The stumble

The bottle's warmth is still settling in my chest when my foot catches on the mat. I slip, not gracefully, not deliberately — just a clumsy stumble that sends me sliding down the pole's base, my knee grazing the hardwood. I let out a breathless laugh, the sound loose and sloppy from the liquor.

Whoops.

I push myself up slowly, palms flat on the floor, and I feel the eyes on me. All of them. The music keeps thumping, and I keep moving, letting my back arch as I rise just partway, staying bent over with my hands on my knees. The swimsuit strains against my spine, the damp fabric clinging to every curve, my ass lifted toward the room.

I stay there. One heartbeat. Two. The guys go quiet behind me, and I can hear someone shift on the couch, the creak of leather.

"You like the view back there?" I call over my shoulder, my voice slurring just a little at the edges. I don't straighten up. I just hold the position, letting the silence stretch, letting them look.