Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  Delivered

  Westin: Long fucking flight. It was delayed and I scared some old lady. I didn’t do it on purpose. We’re here now. Brant found a place that’s cheap. Josh checked for bed bugs, and it was clean, so there’s that. Where are you? Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll be there.

  Delivered

  Brant: Josh said you’re not responding because you probably had physical therapy. But I’m afraid I’m never going to hear from you again. It’s not fair of me to ask this, but please call.

  Delivered

  Forty-Nine

  Betty

  I got messages from the boys every day. I read them. Considered responding.

  And put my phone away.

  Steven and I were balls-to-the-wall busy. I got four guest dancers to feature in Belles of the Ball, adjusted contracts with venues to accept the guest dancers, and worked my ass off in therapy.

  That nap Candy suggested didn’t happen that day, and it didn’t happen the next day either.

  Every day of therapy was a struggle. Nell had me lifting weights and doing modified yoga. She stretched me and pushed me, and my body had never hurt the way it did after those sessions.

  Steven came with me for one session, along with a photographer, to chronicle my journey back from being injured. I had a dozen messages on my phone from the boys just from today.

  After the first flurry of where are you staying messages, the boys had started detailing their day in the city. Or asking me about mine.

  Did you have therapy today?

  What sorts of things do you have to do in therapy?

  Have you been to SoHo before?

  Here’s a picture of us at the Intrepid Museum. We just can’t get enough of the Navy. Can we see your house from here?

  They cracked me up, a little bit of humor in days that were full of stress and physical exhaustion.

  “Are you listening?” Steven asked as Nell pushed on my back while I sat with my legs in a V. I’d lost flexibility as I gained muscle. This wasn’t a move that usually hurt, but now it did. My tendons burned in my inner thighs and behind my knee.

  “Yes,” I got out and clenched my teeth. “I’m listening.”

  Steven didn’t always come to rehab with me, but our meeting with Serial Staging loomed on the horizon, and we had a lot of details to hash out. Neither one of us could let down our guard, even though Candy and Nell signed NDAs. There was always the possibility of someone slipping in and taking an unflattering picture, or overhearing me verbally castrate my friend and manager because my body hurt so fucking bad.

  “Are we in agreement on our city list?” Steven had the idea that because I had come from a small town, and my show played up my southern charm, we should have a series of cabaret-style shows in smaller cities like Birmingham and Lexington.

  “Yes,” I replied. Nell pushed a little harder on my back, holding me in place until my muscles relaxed and I could bend deeper into the stretch. I groaned, digging my elbows into the mat and watched the little puddle of sweat just under my head get bigger.

  “What about the corps list?” he asked. “Did you go over that and make note of which dancers you wanted to be travelers?”

  “I did.” My breath huffed out of me. The burn intensified as my forehead almost touched the mat. “I emailed it back to you.”

  “I don’t see it,” Steven replied, distracted.

  Nell pushed a little harder.

  “Are you sure you sent it?”

  This was as far as I could stretch, but Nell was uncompromising. “Stop,” I told her. “Stop. Stop.” She immediately eased up, and I fell backward onto the mat, sucking in as much air as I could while the burn slowly eased.

  “Betty?” Steven’s voice pierced the haze of pain. Why was he still talking about this? I gave him an answer.

  It took all my self-control to nod and answer. “Yes,” I said breathlessly. “I did.”

  “Have some water and we’ll do it again,” Nell directed.

  Fuck me. If I pushed myself any further, those tendons would snap and wind up like a guitar string. “I think I’m done for today.” I took a drink and another.

  The room was silent, and it took a minute for me to notice. I glanced up from my water bottle, my gaze going to each person in the room. “What?” No one could say I wasn’t working hard. I just wanted to end a little early.

  “Betty,” Nell spoke slowly, like she was uncertain. “We’re only halfway done. You need to stick with this or you’re going to tighten up. It’s going to be so much worse if you don’t push through this.”

  I glanced at Candy, hoping to find a little support there. Certainly she could see how much pain I was in.

  “It’s not gonna kill you.” She shrugged. So no help there.

  Steven was my last hope, but his face was stony. Yeah. He would never let me get away with less than my best.

  I wanted to cry at the thought of stretching again, but what really scared me was that we were only half done. What else did this mistress of pain have planned for me?

  “Fine.” My answer came out short. “Let’s start.”

  I was barely able to walk to the car that evening. I’d found a small red pressure point on my skin, which Nell informed me was wholly my fault for not putting the pad on the crutch in the right place. I was sweaty, smelly, and—according to Steven—had a dozen phone calls to return to media outlets, promoters, staff, and venues. The company that insured us wanted an update from Nell, and one from me, to make sure I was sticking with the rehab plan. They were the ones who had to cover the expenses my promoters and venues were out when I wasn’t able to perform.

  All I wanted to do was dance, while this vast machinery behind me relied on me being in tiptop shape.

  “I emailed you the numbers, topics, please stick to the script,” Steven said as we wound through traffic. “Each reporter is going to try to blindside you, and I know you’re exhausted, so just be careful.”

