Текст книги "Reveal"
Автор книги: Elle Brooks
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
I DON’T KNOW what just happened. One minute I’m thanking Cole for the coffee, the next I’m exchanging details and organizing a dinner date for tonight. What the hell is wrong with me? This is such a bad idea. In fact, it’s beyond bad…this is up there in the realm of the most catastrophically stupid idea in the history of shitty ideas. I go to bed crying every night, scared that I’ll be woken by some maniac demanding money I don’t have, and by the looks of it, still won’t have by this stupidly imposed deadline. At first the tears came for Danny. I missed him. My chest ached every time I looked around our apartment. My apartment. Now, all that I harbor in my chest where my heart used to be is a huge empty void. I feel so lost, so incomplete. I can’t pay my bills, barely have money to eat and lie awake each night picturing everything I must have done wrong for Daniel to abandon me. I can’t go out on a date with some random stranger just because the prospect of a free meal is overwhelmingly appealing. Anything that isn’t PB&J is appealing when that’s all I’ve eaten for the last five days in a row.
I stop mid-stride and pull out my cell. I need to cancel tonight. Cole’s number sits heavily in my palm. I should never have agreed. He’d been so persuasive and kind. It’s astonishing the effect the simple kindness of a stranger can have when you feel like there’s no hope. For five minutes while I sipped my coffee and he made small talk I forgot to be stressed. It was heaven. I press call and am immediately transferred to my payment line. The robotic voice announces that I don’t have sufficient credit to make a call, and I’m being diverted. I don’t have the money to load anything onto my cell. My face flushes with the shame of not being able to afford something as menial as a telephone call. I can’t cancel this evening now unless he decides to contact me.
The coffee I finished begins to churn around in my stomach, mixing with a healthy dose of apprehension and weakness to form a sickening dread that I don’t seem to have control over any aspect of my life. Mom always used to tell me that a fairytale only ends when you’ve finished reading the story and close the book.
I think life just closed my book.
I make it to Reveal twenty minutes before my audition time. I look around at the building, taking in the huge black double doors and the red Broadway-style signage that blinks out the name of the club. There’s nothing on the outside to give away what is happening on the other side of those mammoth doors. No windows, no posters, nothing. Just a thin red strip of carpet under the awning and a brass railing with red rope. It looks far classier than I was imagining, but then I had let my imagination get the better of me. I was expecting a frontage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the back streets of Amsterdam’s red light district.
“You here for an audition?” a woman asks, walking past me and throwing the door open.
“Oh, um, yeah. Hi, I’m Robyn,” I offer, taking in all of what must be five feet nothing of her. She’s like a tiny little pixie with cropped blonde hair, flat biker boots, and huge boobs.
“Oh, Lucy’s friend? I’m Annie.”
“That’s me,” I answer as I walk through the door she’s holding open and into the club. “Wow, this place is impressive!”
“It doesn’t look like much empty, but it comes into its own in the evening,” she says happily. “Follow me.”
I do as she asks, winding my way around the circular tables that are adorned with tiny little Tiffany-style fringed lamps. I feel like I’ve stepped off the sidewalk and right back into the twenties; it’s all very Gatsbyesque. The dread that was sitting heavily in the depths of my stomach begins to subside. I’ve danced from the age of six. Ballet, tap, modern, street and anything and everything in between. It’s more than a passion; it’s an obsession bordering on insanity. If I couldn’t dance, I would cease to exist. People may call it dancing—I call it living. It’s raw, ardent expressionism, each movement distorting reality so radically that you have no choice but to feel every emotion it pulls from you.
I’ve danced almost everything, perfecting my craft, but never burlesque. My mind has always attached the style to my preconceptions around stripping. I used to think I was above it. What I do is art, and I couldn’t find the art in taking my clothes off and shaking my ass for money. After watching every YouTube clip I could find on burlesque, I have to concede that my biases are…well, simply bullshit. There’s a definite art to it, and in truth I’ve danced in music videos wearing perhaps the same amount of clothing. My eyes travel the club: the air of opulence and a distinct lack of a pole on the stage is doing wonders for my frayed nerves.
“You’re actually the first here; this is going to be a group audition. Feel free to get on stage and stretch or whatever. I’ll fetch the bossman and the others should be here soon.”
