"Alright, alright! Let's welcome to the stage the one, the only, the cock-rocking kings of Tampa!"
The stage lights come on, soaking the room in their blue-white glow.
Mike walks to the centre of the stage, hat pulled down over his eyes. He drops to the ground, and the crowd gasps.
Sweat slithers down his back as he pounds the floor with his fist. The screams grow so loud they become part of the air and he breathes them in. They are his oxygen, his sustenance.
He jumps up, flexing and biting his lip. The others file in behind him, all scanning the crowd. One by one, they choose a woman from the audience. They all have their favourite types: the screamers; the grabbers; the shy ones who turn into screamers and grabbers.
Mike is different, though. He's looking for something special. Some nights he thinks he has found it, but always there is something missing. Will he ever find her? The one?
A redhead wearing a bridal veil is desperately trying to get his attention. She stands on her chair, screaming "Pick me! Pick me!".
Mike is about to hold out his hand, when he glances at the chair beside the redhead. Sitting there, arms crossed over her chest, is a woman with long brown hair that is glowing from the stage lights. She is staring at the table, jaw clenched tight.
He sees this all the time, of course—the unimpressed bridesmaid forced to come to Club Xquisite by an overbearing bride. Mike can normally get them to at least crack a smile by the end of the night.
But this woman… this woman isn't like the ones he normally sees. She's pretty, though not beautiful—angular face and thick full lips—but it's more than that. There's something going on within her, something captivating.
Mike ignores the redhead and holds his hand out to the brunette. The redhead, fuming but still smiling, pushes her friend's shoulder.
"Go on, Abby!" she screams.
It is only then that Abby looks up, sees Mike holding out his hand. Their eyes lock, and a shiver shoots down his spine. He tries to calm himself—he's felt this before, hasn't he? And hasn't it always gone wrong?
Abby is shaking her head. Mike jumps down from the stage and walks up to her, holding out his hand again.
"Dance with me," he says.
He can see her mind working behind her blue eyes. His smile broadens. Abby takes his hand and he pulls her onto the stage.
The stage lights are bright in Abby's eyes. She tries to shield them, but he has hold of both of her hands. What did the announcer call him? Magic Mike?
Abby's stomach burns. Mike pulls her towards an empty chair on the stage.
"Sit down, Abby," he whispers in her ear.
Abby sits—or tries to. She is so focused on Mike's green eyes that she misses the chair and falls onto the stage.
She hears laughter from the audience and for a few seconds she is frozen, unable to get up. Then Mike is beside her.
"Are you alright?" he says.
"I'm fine," Abby says. "I just want to go."
"Take my hand," Mike says.
"That's what got me into this mess."
Abby starts walking to the edge of the stage, but Mike grabs her shoulder.
"Do you trust me?" he says.
Abby turns and stares into his eyes. She wants to say no—she doesn't know him, knows nothing about him apart from that he's a stripper and the most handsome man she's ever seen in person. He could be a serial killer for all she knows.
But… there's something in his eyes, something that makes her feel safe with him.
"Do you trust me?" Mike repeats.
Abby nods and Mike smiles.
"Let's go," he says.
He rushes her backstage, to a dingy dressing room. He stops to put on a shirt and shoes before leading Abby outside. He opens the door of a shiny black truck.
"Your chariot, my lady," he says.
Despite herself, Abby laughs. As he closes the door, she knows she's in trouble.
And for the first time since that night in Tallahassee, that night three years ago that changed everything, she doesn't feel like running away.