get around the lock screen. “Okay, then go here, then here, then here. Got it?” He flips through different menus on his phone.
“Yes.” I strain to concentrate and repeat the steps to myself over and over again. I’m not particularly amazing with technology, but I’m smart enough to be able to memorize steps, at least.
He takes me through the menus on his phone until he’s on a screen of code. It looks a little like something out of an action movie hacking scene, although simpler, more boring, and less comprehensible. “When you get to a screen like this, put this code in.” He types a few lines.
“I’m not going to be able to remember—”
“Give me your email; I’ll send you the code and then you can access it on the phone and just paste it in.”
He hands me the phone and I type in my address with shaking fingers. I realize that I’m drenched in sweat. I’m terrified of Jack finding us, although I’m not sure if I’m more scared for me or Byron. Just like most of the last week, I can’t quite believe this is actually happening.
“I’ll email you the code and you paste it into the window I showed you how to access. That’ll shut down whoever’s phone you steal. They won’t be able to tell it’s being used, and it’ll let me access it and track it. You can use it to communicate with me. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say. My voice is trembling now. Excitement cuts through the fear. Lurid images of killing every last one of these bastards are flashing through my head and distracting me with delight. Calm down, Riley. It’s just a beat cop and crazy guy with a phone.
“Did you really know I’d be here?”
“Nope.”
“Then how—”
“Like I’ve been telling Ariadne, you hang around the underside of New York long enough, anything can turn up. Even a way into Jack Turner’s careful little fortress.”
“What else do you want me to do?”
“An organization as big as the Amontillado empire? They have to keep track of where all that money is. If they don’t, they lose it or their own people steal it. Even Jack Turner can’t keep all of that in his head. It’s billions of dollars. He has a ledger somewhere. It may be on a computer. It may be a physical book. It keeps track of all the account numbers and where they’re held—all the foreign banks and offshore stuff.”
“You want me to find the ledger?”
“Jack would never let something like that far from him. He might claim he would, but it’s just against human nature. That ledger is somewhere in the San Sorreno. An organization like the Amontillados? Money is their blood. They need it for everything. That’s their true power. They have more money than anyone else, so they can pay more men, so they can corner more markets—drugs, weapons, human trafficking, even oil—so they can make more money. Jack will have the ledger for the New York branch of their operations. If we cut the neck of that branch and let the blood spill out, the Amontillados start to die.”
“I’ll find it.”
Byron laughs.
“What?”
“You didn’t even ask what was in it for you. Didn’t ask if it was dangerous.”
“They’re bastards, and they deserve it.”
“You’re an extraordinarily brave girl.” It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. It almost sounds like he’s calling me a fool. I’ve never thought of myself as brave before. But I don’t question this. I know it’s the right thing to do.
I’ve never had anything to offer—never had anything that was worth anything: I was never pretty enough. I always wanted to be a journalist, but my writing was never good enough. I was never bold enough or clever enough. But now, I have something I can do. I can finally help someone do something worthwhile.
Byron draws me back. “Don’t get caught up in Jack’s little nice guy act. If he catches you at this he’ll gladly kill you. Or hurt you a lot worse than killing you would hurt. Did he tell you that Daemon Amontillado’s putting him up to all this?” he indicates my outfit. “That he’s trying to protect you? That you’re all just pawns in the game?” he laughs.
“No man on this earth has ever made Jack Turner do anything that Jack Turner doesn’t want to do. If he took you, if he’s doing something to you—” as he speaks, my mind, for some reason, flashes to the little panties I’m wearing underneath my skimpy little dress “—there’s only one reason for it: It’s because he wanted to do whatever he did. It’s because he wanted whatever he took. He’ll toss you to Daemon or whoever else once he’s done. But it’ll be once he’s done and bored with you, not because Daemon demands it.”
“How did you…” I say, blushing.
“What, you think I think Jack dresses you up like that to be his secretary? Jack’s no pawn. He’s a king. He’s the most dangerous man in New York and someday he’s going to get tired of playing henchman to Daemon. And he’s going to cut his throat. And if we haven’t taken down the empire he helped the Amontillados build by then, it’s going to be a bad day for the city. If Jack ever really lets himself go—if he stops pretending to respect the Amontillados’ rules and throws them away, like he’s done with everyone else’s rules—then he’s going to be the worst gangster you’ve ever seen. He’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Why the fuck are you telling me this now? I already agreed to help you.”
Ariadne sees something and slinks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Byron shrugs. “Because you have a right to know that you’re hunting a beast, not a man.” Then he says, “Jack!”
“What?” I snap, annoyed.