“Okay, thanks,” I shout as she exits through a large black door in the far left corner of the room that reads Private. I’m hoping it leads to an office, and not a seedy backroom for “Private” dances.
I climb onstage as I hear Annie bellow, “You’re such an ass!” as she marches back through the door with a face like thunder. My eyes widen, and she smirks at me on approach.
“You love me really, cupcake!” a deep male voice retorts, and it echoes through the room.
“I do,” she whispers to me. “But I’d rather swallow razor blades than let him in on that.”
I’m not sure how to respond. So far this isn’t exactly how I pictured this morning panning out.
I place my bag at the corner of the stage to start warming up my muscles. I have my back turned when I hear heavy footsteps and a deep raspy voice say, “Ah, you must be Miss Spears, I’m Za—” his words die as I turn to face him. Then I want to die. Literally, right here and now.
“Zane,” he finishes with the widest grin I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.
“Shit!”
I don’t mean to cuss out loud, but it’s the first thing that enters my mind and slips without warning from my lips. Now he’s laughing, a deep, amused belly laugh, and I really don’t see the funny side of this. Of course it’s him, why wouldn’t it be? The universe fucking hates me.
“We meet again,” he croons, as Annie plays eyeball tennis frantically between the two of us. She looks confused for a second before it morphs into a scowl. I guess she likes Zane. I’m also willing to bet that she’s put two and two together and come up with twenty-five. My insides twist and I contemplate walking out. If I leave now I’ll probably save myself a little humiliation. He’s not about to offer me a job, given that the last time we met I knocked him down, vomited in front of him and he carried my drunken ass home. If the saying is true and you really do only get one chance at a first impression, mine was irrevocably the worst.
“What’s up, guys?” A cheery redhead bobs into view and we all turn to look at her.
“Lauren! Morning darling, this is…Robyn, isn’t it?” Zane asks, and I nod, too numb from embarrassment to form actual words.
“Fresh meat! Yeah, I’m Lauren. I’ll be taking you through the audition routine as soon as everyone’s here,” she says looking around the empty room. “Excuse me while I go out back and get changed.”
She doesn’t wait for any kind of a reply before heading behind the curtains with Annie hot on her heels.
“I should maybe just go,” I mumble as I walk towards my bag.
“Whoa, hold on. Why?”
“I don’t know, Zane, maybe because I can’t take any more embarrassment today?”
“Look, Robyn, I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable, laughing. That was wrong and not very professional. I was just a little—shocked. If you’re worried about the other night, then don’t be. It’s forgotten. Cross my heart. Just go stretch, and when the audition starts I promise it’s me seeing you for the first time.”
I blow out a long breath and thank him. His eyes are sincere and he’s giving me a break. I appreciate it more than he’ll ever know. I need this gig desperately.
My life is kind of depending on it.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not getting it. What count do we come in with the kick ball change?” Katie, another of the auditionees, asks as we’re getting into position ready to start. Lauren, Annie, and Zane are all seated front and center as Rae cues us in with the music. She’s the dancer we’re all hoping for a shot at replacing. The girl is like a mini Hitler. Her attitude is completely no-nonsense. If you missed something, well then tough shit.
“It’s on the four,” I tell her as we begin. We’re arranged in a chorus line, each wearing the Basque and French knickers they provided. The piece we’ve rehearsed is a typical Vaudeville-style performance. The dancing itself is relatively basic, and I’m not worried. It’s the acting and exaggeration that has my pulse racing. Thirty seconds in and I’m feeling good. I know the steps, my movements are sharp, and I manage to pull my gloves off without slapping anyone in the eye. I can do this.
Zane calls four girls’ names once we’ve finished our routine, each standing in our underwear and nipple pasties. I’m not one of the girls called, and immediately I feel exposed and nervous waiting for him to tell me my fate.
“If I’ve called your name, thank you very much for coming but I’m afraid we won’t be hiring you. You’re all free to go.” I quickly look around to see that Katie and two others are still standing here with me. Katie catches my eye as she shoots me a wink; I’m relieved to have made the first cut, but still too tense to return her a smile.
