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Riyo loved her job. Where else could she make a week’s wages in a single night and get a workout in?
Being an exotic dancer wasn’t for everyone. Fellow Pantorans wouldn’t bat a golden eye at her profession — performance arts were performance arts, no matter how provocative. But Riyo had heard all the complaints and misplaced outrage that could be mustered to her career choice.
Oh, but the hours! So unsociable! Being paid handsomely to do the same amount of dancing any Coruscant nightclub goer would do on a single outing was fine by her. And her job came with the bonus of detachment from sweaty and handsy crowds.
She's being exploited! By whom? The club owner? Padmé? Single mother, former dancer, current workers’ rights activist — that Padmé? No, not even a little.
It’s not safe! Riyo was one of the safest women on the planet, thank you. No one could come near her while she worked. She had a protector. A silent guardian, dormant until needed.
If asked, Riyo would say she danced for herself. For the joy of movement and music, for the bass pounding from the club speakers in her chest alongside her heart. The beat settled deep within her ribs and demanded she flow along with it. The pulsing rhythm in the artificially foggy air awakened long forgotten ancestral memories. Those that sat deep in her bones telling stories of ritual chants, blazing fires and the wild, careless dancing that her people first performed in The Long Ago. For those few hours a week she danced, Riyo was free.
On nights that Fox was working, Riyo danced for him. She could admit that to herself. Those were the nights she dressed extravagantly and danced barefoot, frenzied, body tingling from head to toe with the thrill of being watched. She imagined Fox drinking her in darkly, an aurora of dynamic movement and glowing spirals in his black eyes. Under his gaze, she felt ionized and impervious.
It was all the more exciting because he wasn’t there to watch — wasn’t supposed to watch. Fox was security. His job title was something mundane like “door supervisor”, but in reality he was barely caged thunder. His presence was warning and threat enough, quietly pulsing with readiness to strike. In the neon and chrome and chaos of the club, Fox was a pillar of dark stillness.
And the pious observer of her chaotic worship.
Riyo’s movements were large, ostentatious, enticing. Fox’s were disciplined. Even offstage, Riyo moved with an extravagance of motion meant to enthral. A swish of the hips, a flip of her hair. It was muscle memory now. Fox had an efficiency of movement that was stunning in its contrast. Riyo lived to make him twitch.
His every stalking step was measured, and Riyo had memorised his route months ago. She knew how to time her more athletic motions when he’d have the best view. She was supercharged, bright and curling. He was stillness, an unsullied backdrop for her performance.
Padmé had coached Riyo through her early days; had given her tips and tricks and set her up with good habits and discipline. Even though she no longer performed, she kept careful watch of her club and staff. To Padmé, management was artform like any of the others she had perfected. She connected with her staff; they were her pride and joy, second only to her children. The friendship between Riyo and Padmé had many years behind it and the two women could be found often on the stage, in the incongruent tranquillity of the club before opening, wearing casual gear and warming up together.
They were chatting happily, hanging by a three-point inverted hold that Riyo needed to perfect when Padmé’s com chirped from her tidy pile of equipment. In a single flowing movement, settling her feet back to solid ground with enviable refinement, Padmé dismounted. Riyo held as her friend fished the unit from her handbag, and even upside down, she could see Padmé’s smile narrow. Riyo could guess who had interrupted their evening exercise.
“I need to take this,” Padmé said in a tight voice, and jumped down from the stage without looking up from her com. She stalked away with a furious clack of platform heels on lacquered wood towards the backroom door.
Riyo continued her conditioning exercises alone, content to slowly warm up her muscles before the real work began.
Voice controlled devices were the greatest invention in the galaxy: she didn’t even need to pause her gentle spin to get her music playing, and the unhappy quiet that had settled round the stage was swept away.
With a breath, Riyo adjusted her position on the pole. Hooking her ankles, she let her grip go, freeing herself to dangle momentarily. She stretched down, pushing her fingertips into the stage, then arched her back into an exaggerated position, feeling the metal cleave into her bum. She slid her forearms arms out along the floor to brace her sides. Breathing into the stretch, Riyo releasing her ankle hold and slid down until her hips kissed the ground. The last time she’d attempted this, she had gone too fast. Result: cricked neck, bad landing. Remembering to take her time, tucking her chin to her chest, Riyo settled into the position without issue and smiled to herself, happy with her small triumph.
The backroom door banged open.
“Everything okay with Mister Misery?” Riyo called out. When she got no reply, she looked over.
Instead of Padmé, Riyo clapped eyes on their lead security guard’s impressive chest. She followed the coiled wire of an earpiece dangling out the neck of Fox’s tight black shirt to his clenched jaw, taking note of the patch by his right ear that he had missed the last time he’d shaved.
“Oh! Hello!” Riyo greeted cheerily from her hard-won pose.
Fox didn't return her greeting. A tense silence pulsed between Riyo’s music, and she realised her gaffe.
“Mister Misery isn't you,” Riyo hastened to explain, suddenly feeling ridiculous from her position on the stage floor. “It’s what we’ve named Padme’s ex.”
Fox huffed a begrudging snort of laughter under his breath. “Well, it's not that far off what my brother calls me.” He gave her a half-smile, making a big show of maintaining eye contact. “How are you today, Miss Chuchi?”
Now that just wouldn't do. Riyo lived to ruffle feathers, to fluster the masses. Fox was far too composed for her liking. Until that broad hand fidgeted and worried itself into his pocket, she wouldn’t be psyched up enough for her night on the stage.
She twisted slowly, purposefully, to sprawl out on her belly, legs swinging in the air. His eyes burned down her body while she moved, then darted back to her face the second she’d settled. Chin braced on a palm, she gave Fox her best doe-eyed look. “Let's not be so formal. We’re all friends here, aren't we?”