“What indeed?” Jack’s dead voice says from right over my shoulder.
I flinch away from him.
“Good to see you,” Byron says cheerfully, taking a swallow from his drink.
“Get out.”
“Club Six’s an open establishment, Jack. I have good money to be here like the rest of them.”
Two large men step up on either side of Jack and he waves them away, annoyed. “Do you want to do it tonight?” he sounds like a priest offering last rites.
Byron pauses for a moment but he doesn’t laugh that one off. He shrugs, wanders to the door, and is gone.
“What were you doing?”
“Talking to the one guy in the bar who’d look at me. I was bored! You left me for your princess.”
He seems confused for a moment then realizes I’m talking about Talia.
"Well, then you're in luck. I have something to keep you entertained."
There are two enormous, bald white men back at our table with long, blond beards. One of them is the guy who was bothering the serving girl earlier. They wear large, boxy black suits—powerful but almost out of place at the club. They look like skinhead fascists. I realize that they may actually be skinhead fascists.
“I’m bored with dancers, man. I feel like I’ve seen every titty bar dancer in the world,” one of them complains.
“Not this one,” Jack says.
I don’t even manage to blurt out, “What?” and he’s lifting me up onto the walkway that leads up to the table.
“Walk to the end of the runway, then walk back and dance for me.” The music of the club is throbbing in the background.
“I…I can’t dance,” I blurt out, mortified. “Jack…please…”
Thirty seconds earlier, I was planning the downfall of the Amontillado empire, but the thought of having to dance in front of watching eyes is mortifying. I haven’t danced since those ballet lessons years ago and those had all been memorized routines. I had loved it, but this is like taking a fun swimming lesson and then getting thrown into an ocean storm. I want to curl into a tiny ball and die.
My whole adult life, any time I’ve tried to dance, even just at parties or wedding receptions, I’ve heard my mother’s voice the day she took me out of ballet: “You’re just embarrassing yourself out there. No one wants to tell you, but you are.” It was kind of a crippling experience. I don’t like doing things in front of people in general now. Once I tried karaoke and Caleb laughed, and I never did it again. Now Jack wants me to improvise a dance on a stage, in a tiny dress, in front of mobsters and an entire bar of powerful, beautiful men and women.
“Go to the end the walkway—”
"Jack I don't know how to dance! I mean, I can swing my arms and do a two-step at weddings—that's it! I have no idea where to even—I don't know—put my feet! I don't know how to move my body at all!"
“Turn around—”
“This is punishment for talking to Byron, isn’t it?”
“I’d just like to see you dance,” he says, and it’s so simple and earnest that I almost believe, for a second, that he’s not just mocking me.
"Go to the end of the walkway, come back, and dance." There's something so dominant in his voice that it even overcomes my terror, at least for a moment. I do it. I turn away from him and walk down the platform. I feel the eyes of people in other parts of the bar staring at me. I feel the gaze of the violent men sitting with Jack. I feel Jack's own eyes, roving over my bottom and legs as I walk away from him.
I'm blushing a deep crimson even being up on the stage. The walk feels like it takes ten minutes, even though only seconds pass. I try to hold myself straight and with the elegant, effortless poise that Christie has, but I feel ridiculous and stilted. I turn. I feel like I can't breathe. It takes everything I have to suck in a breath.
I walk back towards Jack.
How do you walk sexily? Or even elegantly? I realize I have no idea how to walk any particular way at all. I try to think about all those years of model contest shows I watched. What did they tell the girls on the walkway to do? My mind is devoid of ideas and the more I focus on it the clumsier I feel. I nearly turn a heel as I reach the end and I wobble a little.
“Pull your dress off over your head.”
“Jack, please! No one…no one wants to see that…” I beg him. The last week’s been mortifying enough. But the thought of exposing myself before strangers in my little lingerie nearly paralyzes me with embarrassment.
“Riley…” His voice is stern—that commanding tone that compels me to obey him. “Don’t question me again. Lift off your dress. None of these people matter. It’s just you and me.”
I shudder. I know people across the room are staring at me even though I can’t bring myself to look at them. “What’s the dumpy, awkward girl in that overpriced dress doing stripping down on stage?”
I lift the dress over my head and drop it to the floor. Scraps of lingerie clinging to my body are all that hide my most intimate places.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head. “We’re not paying for lessons if you’re not going anywhere with them. You’re just not a dancer. You don’t have the talent.”
I remember her berating me the first time I tried to go out with friends in revealing clothing. “You think anyone would want to see you anyway? You look like an ugly slut. No one wants to see a girl like you dressed like this.”
“Riley,” Jack says calmly. “Dance.”