“Okay ladies, let’s take five, gather your costumes and then I’d like to see you perform the piece again.”
Annie, Lauren, and Rae are talking in hushed tones as they dissect our performance and carefully scrutinize each of us. I watch as their conversation comes to an abrupt halt. Annie’s face is full of concern as Lauren and Rae look me over, quickly dismissing whatever it was they were looking for with a side glance and head shake to each other. They turn back to Annie and pick up the discussion. There’s nothing like a group of beautiful women obviously talking about you to knock your confidence, even when you have a pretty strong sense of self-worth. I’ve always been confident when it comes to dance, and to date no one’s ever been able to shake it. I know I’m good. But I have a strange feeling that they’re not assessing my dancing abilities at the moment.
The other three girls on stage begin picking up the discarded gloves and Basques, sorting through to find which ones are theirs, and I’m hit in the chest with my clothes.
“Here you go, daydreamer,” Katie says as she starts dressing.
“Thanks,” I mumble and follow suit.
“Robyn, can I talk to you for a second?” Annie asks as she grabs my arm and leads me off the stage to a quiet corner, not giving me a chance to answer.
“Look, I’m going to ask this once and I’d appreciate an honest answer. Are you hooking up with Zane?”
“What!” I laugh, and then realize she’s serious. If the murderous look on her tiny little pixie face is anything to go by, she’s pissed that I found the question funny.
“Annie, no. Why would you even think that?”
“Well, he seems to know you, and Zane doesn’t have platonic female friends.”
“Wow, well you can relax because we’re not friends. I met him outside a bar two nights ago when I knocked him over and vomited in front of him. He helped my friend get me home. There’s absolutely nothing going on and there never will be. Trust me, my ex has sworn me off relationships for life.”
“Oh…”
The scowl’s been replaced with a small smile. “Well, that’s good to know. I’m sorry, I just…I don’t know. Zane and I are…” She’s struggling for a description of their relationship and honestly, I couldn’t care less.
“Look, no worries,” I reassure her and she looks relieved.
“Okay, ladies, back into positions! Rae, cue the music, let’s get this done,” Zane shouts, not lifting his eyes from his phone.
“That’s me,” I say to Annie as I climb onto the stage and she returns to her seat.
We go through the routine again and the other two girls are dismissed, leaving just Katie and me. We’re told we have three minutes each to perform to a piece of music of our choice. It doesn’t have to be polished as long as it gives a glimpse of how well we move and our abilities. Katie’s up first, and I’m a little shocked when Tweet’s Oops, Oh My begins to play. She doesn’t miss a beat as she begins a hip-hop routine that incorporates street and burlesque. It’s pretty uptempo, and she’s killing it. The whole three minutes is crammed full of shimmies, bump and grinds, and teases. There’s no denying that she’s a good dancer, and I watch enraptured as she turns, pulls an accidental exposé, then winks and takes a bow.
I’m impressed.
I’m also second guessing my music as she climbs down from the stage with a knowing grin on her face. She’s happy with her performance and she should be, it was great. Unfortunately for me.
“You’re up, Robyn!” Zane shouts, and I take a deep breath and walk to center stage.
I figure I need to stand out, so I choose Indiana’s Solo Dancing, deciding to go with contemporary. I was sure Katie would pull an old school big band number. I was wrong. Now it’s really all down to the dancing since I’ve lost the edge on my music choice. I get into first position. The music starts and washes over me and my body moves instinctively, there’re no conscious prompts. I’m in the zone from the first beat and everything else fades to black. I move in time, exaggerating each extension, gliding across the space and filling it with movement. I set my stance for a pirouette, turning once, twice in a classical turnout and then transitioning into a Fouettés. I’m spinning as fast as I can while making short work of unhooking the Basque and letting it drop to the floor. The whole intention of this routine is to discard my clothes as craftily as possible; I want the audience to appreciate the dance before they notice the flesh. Burlesque differs from stripping in that the sensuality comes from the sense of mystery and subdued sexuality as opposed to overt sexuality. The emphasis is on the tease, not the strip. At least that’s my rationale. I finish the piece with a grand jeté, landing into the splits and I mirror Katie’s earlier expression and wink. I’m out of breath and still myself, letting my body calm as I wait for some sort of response. I’m met with only silence as the music fades, and still nobody speaks.
