<span style="color: #FF80FF"><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><div style="text-align: center;">Lea Stevens</div></span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn24/SociallyToxicBeauty/036e0d3a-b28c-47ec-b858-0eaea6c67e4d.jpg">[ img ]</a></div><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #FF80FF"><div style="text-align: center;">"Jazz"</div></span></span></span><br/><br/>Cigarette smoke filtered through the air causing a hazy atmosphere within the large room. Tables were spread through out, along with catcalls, whistles, and waving hands. Waitresses in skimpy outfits walked around with trays of drinks in their hands, bending over to give generous views of their cleavage in hopes of receiving generous tips. The bass that had been thrumming for the past few hours tapered off and faded, replaced with generic jazz music that had a slight beat.<br/><br/>The people in the room who were not regulars to club were confused by this sudden change, but the ones who frequented hollered in excitement. It was then that the stage cleared out of the topless females that had previously occupied it, only for a single woman to step out onto stage. She seemed average, with dirty blonde hair and half-lidded eyes. While she seemed toned, there was nothing particularly remarkable about her...until her hand touched the center stage pole.<br/><br/>She lazily swung forward with a grace unrivaled by any other dancer, her silver stilettos spinning with her, hair fluttering back. She arched some as she pulled herself towards the pole, a leg coming up to wrap around it. Somehow she had managed to stay in tune with the unusual choice of music, her body dipping low to accentuate her curves.<br/><br/>Her name was Lea Stevens, but the customers at the club only knew her by, "Jazz." She had once been a cop, but that had all gone down hill when she found herself partaking in illicit substances--mainly coke and ecstasy. It had been a hard fall, but she hadn't learned her lesson, she hadn't cleaned up her act. Instead she had gone into stripping and a bit of paid sex on the side. She knew from her time in the force just how much a stripper, dancer, or prostitute could potentially make and had decided to go for it. It was hard to get a job when you were fired from the police force.<br/><br/>She was making pretty good money and maybe if she were investing it in so much booze and drugs she would be able to take care of herself better--but she didn't care. She didn't care about anything. Not about herself, not about stripping, and not about the friends and family she had left behind. She hadn't cared about anything since the day she had killed a young gang banger of only 17. Her partner had told her she had done what she had to, but for her it just wasn't enough. She could never forgive herself and the choices she had made that day.