I hate him. I feel nauseated. I try to sway my hips and swing my hands to the music. I hear one of the men at the table laugh.
I slowly grind to a halt. My legs are trembling and I try to make them stop.
Jack looks toward the voice that laughed with a glance that would chill my blood. "If you make another sound, I'm going to cut your fucking throat." The guy looks like Jack just told him he fucked his mother. I'm pretty sure no one's talked to him like that for years. But he doesn't say anything. Something in Jack's eyes makes him drop-dead silent. He shrugs as if he thinks the whole thing is amusing but I can see the shock and caution in his face. Jack steps up onto the stage next to me.
He puts one hand on my pubic bone and the other behind me, on my lower back and the upper curve of my bottom.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I squeeze them shut.
“Don’t think about not knowing the steps. Don’t think about not knowing how to dance. Just breathe. Let all your doubts wash over you. That’s fine. Just don’t give them any of your effort. And don’t believe them. They’re just thoughts. Thoughts are air—they’re nothing,” he breathes into my ear.
I stand and breathe and slowly let my mind clear.
“Just feel the music. Listen to it. Feel its beat. Let it settle in your body.”
“I don’t know how to do that stuff—I don’t know what the beat is!”
His finger taps gently and surely against my stomach. "Yes, you can. You just have to listen. You just have to feel the vibrations moving through you."
With Jack tapping it out, suddenly the rhythm in the intense club music comes into focus. I can feel it.
“Let it settle in you. Find where the music makes you want to move.”
My hips start to turn and I freeze again. Why my hips? Is that slutty?
“Don’t question yourself. Just follow your instincts. Move your hips. Move your abdomen. You know where you feel it.”
Jack lifts his hands from me and slowly, slowly I start to twist and gyrate. I let the rhythm guide me. He steps back from the stage.
I must look like an idiot, I think. But I keep my eyes squeezed shut and keep dancing.
And then I open them and nearly freeze again.
“Riley, just dance for me, do you understand? Only for me.”
And for some reason that makes everything easier. I squeeze my eyes shut again and keep twisting and gyrating and writhing my body. I let the music thrum through me. I dance just for Jack—just to please him, just to turn him on. And that excites me. I want to turn him on.
You idiot. He’s making a joke out of you. Why the hell would he want to watch some awkward girl twist around in front of him? This is probably the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.
“Just the music, Riley,” Jack says. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt more vulnerable but I keep moving to the music. I twist around the poll, turning to let him see all of me.
I dance and dance until my heart is pounding and I'm drenched in sweat. His gaze never leaves me. And finally, he says, "Come down here. Dance for me."
A lap dance.
I want to say that I don't know how, since I don't. But the dance has hit me like a pulse of electricity. I'm breathless and I feel so vividly alive. Jack Turner wants to see me dance.
I’ve never felt like anyone wanted to watch me do anything. But now the most powerful man I’ve ever met has just spent ten minutes watching me dance without interruption or distraction. Watching me with his absorbed, undivided attention.
I realize I’m wet and I blush. And deep down I don’t care.
I sink to my knees and crawl to the edge of the table. Oh fuck. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I being sexy for him? I sway my hips as I crawl, swinging my bottom back and forth for him. I step off as sultrily as possible, walk to Jack, and slowly start to dance in front of him.
"Since this is your club I guess you get to handle all the merchandise, huh?" I say it in a pouty, sultry voice. Then I blush because it sounds like something ridiculous out of some old noir movie. Well, let's see what he does with that. Let him think I’m a ridiculous idiot if he wants.
I notice the enormous bulge in his pants. I turn and gyrate as I dance in front of him and look around the room, trying to avoid the patrons. I’m sure for a half second that there’s some other girl dancing behind me that Jack’s watching. But no one else is there and when I turn back to him his eyes are locked onto my body.
“You know what I want, Riley.”
I remember what Byron said. Jack only does things that Jack wants to do…You think I think that he put you in that little dress to be his secretary? I blush angrily. Jack, that fucking bastard.
I move between his legs. Shameful. Wrong. I swing one of my naked thighs around his waist. He’s making me do it. I don’t have a choice. I have to, for my family. I swing my other leg around him, so I’m straddling and gyrating over him. I lift my arms up and let my breasts sway and jiggle for him. If he’s making me do it then why do I like it so much? Why am I so wet? He hasn’t even touched me.
Jack sits back, letting me work myself over him. And something deep inside me cracks and melts away.
I drape my arms around his neck and press myself to his chest. His body is like rock and steel. I’ve never felt muscles so hard or a chest so broad. My soft breasts press against his iron chest and I let out a little, involuntary sigh. I blush again and wait to be teased but Jack says nothing.