Shit.
I stand, wiping my brow and look up to notice my audience has widened. There’s a guy here that wasn’t before, standing to Zane’s left.
“You’re hired,” he says in a low growl like I’ve somehow pissed him off.
“Sort it,” he tells Zane. I watch the muscles beneath his black T-shirt flex across his shoulders as his form retreats, and before I can contemplate the whole exchange he’s disappeared.
And I’m a burlesquer.
I LIVE BY two pretty simple philosophies: Don’t shit where you eat, and temptation is easier to avoid than resist. They’re simple enough ideas that have served me well.
Until now.
I’ve just hired a dancer that is temptation personified. She’s sex and innocence wrapped up in a beautiful box, begging to be opened. And I’m battling to understand whether the ache of knowing I need to resist her will outweigh the pain of conceding.
Either way…I’m fucked.
“SO YOU’RE STANDING me up, even though you’re dressed and ready to go.” It’s not really a question, more a statement. I’m saying it aloud for my own benefit.
I’m here.
She’s here.
I can see that she’s clearly dressed and ready to go: her lips are slick with gloss, and she’s poured herself into a dress designed to induce heart attacks in the opposite sex. The bright red fabric looks like a second skin, it hugs her so tightly. I cock my head to the side, evidently missing something as she fixes me with apologetic eyes.
“I’m just not convinced this is a great idea.”
I’m trying not to undress her mentally as she leans against the chipped doorway of her apartment. Her breasts are pushed together from her stance, and it’s clouding my ability to form a cohesive sentence. Desire has its podgy, fat fingers closed tightly around my neck; I can feel the pulse throbbing in my throat as I swallow.
“Are you hungry?” I ask in a hoarse voice. What I want to say is, “Are you hungry for me? Do you feel this insane pull, too?”
She’s quick to reply no, but her traitorous stomach growls, giving her away.
I smile. “Your body says differently. Look, I’m not in the habit of begging women to come to dinner. I would really like it if you’d do me the honor of accompanying me tonight, but if you don’t want to, then I’ll leave and stop bothering you.”
She remains quiet for a beat too long, and the disappointment comes quick and hard. It’s rare that I don’t get what I want, and this isn’t an emotion that I’m familiar or comfortable with.
I don’t like it.
Letting out a sigh, I turn to save face and begin to walk away.
“Wait!” she calls and reaches inside her apartment, grabbing her purse, and quickly locks the door behind her.
“Thank God.” I fake amusement when actually it’s relief. “I thought you were genuinely going to let me do the walk of shame out of here.”
“I thought that was the walk home from the night before; you know, wearing day-old clothes that shout I didn’t go home last night.”
“Well, in that case, I’m looking forward to that walk.”
She stops.
I laugh.
“Joke, Ms. Spears. It’s a friend date. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.” How could I? I smile and hold my arm out for her to take. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do, although there’s nothing gentlemanly about the thoughts I have as her hand makes contact. I want to palm her breasts and squeeze her ass, peel her out of that damn dress and take her here and now in this dingy hall to relieve the ridiculous tension building inside.
I lead her down to the town car I have idling at the curb. The driver, John, opens our door and I motion for her to slide in. She glides across the seat, her legs crossed modestly at the ankle and plastered together tightly to keep from revealing what’s under her dress.
I take a deep breath; tonight is going to be a painfully long night of having to look at her without imagining every depraved, wicked thing I’d like to do with her. I slide in beside her, and she swallows audibly. I’m making her uncomfortable, and if I didn’t have to all but bribe her to be here right now, I could be mistaken for thinking that she’s struggling with the same thoughts I am.
“You look beautiful, by the way. I should have said that upstairs, but I was a little sidetracked coaxing you down here.”
“That’s kind, thank you,” she says, bashfully turning away. “You look very handsome yourself.”
My complement has colored her cheeks, and it only serves to amplify my desire for her tenfold. She radiates innocence, and it’s at war with her appearance because she looks anything but innocent tonight. She’s literally a waving red scarf, and I’m the bull.