Fox lifted an arm thick with muscle and rubbed the back of his neck. He mumbled some noncommittal answer and looked down at his shoes. Such awkward displays from such a dangerous, impressive man still charmed Riyo to bits. The thrill of being his weakness washed through Riyo like a melody. It urged her to make a move.
“We are friends aren't we?” she asked with affected concern. Fox’s head jerked up so fast she could swear she heard a tendon snap. “Of course, there's a way we can get to know each other better.” Cheekily, she pushed to her knees with a move that had the curve of her rear in full view. A wide smile stretched across her cheeks as Fox coloured, from his thick neck to the thin tips of his ears.
Riyo held out a hand like a noblewoman demanding fealty, and winked for the devil. “Dance with me.”
Fox would be lying if he said he took the job for credits.
The pay was competitive, sure — especially for a veteran with no benefits and few marketable skills that didn’t come with a side of intransigence and intimidation. As a clone, you were lucky to get hired at all. Employment law didn’t have much to say on non-persons; and now the war was over, Fett clones in particular were a decicred a dozen. A hassle to hire, easy to fire.
The strip club was owned by a nice, flexible lawyer used to managing folks from dubious and/or undocumented backgrounds. The role: well-mannered muscle. The hours: no worse than the army. He could smoke and inhale secondhand privilege. It was a solid career fit for Fox, erstwhile commander, now independent contractor.
And the company perks … well, they were perky.
But if Fox had come to guard some impressive women, he’d stay forever for one girl specifically.
The Pantoran. Ice Lolly to the patrons, Miss Chuchi to him, and Riyo to the boyfriend he held hostage in his head.
The other girls were gorgeous. She was cute. A bubble of sweet, a short pour of cocktail syrup. And Fox couldn’t keep his eyes off her — a handicap for the one guy who was supposed to be looking anywhere but the stage.
More than once he’d brought his shift to a messy conclusion in the ‘fresher, because a raging, blood-sucking boner really should be regarded as a flying impairment. Fox was a man of the law. And Riyo was as available as the moon.
Fox had to be stern with her to mask his own guilt. Aloof and unbending, though he could never find it in him to be unhelpful. Miss Chuchi only need click her teeth, and a heartbeat later, Fox would be across the heaving club to solve her customer complaint with a firm and silent hand.
Fox let her tip him out all she wanted. She just found her speeder always charged and her UscruEats always paid for — by the club, so she thought. But Fox couldn’t let himself be softened. That way lay heartache and unemployment.
Riyo saw right through it, of course. Commander she called him, stroking his tired pride. She always managed to find him on industry nights, when Fox was out on Galactic City with his brothers, all hired muscle in their own right and all convinced they knew a work wife when they saw one. She’d lean over their table golden-eyed, her breasts cleaved like sea ice, to squeeze his arm and share some sweet nothing.
Missed you at Padmé’s pool party.
I liked your song recs for throwback night.
Thank you for loaning us your lift grip. You’re a lifesaver.
Once, she’d lingered with them, relenting under Thire’s annoying persistence, and she’d utterly melted under the influence. Fox had to carry her home.
He’d seen Miss Chuchi all but naked. It was nothing to seeing her bed. (He’d never fit.) Or the nightstand bowl filled with hairpins and sleep mints and solitary earrings. (But if he could, he’d drop his earpiece there.) Or the over-loved banthak plushie missing an eye. (He’d never attempt to take its place.)
The piles of datapads had also reminded him that Miss Chuchi wouldn’t be working at Chambers forever. She was a student, fated to graduate. When she left, politics degree in hand and well-wishes in her pocket, Fox figured his resignation would soon follow. The place wouldn’t be the same with her gone. Nothing would shine, his routine would feel pointless, and the stereochine would have no one to play for.
Less than a year! Fox counted the days like man condemned.
He was staring at the rota, fresh caf at his lips, when his boss gently but unilaterally suggested he step out so she could take a call. Hot drinks weren’t allowed on the floor, dancers or no dancers. So when Fox left the staff room and found himself being beckoned by Riyo to mount the stage, his professional resolve wasn’t what it could have been.
“You know I don’t dance,” he told her, trying not to ogle the buds of her nipples. Like her, the building was still warming up for the night.
“I know I’ve never seen you try.”
Some of the other bouncers liked to flex with flagpole holds and fireman races. The occasional bump n’ grind if Padmé was being liberal with drinks on staff nights. Fox always found ways to excuse himself. What he didn’t say was how flimsy those poles looked, and how much he hated the idea of landing on his ass.
“I’d bend the pole,” Fox said. It wasn’t a boast. He was a meatbag with vegetable grace.
“Maybe I’d like to dance on a kinky pole.”
“I’d like to get paid. In full.”
“Okay, fine, no pole. What if I climbed you instead?”
Fox flushed. He imagined swinging her around like a cheerleader at a RepU gridiron game. Was it too late for him to enroll? He was half prepared to don a suit and necksquare everyday at some Bureau of Boredom just to stay within passing eyeline of this girl.
“Friends don’t tease,” he reminded her, at a loss.
Riyo sat back on her heels, hands on hips. “I’m not teasing! Get up here.”
Fox duly jumped up, knees not feeling too clever, his cock not exactly winning any awards for judgment. This wasn’t Pantorans Gone Primal. It was a Taungsday, and Joph had already called in sick.
In one of those movements that seemed impossible for the vertebrate, Riyo rolled onto her back. She vee’d her legs around the pole. Her toes climbed the chrome, until one foot came to rest on his throbbing crotch.
Fox had to steady himself on the metal. Lost in the lode of Riyo’s gleaming eyes, he hardly heard his cue to return to the staff room.
“Commander, if you’re going to dance with one of my girls, at least take your shoes off.”