“Speak for yourself,” I replied, yawning so big my jaw cracked. “Ouch.”
“We’re taking a week after the last performance and then…” He smiled and widened his eyes, waiting.
“Then what?” I asked. “Are you talking about the Denver shows?”
He shook his head. “Nooooo. I got a request for a meeting with the lead producer for Serial Staging. They want to talk about a Belles of the Ball show. Multi-cast. Multi-city. World. Tour.”
The blood must have drained out of my body because I actually became lightheaded. “What?” Serial Staging? “No way.”
Steven continued to smile. “Yes, way. They want to strike while the iron is hot. They sent me a proposal this morning, and I’ve been dying to show it to you for hours.”
I screeched and held out my hands, opening and closing my fingers. “Gimme! Gimme!”
He laughed and dug into his briefcase, withdrawing a pile of papers I immediately snatched out of his hands.
I understood every fourth word, but I got the gist. “I have to sell them the show, though.” I looked up from the proposal to Steven. In all of my daydreaming, I’d never imagined I wouldn’t be part of the show.
“It’s just a proposal,” he reminded me as he took the papers. “We’re going to go over it with the lawyers, you and I, and we’ll take the whole thing apart, piece by piece. We’ll negotiate until we get something you can live with.”
“What do you think?” I asked him. Knowing Steven, he’d already read the contract and emailed the lawyers.
I took it as a good sign when he continued to smile. “I think it’s a great start and I think you’ll be able to use this as a springboard. You could join another dance company. Bloody hell, Betty, you could start your own dance company. Something to rival Martha Graham and Isadora Duncan and Arthur Ashe or whoever—”
“Do you mean Alvin Ailey?”
“What did I say?” He seemed confused.
“Arthur Ashe.”
“I meant Alvin Ailey. The two A names mess me up. And I’m British and Wimbledon. Obviously.” Steven typed quickly into his tablet, probably confirming meetings and setting up the next step in the audition for the three dancers we’d been talking about.
“Wimbledon. Tea. The Thames. Obviously.” I used a very bad British accent to mock him, and he glanced up at me over the lenses of his glasses.
“Tart.”
“Eejit.”
“I’m not Irish, Betty, bloody hell.”
I bumped my shoulder against his arm as I followed him out of the rehearsal studio toward the elevators. “I have to meet Aucoin upstairs in fifteen minutes to start getting ready for the matinee.”
“Mmhmm,” Steven said. “Did you make a decision about the wrap party?” He was talking about the party I usually threw for the dancers after a big performance finished. While we still had two more cities left to tour, Vegas had been our longest run. We had that little break in between shows, so it was a perfect time to celebrate our hard work.
“Rent a room or my penthouse?” I asked.
“Should we wait to see how much Serial Staging offers?” he joked, and I rolled my eyes.
“Just rent a room downstairs then if you can. If not, we’ll have it in the penthouse. Catered. And if we’re able, small bonus for their vacation.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Miss Belle.” Mike waited for us at the end of the hallway by the elevators. Ever since Westin had snuck in, Mike and his staff had taken to guarding the entrances and exits. They weren’t taking a chance on someone borrowing a code or accidentally happening upon a rehearsal.
I’d had to hire a couple of extra guys, which I’d argued against. Westin, Josh, Brant, and Landry weren’t a danger to me.
To my heart, yes. But not to my safety. They’d never physically hurt me.
According to Mike, however, if they could get in, so could a stranger. And maybe that person would have less than good intentions toward me.
Mike hit the button on the elevator and stood in front of me, his huge body blocking the doors as they opened. We got inside and rode in silence for a while.
“I’ll meet you upstairs after Celeste leaves,” Steven told me as we stopped at his floor. “I have calls to make in the meantime.”
“You know, you’re due some time off, too,” I said. Sure, things had gotten insanely busy after my appearance on Jonathan, but we’d been working like crazy people for years before that.
“It’s a marathon, Betty,” he said as he walked by me. “We’re pacing ourselves.”
The doors closed. This was pacing ourselves? I made a mental note to force him to take a long weekend. Mike entered the code for the penthouse, and the doors opened right into the foyer. “I’ll be here, Miss Belle,” Mike announced.
“Thank you,” I replied, hurrying by him. I had ten minutes now before Aucoin appeared, and Celeste would be in halfway through to get me into costume so Aucoin could finish the parts of my body that would be exposed.
I’d left my phone upstairs today, and I snagged it on my way to the bathroom.
My screen lit up with message after message.
What. The. Fuck?
There was a group text from Brant, Landry, Josh, Westin: Please see us.
What followed were individual pleas. Fuck my life.
Brant: I’m still in Vegas.
Landry: In Vegas.
Josh: Staying in Vegas.
Westin: Still here.
I gripped the phone so hard the plastic case creaked. See them.
Don’t you all have lives? I typed. Send.
Brant: No.
Landry: No.
Josh: No.
Westin: Not since I left.
Jesus. What were they trying to do to me?
I couldn’t respond yet, not with all their answers ringing in my ears, their remembered voices speaking in my head. Why now?
Why now?