The car ride over to Masa doesn’t take nearly as long as it should for Friday evening. Robyn’s company is the sweetest kind of torture. I’m not quite ready to leave the confines of the car and go share her with the rest of the city. She’s quick-witted and funny in a way that isn’t brash or sarcastic. She’s self-deprecating, and more than a little mysterious. It’s taken little effort for her to skillfully evade my questions. Anything that she doesn’t want to answer, she’s turned back on me. I’m the lawyer, but you wouldn’t know it from the last fifteen minutes of conversation. My Uncle Andrew used to tell me there was nothing more dangerous than a beautiful woman with a solid head on her shoulders. He was on wife number five when he passed away last year. It’s always the prettiest creatures that are the deadliest, he’d said. Looking over at Robyn…she must be lethal.
“Here we are, Sir,” the driver calls, breaking us from our current conversation. It’s a little one-sided; she’s been talking for the last thirty seconds and I’ve been staring at her lips, oblivious to what’s pouring out of them.
“I’ll warn you now, drinks will no doubt be boring, but as soon as they’re out of the way, we’ll have dinner and hopefully that will make up for me burdening you with work talk and pressing my colleagues on you.”
“Wow, well that sold it for me!”
She’s smiling, but if Don Fisher, the firm’s accountant, gets within ten feet of her this evening, she’ll soon realize where the whole premise of accountants being boring started.
“Well, at least you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Just judge me on the latter half of this evening is all I ask.”
She’s lost the grin now that she knows I’m serious. I feel kind of bad for insisting that she come with me. Not bad enough to release her from the date early, though. She’s made sure that I’m aware this can go nowhere; I’d hinted at asking if it had anything to do with a past relationship on the way here. I didn’t get the answer I was looking for verbally, but her body language spoke volumes. She’s been burned; there’s no doubt in my mind. Now I need to assess how severely because I’ve never been a man to back down from a challenge, and the stakes are high with Robyn. I already know I want her. Now I have to convince her that she wants me, and if playing the friend card is what’s needed to improve my hand, I’ll happily bluff until she folds.
As work events go, this one is surprisingly enjoyable, and it has nothing to do with the work we’re discussing and everything to do with the company I’m in. Robyn’s fun, and I can’t remember the last time I had any. It’s a sobering thought of what my life has become over the past eighteen months. Work, eat, sleep, and repeat. I’ve watched enraptured as she’s woven a spell over the entire office, drawing them in with her personable charm and beguiling beauty. They’re like moths to a flame, and I wonder if I look as beguiled by her as the rest of them. The most enthralling thing is that she’s completely ignorant to it.
I’ve finally got her to myself as the server delivers our food and places it in front of us. I raise my glass and quirk a brow, saying, “To making new friends.”
“New friends,” she smiles, clinking her chardonnay against my Hennessy.
My glass hasn’t even lowered to the table before she attacks her plate with vigor. I can’t hide my smile.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I dismiss, but she’s paused, fork mid-way to her mouth, waiting. “It’s nice to bring a woman to dinner and have her actually eat something,” I tell her. Pink stains immediately blossom across her cheeks in a flush, and I feel unease wash over me that she’s about to take offense. She doesn’t; instead she shrugs.
“I’m starving, and I’ve always had a pretty big appetite. Sorry.”
Her fork lowers and she adjusts in her seat like the movement somehow shifts her gears and forces her to slow down.
“No need to apologize, Robyn. It’s not a bad thing.”
It really isn’t. I have no problem sitting and watching her eat. I could probably sit and stare at her mouth without ever getting tired.
We eat in a comfortable silence, more due to the fact that she basically inhales her food than any other reason. There isn’t much time to strike up a conversation between bites. It’s got to be the most easygoing dinner date in history. There’re no awkward let’s get to know each other, no forced politeness; it feels like two friends having a meal together. I’m enjoying it until doubt creeps in and has me questioning myself. I’m suddenly wondering if she really has placed me deep in the depths of the friend zone, and that’s why this is so relaxed. The thought is tormenting, and although I do want to be her friend, I can’t deny this intense attraction. I think I’d sell my soul to the devil himself to have my lips pressed against hers. If she tastes as good as she looks, it would be a trade worth making.
“You stare a lot,” she says with a coy smile.
“Sorry, what?”