  “Okay.” I yawned and propped my head on my hand. It was another rainy day, and there was a chill in the air. Yesterday, it had been in the seventies, but today it was just skimming fifty degrees. I’d never get the weather this far north. Be summer or be fall, but pick a side.

  “You look mad,” Steven observed.

  My middle finger itched, so I tucked my hand under my leg. “I’m fine.”

  He moved closer to me and closed the privacy screen between us, the driver, and Candy. Mike turned to the window to give us a modicum of privacy. “I’ve been getting messages from your boys.”

  Me, too. But I kept my mouth shut. That was a distraction I didn’t need.

  “They want to help.”

  I lifted my eyebrows, turning from the window to face him. “I don’t need help.”

  Steven sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “They’re worried about you, and I am, too.”

  “I’m fine,” I said again, daring him to contradict me.

  “Then why did you want to stop today?” he asked. “I’ve known you for four years, and never once have you asked for a break during a rehearsal or workout. No one works harder than you, Betty, no one. So allow me to be concerned when you’re suddenly needing a break from stretching.”

  He really had no idea what this felt like. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort that resulted in me having to work harder and be more stressed. There was the black cloud of doom hanging over my head, reminding me that even if I worked my ass off, I still might not be able to salvage this thing. My show. My employees. My dreams. Steven. They were depending on me to do something I might not be able to do.

  I was scared shitless. Stretching should be easy. I’d been doing it my whole life. Nell wasn’t the first one to push me into a stretch that made me burn and pop. Madame Giroux had been a much less gentle teacher, and no one in their right mind could call Nell gentle.

  But I was stretching and hurting, and all I could think was, what if this doesn’t matter?

  “They’re a
t your apartment.”

  I shook my head, certain I’d misheard him. “Come again?”

  “I asked the boys to meet us at your apartment. I think you need a distraction. An outlet.”

  An outlet?

  Heat rose from my chest into my face. The fucking nerve of this man. “And what, pray tell, do you mean as an outlet? You want me to fuck them? Is that what you’re hinting at?”

  Steven blushed and shifted. Good. I was glad he was uncomfortable. He should be.

  “Do whatever you want, Betty. I just think you need to be thinking about things outside of this show and your injury. I never thought I’d say that, but seeing you now, this all-consuming focus isn’t good for you. It’s having the opposite effect it should.”

  I nodded slowly, and he seemed to relax. He should know me better than that. This was my pondering nod as I considered ways to kill him.

  “At the very least, let them take you out. Or—sod it—play Scrabble. I don’t know. Have some bloody fun.”

  I continued to nod. I had nothing to say to him right now. Oh. I was sure a million responses would come to me later, but right now? It was better for both of us if I kept my mouth shut.

  We got into the parking garage. Mike and Candy got out, but Steven stayed in the car. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

  I glared, but the asshole just smiled. “Tell the boys I said howdy.”

  Rude.

  Mike led us to the elevator. The doors closed and he leaned over to whisper, “If you want me to get them out of your apartment, I will.”

  “It’s fine,” I replied, because the horse was out of the barn. The boys were in my apartment, and the only way I’d get them out was with a huge fight. And with Candy and Mike there, I wouldn’t do that.

  “You’re sure?”

  I patted Mike’s arm. He was a good man. “I’m sure, Mike. Thank you so much. Steven was just trying to help, bless his heart.”

  Mike chuckled and shook his head. The doors opened, and we moved down the hall. It was weird to think the boys were just behind my door. Waiting.

  Mike opened it, and Candy followed him inside. I came in a second later, a lot steadier on my crutch than I had been, but still uneven in my gait.

  The boys were in the living room and stood when they saw me.

  Brant held his hat in his hands, fingers clenching nervously. “You look good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Betty, do you want help covering the cast to shower?” Candy asked.

  “Do you boys mind waiting another minute?” I had no idea how long they’d been waiting here already, but I was at a disadvantage being dirty and sweaty. At least, I felt at a disadvantage. I wasn’t blind to the way Brant’s gaze traveled down my body. Whatever I looked like didn’t seem to bother him.

  “Go on,” Landry’s voice was rough. “We’ll wait.”

  “The apartment is clear, Miss Belle. Call us if you want to go out.” Mike tipped his head at me, and then the boys, and left us.

  Candy waited for me at the entrance to my room. I had to walk (or wobble) my way past the boys to get there. Self-conscious, I did my best to stay steady as I strode past them.

  Josh stopped me, his rough palm gentle on mine. “I’m happy to see you.”

  His hair half-covered his face, but it was open and honest.

  I was happy to see them, too. And I shouldn’t have been.

  I rushed through my shower, and when I was done, Candy informed me she was going to her room for the rest of the afternoon. If I needed her, knock, but she’d be watching television. She might have been hinting that I could have crazy, screaming sex with the boys and she wouldn’t hear, but she was so serious, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  I dressed with a little more care than I had the last weeks. I put on the shorts I’d worn on the plane, and the white turtleneck. My hair was wet, and my roots were starting to show. I touched them as I stared at myself in my mirror. It had been so long since I’d seen my natural color. I’d always been blonde, but compared to the white blonde I was now, my darker blonde roots looked nearly brown.