I didn’t write that. Instead, I tossed the phone on my vanity and got into the shower for a quick wash. I was slathering my body in moisturizer when the door opened and Aucoin called out, “Knock knock!”
“In the bathroom!” I called. I hurried into a robe and went out to meet him. He liked to do my makeup in front of the big window in natural light.
Aucoin was tall and leanly muscular with a short beard and close-cropped hair. He was handsome and funny, and though he swore he didn’t, I fully believed he wore mascara on his beautiful dark lashes.
Lucky bastard to have such thick, striking lashes and perfectly arched brows.
“How are you?” he asked as I came in.
“Good,” I replied. “Do you want me to order us coffee and snacks?” One of my favorite things about Aucoin was that I could count on him to snack with me. He was my go-to guy who always said yes to whatever nibbley treats we could find.
“Yes, please!” He laid his brushes out on a table. “I was up way too late last night. Look at these bags.” I examined his perfect skin, but he’d hidden away any sign of exhaustion. Which was why I counted on him. The man was incredible.
“You know I don’t see any bags,” I intoned dryly.
He winked at me, grabbed his primer, and set to work. We were quiet for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts. It wasn’t until coffee arrived and we had a few sips that we relaxed into the banter we usually batted back and forth.
“So…” he said as he applied lashes to my eyelids. “I haven’t seen hot boy with good arms around.”
“No,” I replied. “Me either.” I didn’t tell him they were around still or about the messages. Aucoin and I were close, but it was hard for me to just let go. If he happened to be privy to things, that was one thing. It wasn’t his fault I was always on guard. He’d never done a single thing to make me believe I couldn’t trust him.
It was just how I was now.
“I bet he’s been at your shows.”
Not to sound full of myself, but those tickets were pretty ha
rd to come by. “I doubt it.”
“Oh, I don’t know, girl. He had the look of someone who liked a challenge.”
“Ha!” I burst out before I could stop myself.
Aucoin chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped away to study his work. “I won’t say I told you so, but when it happens, I told you so.”
The door opened and shut. “Betty!”
“In here!” I called to Steven.
He appeared with Celeste and a rack of costumes. “You look gorgeous.” He kissed my cheek and nodded at Aucoin. “Perfection as always, Aucoin.”
Aucoin’s cheeks flushed, and I glanced between him and Steven, interested. Hmm. What was all this?
Celeste helped me into each piece of my costume from my barely there underwear to the statement pieces she glued onto my areolas.
The matinees were a little less flashy than the evening performances, but only in Vegas terms. Not real world terms. In other words, tassels for daytime, nips at night.
“I think we should consider extensions at some point,” Aucoin said.
Fully in costume, he powdered my shoulders and neck as the final part of my preparation.
“Really?” I asked. My hair was shoulder length, though when it curled it went around my chin. If I left it down, I tended to do pin curls. But he had a good idea. I could definitely incorporate long hair into choreography. “I’ll think about it.”
I happened to glance away from the mirror after speaking and saw Steven wink at Aucoin. Okay. So I’d been set up, but there was something more between the two of them. I’d ferret it out later.
“Mike is at the door. I’ll be back before the evening performance,” Steven said. “Can I do anything else?”
“No,” I answered. “Thank you, everyone.”
My staff and Steven left, and I was alone. It was after midday, and the sun was high in the sky. Crowds of people gathered at the edges of the fountains, watching the constant performances.
I wondered if anyone ever performed in the fountain or had a stage set up on top of it. The pool was longer than a city block, and I’d seen the hotel staff launch a boat on the water. I wasn’t sure if it had an engine, but they’d stuck two celebrities and a camera crew on it, so it had to be sturdier than a raft.
Something to consider anyway.
As I stared down at the fountain, I couldn’t help myself. I had to sneak a peek across the street to where Westin had sat.
What if Aucoin was right? What if the boys were in the audience for my shows?
I shook my head as I turned away and strode toward the door. No way. They weren’t dropping two hundred dollars a day for the last five days on tickets. Not if they also had to pay for hotels.
Vegas wasn’t cheap, no matter what people thought of those of us who worked here.
I opened my door. “Hi, Mike, ready?”
“Of course, Miss Belle.” Mike waited for the elevator doors to open, got on, and then held them open for me. There was already a man inside, one of the new hires, and he spoke into a radio. “Miss Belle is on her way.”
We made it to the stage without incident, but I found myself staring into the audience, gaze raking each row, trying to find familiar faces.
It was an exercise in futility. When the house lights went down and the stage lights came up, I couldn’t see a thing.
As I danced that day, thoughts of the boys were at the forefront of my mind. Their eyes could be on me right now, staring and judging as I removed my corset and let it fall from my fingertips.
The audience roared, a sound that usually filled me with pride, but now I had to wonder if somewhere out there, someone was watching me, disappointed.
I smiled wider, annoyed that people I didn’t even know anymore had the power to make me second-guess myself.
The boys had always been so proud of me, but that had been when I was a ballerina.
I danced off stage, out of breath and put my hands on my hips as the girls filled the gap meant to give me a breather.