“People often shy away from eye contact, but not you. I’m not even sure if you’re aware you’re doing it. It’s taking all my will power to not excuse myself to the bathroom and go check if I have food stuck to my face, or between my teeth.”
I knew I was staring, but I didn’t realize how blatantly I was doing it. Shit.
“I like to look at pretty things,” I quip, raising my glass to take a drink. The second the words pass my lips and fall into the small space between us, I want to snatch them right back. It’s too late for that now, so I follow them up with a groan. “That sounded cheesy as hell to my own ears. I don’t even want to know how oily it sounded to you. Let’s pretend that I apologized for the ogling, shall we?” I ask hopefully.
“Your cool points just took a serious nosedive,” she laughs. “It’s going to be a lot of work to bring them back up to par.”
I laugh despite myself and shrug. “It was all running so smoothly too. Damn! Let’s get all the cliché bullshit out of the way. Then if you still like what’s left, we can be friends and the next time I say something as smarmy and asinine you can just tell me to shut the hell up.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” she beams. “But won’t it be awkward if I don’t like what’s left?” she challenges, raising one brow and piercing me with a smirk that I’m feeling simmer all the way down in the pit of my stomach.
“Sweetheart, that ain’t ever gonna happen,” I tell her in my best attempt at a smooth southern drawl. She almost splutters her wine back into her glass, and I pass her my napkin with a wide grin.
“Okay, hit me with them…let the question and answer session begin.”
I cough, and sit taller, back straight and taut like I’m about to begin conducting an interview.
“So, I really want to get to know you. Why don’t you tell me your likes and dislikes, a little about your family, what you like to do for fun?” I smile.
“Really,” she retorts, looking completely disinterested and utterly unimpressed. “I give you free reign, and that’s all you can muster? You’re asking for my backstory, but let’s be honest. You’re not interested in the answers; you’re probably under the delusion that a woman’s favorite subject is herself, and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not like most women. How about I answer the questions you really want to know, and we can save ourselves a little boredom?”
Wow. Not what I was expecting.
“I think I just fell in love with you,” I joke. “I like how direct you are, but it’s also a little intimidating. I’ll attest to you not being like most women.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was intended as one, Robyn. Okay…first question. You’re single, right?”
“Right,” she smiles.
“And it’s a new thing?”
“Almost four weeks.”
Damn. Suddenly the word rebound is dancing in the forefront of my mind. I don’t do rebounds; they’re messy at best and a total disaster in general.
“Is that the reason you were so adamant that this date would lead nowhere?”
She looks surprised by my question and leans back into the plush golden fabric of the chair, cradling her glass of wine as though mulling over some great mystery of the universe. I wait for her reply a little too eagerly. She’s lost in her own thoughts, and I begin to think that she’s forgotten I’d even asked her a question. Her brows are furrowed, and I’m sure I see when her pain arrives. The gentle curve of her mouth flattens into a hard line, and I don’t know her enough to know if she’s upset, angry or both, but it has me regretting my candor.
“You don’t have to answer that, Robyn. Please forgive—”
“No, it’s fine,” she interrupts. “Yes, I guess Daniel is why I’m so closed off. Among other things, he left me without warning, and I’m mad that I didn’t see it coming. To add insult to injury, he kind of screwed me over and left a trail of destruction that I have no choice but to clean up. I have so much going on at the moment. If I’m honest, I don’t think I could add anything else to it without dropping the ball and everything in my life imploding.” She sighs, breathing out a long exaggerated breath. “You probably think I’m being dramatic, correct?”
“I don’t know you enough to make that judgment,” I tell her. “I’d like to, though.”
A blush colors her somber pallor and her lip quirks. I love that I’m having an effect on her, even after her confession.
“I like you, Cole. I wasn’t expecting to this much. Your timing kind of sucks!”
My heart leaps and my stomach bottoms all at once. She likes me, and she doesn’t want to. Her life is complicated, mine’s demanding, and there are a million reasons why I should just walk away, bow out and admit defeat graciously. But she’s an enigma that I could quite happily see myself spending an inordinate amount of time attempting to figure out. She’s unwittingly issued a challenge: she’s a Rubik’s Cube, and I’m already addicted.
