A hazy blue and purple fog choked the air of the club, clinging to Dante's skin like his own personal cloud. He wore it proudly, comfortably. Nowhere else could feel like this, under the heated gaze of the lights. Everywhere else it looked dark, but on his circular stage, he felt illuminated. Wearing nothing more than a pair of skin-tight purple leather pants, boots, and fishnets along his arms, he moved along the stripper pole with a cat's ease and languid sexiness. Many eyes watched each swing of his hips, or the ripple of muscles, tanned skin, and the black ink of his tattoo. The lighting turned the image into a mystery, and yet it drew so many eyes.

The club was packed on the Friday night, which was fine with Dante. He liked the attention. Liked? No, he needed all these eyes on him. Without them, he didn't exist. What was his purpose outside of these brick walls except to dance? This rhythm, the smell of sweat and drink, and these lights. He felt them in his skin maybe because he knew them well by now. As another wad of money sailed onto his stage, he threw back his head, submitting himself to the music entirely.

Dante Hettlinger did not need anyone. He just needed the lights and the dance, heated gazes on his body and the knowledge that they wouldn't get anything they wanted. He may dance for them, but they never got to touch. Dante operated that way and had for years. He lifted his eyes to gaze at the crowd gathered in the club. Four other dancers did their routines on stages placed throughout the room but he never bothered with them. He just gave his haughty look, earning looks of lust. Such power he had over these men. Maybe long ago, he never dreamed he'd grow up to be an exotic dancer, but now he couldn't dream of being anything else. In too many ways, he needed this.