I had three different performances. The nighttime performances were the same, but the matinees had some different songs and choreography. Nothing too difficult, just something to keep my dancers engaged and fresh. It was hard to put on a show that was exactly the same, day after day.
The music changed. The song was one I’d chosen not long ago with relatively new choreography, and as it came through the speakers, I cursed my decision.
As I danced onstage, I realized the reason I’d chosen it.
It reminded me of the boys.
The song was about a country girl, watching her man come in from a day in the fields. Blue jeans. Dirty white t-shirt.
God. The boys had appeared that way a thousand times. They’d look so good, sweaty and tired.
Something came over me as I danced. I pretended the past had never happened. That the boys and I had a clean slate and that I always would have ended up right here, doing this.
I imagined them proud of me, watching from the audience, knowing I’d chosen this song for them.
I still loved them, no matter that I’d buried that truth so deep inside myself that I’d truly believed it.
Turned out no one could lie to me like I could lie to myself.
The music faded away, but the words stayed in my head. I curtsied, bare breasted, clad only in the thong that covered my hoo-ha. I spun, glanced over my shoulder like I did every day, winked, and waited for the curtain to fall.
Thirty-Seven
Westin
Voicemail received eight years ago. July 11th, 8:00 am.
Wes, do you remember when you drove me home that night before everything got bad? You picked me up at the DQ and I sat in your truck. You grabbed me, pulled me in close to you and said, “You’re too damn far away.” Guess what, Wes? You’re too damn far away. Come back to me, baby. I love you.
Thirty-Eight
Westin
I held my phone to my ear as the theater emptied. Betsy’s husky, accent-thick voice filled my head. People gave me nervous glances as they passed me, but they were looks I was used to.
They saw my tattoos, the black hair, the way I dressed, and they made assumptions.
Assumptions I wanted them to make.
The doors to the theater shut as Betsy’s message finished
My thumb hovered over the disconnect button, like it always did, and I struggled—like I always did—to press it. All I wanted was to call her back.
I was here, what the fuck was I waiting for?
The phone rang. I didn’t expect her to answer it, so when it went to voicemail, I considered hanging up.
But I didn’t.
“Bets. I listened to your messages a thousand times. I fucked up, baby. I fucked up so bad. At the time, shit.” I pushed my hair away from my face and stared hard at the floor and the toes of my scuffed boots. “Shit. I thought I could live with you hating me. But I can’t. This is selfish. I know it. All of us do, but I’ve always known if I found you again, I’d do this. Let me explain. Be the person I wasn’t, Betsy. Call me back.”
Thirty-Nine
Betty
I stared at the phone and pressed the button to play Westin’s message again. I put it on speakerphone. Immediately, his voice filled the penthouse, the tones lush and rich, and I had to sit down.
Be the person I wasn’t.
If my heart had a voice, it was telling me, do it.
I walked into my bedroom, let my robe drop to the floor, and pulled on a pair of leggings and bra. Then I paced.
I wanted to call him—I was weak where the boys were concerned. It was a shitty thing to realize about yourself, that a softly spoken word from the boy who’d ripped my heart out could peel away all the armor I’d built.
And I spent a long fucking time wearing that armor.
The hoodie I’d worn the other night was folded neatly on the bureau so I pulled it on.
I wasn’t brave enough to call Westin, so I wimped out and texted them. Meet me at the
fountain. I’ll be waiting there for the next thirty minutes. If you don’t show up, that’s it.
One chance.
They could say what they wanted to say. Maybe we’d all find the closure we needed.
Better yet, maybe I would.
Landry, Brant, Josh, Westin: We’ll be there.
I stuffed my phone in the pocket of my sweatshirt and left, only to run right into one of Mike’s new guys. “You’re going out?”
I didn’t know his name. “Yes.” It was too much to hope he would let me go, but maybe he’d compromise. “I’m meeting some friends at the fountain, but I’m trying to stay under the radar. If you come, can you do that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I can blend in if that’s what you’re asking.”
I studied him. He was a big guy, but there were enough people outside that he wouldn’t stand out. “Okay. Let’s go.”
He held the elevator door back, waiting for me to go inside. I got in, and he pressed the button for the lobby. This was really happening.
I was really going to talk to them. All of them.
At the same time.
“I don’t know your name,” I said to the bodyguard. I held out my hand. “You can call me Betty.”
He started to smile but smothered it.
“What?” I asked. My lips twitched.
His cheeks flushed, and he shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Miss Belle. It’s nothing.”
It was definitely something. “Come on. What’s the joke?”
He snickered, but his expression was pained. The man had pale skin and it was as red as the carpeted elevator. “It’s just—you said, “You can call me Betty,” and my name is Al, so—”
I laughed. He was talking about a song, so I finished the lyrics. “You can call me Al.”
He started to laugh, and the doors opened into the lobby. I pulled my hood over my head and my bodyguard cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, holding out a pair of sunglasses. “And since it’s still so hot, you might not want to wear the hood. You’ll stand out more. We’ll just get you a hat from the store.”
Boys and Burlesque Page 16