  Another phone call to make. Aucoin would be horrified. He’d given me a conditioner that would tone my hair, but I hadn’t used it since I’d arrived here.

  Rather than have my hair dripping and making my white shirt see-through, I dried my hair. Soon, it was falling around my shoulders, straighter than usual, but more natural than I let it be.

  You’re procrastinating. Letting out a breath, I straightened the hem of my shirt, made sure my peg leg was on right and the pad in the right place, and went back out to see them.

  They stood again when I came out, and I nope noped right toward the kitchen. “Can I get y’all anything?”

  Ugh. Where were my lady balls when I needed them?

  As I opened the refrigerator, Landry’s voice came from directly behind. “No.”

  I jumped, banging all the items in the door, but I didn’t fall. “Make a noise, will you?” I covered my heart with my hand. “Holy cow.”

  Landry smiled. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t sneaking out the back.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water and shut the door with a little more force than needed. “I wouldn’t run.” Even if I could use two legs.

  “You also wouldn’t call us back.”

  I opened the bottle and took a drink of water because what I really wanted to do was fling it at him. I kept my gaze on his as I swallowed. “I’ve been busy.”

  He glanced down at my legs. For a second, I thought he was checking me out, but then he frowned. “I know, Betsy. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I gave him the same answer I gave everyone, and he frowned deeper.

  “You look tired,” Westin appeared in the doorway. The kitchen, though spacious for the city, was still too small when you put two six-foot tall boys in there. “Steven said your rehab has been really hard.”

  Had he? What else had Steven told them? It sounded like he needed a little bit of a reminder about what an NDA was.

  I sighed. That was my hurt talking. Steven, bless his heart, would never do anything to betray me. He was, however, going to feel my wrath. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but I’d get back at him.

  That was what friends did, after all. They waited for the perfect moment to exact their revenge.

  Westin and Landry waited for me to answer. There was no one else here. Just me and the boys. I didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.

  But I didn’t trust them like it appeared Steven did.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have four times, so I edged past Westin into the living room. I lost the grip on my water bottle. It flew into the air, but Josh snagged it.

  I ignored the impressive display of reflexes and asked the question again.

  “Why are you all here? Do you want money?”

  Brant flung his hat in an empty chair. “We don’t want money, Betsy. Jesus. We want you.”

  “You don’t want me.” They didn’t.

  “We do,” Landry said. “We’ve wanted you since we were kids. We still want you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It ain’t bullshit, Betsy Lauren Belle Bartlett,” Josh cried.

  The passion in his voice had me stepping back. I stumbled, my peg leg catching the edge of a carpet, and I almost fell. “Sit down,” Westin said softly. “Please.”

  I let him lead me to a chair. He knelt before me, fingers gentle as he unbuckled the clasps that kept my crutch in place. His skin hypnotized me. Everywhere I looked, there was an image or a word. He was wearing long sleeves today, but his tattoos crept from the collar up his neck. This close, I could even make out shapes beneath his short hair.

  I dropped my gaze to his hands again. He had portraits on the back of each one. “Is that Oscar Wilde?” I asked. I studied the other one. “And Johnny Cash?”

  “Most people
exist, that is all.”

  I met his eyes, confused. “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “If you inked it under your skin, it means something, Wes.”

  He smiled, his blue eyes bright, and shook his head. “Just something I was feeling at the time.”

  “So Johnny Cash?” I asked, letting him have his secret.

  “Beneath the stains of time, the feeling disappears. You are someone else. I am still right here.”

  Maybe that had something to do with me. Maybe not. I hated the jumbled-up mess I became around them. It would have been one thing if they loved me. When we were together, and they had loved me—or said they loved me—the butterflies in my stomach kept my feet from touching the ground.

  But now? It made all my logic and good sense fly away.

  “Do you have tattoos?” Wes asked, and his face flushed. Ha. I was glad he was uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

  I sat back in the chair, propping my foot on an ottoman and then shoved a pillow under it. “No tattoos. Other dancers use them to tell stories, but I prefer all of me to be the focus, not just my skin.”

  Wes sat back on his heels, but he didn’t meet my gaze. In fact, the ground seemed intensely interesting.

  “It makes you uncomfortable that I show my body to the world.”

  He shut his eyes. His dark lashes rested against his pale skin. I glanced over at the other boys and found them as uncomfortable.

  “I can see it does.”

  None of them answered me. Cowards. “You can judge me all you want, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve been called names you can’t imagine.”

  Lie. It did matter to me what they thought. It was one thing for Shawville to call me a whore, but a whole other thing for the boys to call me one. Even in their heads.

  “We don’t judge you.” Josh’s voice held a note of confusion. “And I don’t know how I feel. I don’t—I don’t think I like it.”