Though, my second song was longer.

Shit!

The place went dark and I felt the girls run by us, coming off stage.

Shit, shit, f**k!

That was when I heard Smithie’s voice coming loud, saying into a microphone, “You’re all in for a f**kin’ treat tonight! We’re debuting a new act. So put your eyes to the stage, put your hands together and welcome the Rock Chick!”

More darkness.

Lottie gave me a shove through the curtain and I walked through the dark, passing Smithie who muttered, “Fuck,” into the microphone as he tripped over the cord on the way out.

By rote, I went to my mark, in my head saying over and over again, two minutes, fifteen seconds, two minutes, fifteen seconds.

Then out loud, I whispered, “You can do this Ally.”

But I knew it didn’t matter. I could pep talk myself for another year.

I wasn’t going to be able to do it.

That’s when the guitars blared, the scratchy-fast “Yea,” hit, the lights came up, blinding me, and it happened.

It was like someone flipped a switch.

And the switch they flipped was rock ‘n’ roll.

Specifically, ZZ Top’s “Tush.”

I just started to move, everything Lottie and Daisy taught me flowing through my veins.

And then some.

I strutted. I squatted. I wiggled. I crouched low with one leg straight out to my side, slapped the stage and tossed my hair back as I pushed my br**sts forward. I slithered. I undulated. I swung my black leather, short-shorts covered ass out and I did it wide.

Then I tore off the black tee that was cut off under my br**sts and was held together at my shoulders by safety pins and tossed it aside, exposing a black bra with black and silver sequins.

Right after that, I ran on my black leather studded stripper platforms toward a pole, launched myself high, caught it, swung around, legs parted, and I felt a hush roll over the crowd.

I curled in, flipping my legs up high, well over my head and torso, straddling the pole, legs still wide, sliding down until I got near the bottom.

Once there, I put one hand down, then the other, swung out one leg, then the other until I was in a backbend. I pushed up off my hands to come to standing.

Immediately, I went into a squat, came up, swung my ass again while my fingers undid the heavy silver buckle of my studded black belt and I slid my shorts over my ass, hips, down my legs. I kicked them free and I was in black and silver sequined leather undies cut high in the back so they showed some cheek.

It was then I felt—actually felt—the crowd come to their feet.

In my platforms and sequined undies, I ran from pole to pole. Catching one, flipping over, wrapping my legs around it, letting go with my hands and arching my neck and back as I slid down, using only my legs until my hands hit stage.

A modified cartwheel then a run and grasp of the next pole, twisting around and around it at a dizzying pace, one leg curled around the pole, one leg held straight out.

Back to the next one where I caught it high and swung all the way out from my hands, toes pointed, legs spread wide and ended it curling in and doing a flip off the pole to land on my feet, ass near to the ground, knees bent high, legs spread and I slapped the stage with my hand between my legs.

I pulled out of that deep squat and strutted back up the stage with super-long strides, one foot in front of the other like the most kickass model in the history of models after she bitch-slapped all the other models before she hit the runway.

Too soon, way too soon, I heard the song winding down and right when the final guitar riff hit, I reached behind my back with one hand as I reached up my front with the other. I flicked the clasp at my back and yanked the bra away just as the guitars faded.

The lights went dark.

I ran offstage and Lottie was there to throw my robe around my shoulders. I shoved my arms through and pulled it closed.

That was when I heard it.

Nothing.

Silence.

Shit.

What the f**k?

On that thought, it happened.

A wave of sound so strong, no f**king joke, it nearly knocked both of us over.

The kind of sound I’d only heard at a rock concert.

Clapping, shouting, hooting, hollering, catcalling, feet stamping, hands slapping tables and finally a chant of, “Rock Chick! Rock Chick! Rock Chick!”

My wide eyes went to a smiling-huge Lottie just as she framed my face with both her hands, got close, and whispered, “Welcome to the sisterhood, baby.”

She touched her lips to mine just as we heard Smithie shout over the wild-ass, out-of-control ovation, “Knew you motherfuckers would like that! Now, get a load of Lottie Mac!”

Lottie dashed onto the stage.

Smithie came off.

And before I knew it, I was in his arms, held there tight.

“Knew that was hard. It’s always hard. But you did that for me and my girls. And you did me proud. Thank you, darlin’,” he whispered in my ear.

Before I could even blink, definitely before I could begin to process his heartfelt words, he was gone.

I watched the place where he disappeared for two beats before I walked into the hall and down it to the dancers-only bathroom. Buzzing so big I felt like I was vibrating, adrenaline sluicing through my system, I entered and thankfully found it empty.

I walked to the sink and stared at my face in the mirror made up in full-on slut, my hair curled and teased out to there.

I did this for a long time.

Then I whispered, “Fuck yeah. I’m a goddamned, f**kin’ rock chick.”

I just caught my own huge-ass smile before I turned from the mirror and sashayed out of the bathroom in order to keep doing my job.

* * * * *

Being quiet because it was dark, late and I saw by the moonlight lighting the room that he was asleep in bed, I entered Ren’s and my bedroom.

I bent to my shoes to take them off, just as a light came on and lit the room.

I straightened and looked to the bed to see Ren pushing up to lounge against the headboard, hair tousled (hot) but not looking sleepy (weird).

“Hey,” I whispered like he was still asleep. “Sorry I woke you.”

He said nothing. He just looked at me.

This was strange and a little scary. He knew what I was doing that night and he’d been cool about it. He said nothing. He asked nothing. He didn’t even give me any looks where his jaw was clenched or his lips were tight.

Now, the deed was done and he knew it’d been done.

So maybe he was no longer feeling like ignoring it or letting it go. Maybe he was feeling like reacting to it. Maybe in a not so good way. Maybe in an Italian American hotheaded macho alpha way.