I gyrate my waist, still moving my bottom and hips for him to see, and he shifts me, just slightly, as if he knows exactly what I need. He moves one of his hard thighs between my legs and I press myself against him.
“I’m…I’m wet…” I mumble, afraid that he’ll be mad if I dirty his pants.
“Riley, that’s exactly what I want. Just dance. Just keep moving.”
I writhe against him, the throbbing tenderness between my legs finally, finally meeting satisfaction. I’m gasping again from the exertion and still drenched in sweat. My body starts to tremble and he puts his hands on my abdomen to steady me.
I can feel it building and building inside of me, a tension and a warmth that spreads through my body all the way to my fingertips and my toes. My panties are soaking wet. The lacy fabric feels so good pressing and rubbing against my pussy. Usually, I would need more precise and drawn-out stimulation, but I've been so desperately aroused for so long that just pressing myself on Jack's thigh sends waves of pleasure through me.
“Oh fuck!” I gasp. Shame and arousal war in my body. I realize that I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum in public in front of a room full of people. I’m going to cum on the leg of a man who’s captured and held me against my will. And then simple and overwhelming feeling overcomes thought.
I orgasm.
The tension releases and the warmth rushes through me. I wrap my arms tightly around Jack and tremble and gasp against him. He wraps his arms around my back and holds me firmly. I bury my face in his shoulder, letting out little gasping sobs of breath.
I don’t want to meet Jack’s eye—see his satisfaction and his judgment. But when I finally look at him, his gaze is full of raw passion and nothing else.
One of the men at the table reaches out for my naked body, “Damn, Turner. I want this one. You pick them good here!”
Jack gives him a look that freezes him. “This one’s mine. No one else touches her.”
It feels good being wrapped in his arms. I feel protected—safe in a way that I’ve never felt before. There’s a security, knowing that a man who could kill everyone in the room wants me for his and his alone.
I slide off to Jack’s side, on the far side from the men. I bite my lip in frustration; I still feel that need. My arousal floods back in almost immediately. One orgasm wasn’t enough. I want to dip my hand between my legs. I want something inside of me. But shame keeps me from pleasuring myself. I want to sob. It feels like I would have to be ravished a dozen times over to find any relief from this need he’s built up in me.
That fucking bastard and his chastity belt and vibrator games!
But I stay wrapped up next to him. Jack talks with the men for a while longer and my mind is too lost in the haze of arousal for me to follow it.
“You’ve got a fucked up way of doing business!” one of them finally shouts and I snap to focus. The two are standing up. The promise of violence crackles in the air but Jack seems completely unperturbed. He’s grinning at them like a wolf.
“I wasn’t really planning on doing business with a bunch of dirty, dumb-fuck fascists anyway. Have you idiots never read a history book? Really, what the fuck is wrong with you? How fucking dense are you?”
“You wanna say that to my fuckin’ face on the street?” the bigger, older one shouts at Jack.
Jack grins. “Yeah.”
They both puff up and then back away. “Next time, motherfucker!” the younger one warns. And they storm out.
“Usual business meeting for you?”
“Yeah, actually.”
Jack drapes me in his coat instead of putting me in the dress from the floor. It doesn’t quite cover my bottom, and beneath I’m naked except for diamonds and lingerie. The thought sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I feel like a present for him, waiting to be opened. You’re fucked up. Jack takes us back over the quiet, dark river and the city lights shimmer like my diamonds.
When we get to his car I pause for a moment, embarrassed. “My panties are still wet. I might get your seat wet.”
He smiles. “Riley, that’s the point of an expensive car.”
When we get back to the penthouse, he waits outside the bathroom while I shower. I was grinding my most private places against him an hour before and now he doesn’t even try to touch me. My thoughts are a storm. He’s not actually interested. Damn it, why would I want him to be interested? Maybe he just likes shaming women. Maybe he was getting hard from that.
When I step out of the shower, I skip my towel. I stand before him flat-footed, wet, and naked. I think, for just a moment, that I catch surprise behind that steady gaze. He studies me then circles me, slowly taking in my body. It covers me in the most wonderful goosebumps.
And then he slides my chastity cage up my legs and over my bottom and snaps it shut. He brings me to my room and cuffs me, and I want to scream in frustration. I don’t even understand, exactly, about what.
When he leaves, I do scream. I scream at the top of my lungs. I danced tonight in front of a room full of people. I danced for ten whole minutes. Jack Turner watched me dance for ten whole minutes. I scream and I’m not sure if it’s with rage or elation.