by Billi Jean
So let it go.
Taking another deep breath, she willed herself to send those memories back where they belonged. The future has to be better, because the past sucks.
Her favorite motto brought a smile to her face. Yeah, eyes forward, and remember what you want.
* * * *
One hour later Sara sat, more nervous than she’d thought she’d be, trying to explain to her soon-to-be ex-employer why she wouldn’t be dancing for him any longer. It had seemed so simple when she’d practiced what she’d say, easy even. But face to face with Mr. Davis and his penetrating questions and she felt as if she’d walked onto the ice wearing her slipper socks.
“It’s not the dancing, Mr. Davis.” It was harder to explain to him than she’d thought it would be. Maybe that’s because I barely understand the need to move on. “It’s everything else.”
Mr. Davis was the owner and operator of the burlesque club, Sweet Shady’s Smile. She’d worked there three years to help pay for the cost of her tuition. Mr. Davis had given her a job without even seeing her dance. She’d been out on the ice, headphones on, her music filling her with the happiness she only found there. Right after she’d taken her skates off, Mr. Davis had walked up and made her an offer. She’d handed in her Applebee’s apron the next day and tried on her first risqué costume.
“I see.” He rested his large, tan hands on his desktop. The room was elegant, like the club. Everything was decorated like a 1920s joint. But in here, the dark, highly polished mahogany furnishings were rich with tones of red that matched the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The shelves were lined with old leather-bound books that she itched to touch, but didn’t dare. Still, the room was soothing to the senses, all except the man behind the enormous desk.
Mr. Davis.
He might wear elegant clothing, but he struck her as dangerous. It wasn’t merely his sharp eyes and narrow face with the line of white slashed along his chin and continued on to wrap around his neck—a scar that the girls here all talked about. It was…him. He oozed deadly dangerous.
“Well, I can’t lie. I had hoped to change your mind.”
She dropped her gaze, unable to tolerate the intensity in his light gray eyes. His hands caught her attention. They were so beat up, they were at odds with the elegant charcoal-gray thin turtleneck and black trousers he wore. His hands weren’t dirty—they were tough. His nails were cut short and orderly, but he couldn’t straighten one finger so it angled upward. His joints were big, the knuckles scarred with traces of white lines that also appeared like faint ridges of scar tissue on the backs of his hands.
“Is it a customer? Or is it someone who works here—?”
She startled, realizing she’d been staring. She lifted her attention to his face. His dark eyebrows were slashed downward, a clear indication he wasn’t pleased.
“No, it’s nothing like that. Everyone is great, Mr. Davis, but…” She shrugged and twisted the material of her shirtsleeves, unsure how much to say. After Wyoming, she’d taken an extended sick leave. Mr. Davis had given it to her himself—no questions asked.
But she couldn’t get into all that with him. She could barely talk to her therapist about it, and she wasn’t strictly honest with her, either. Cheryl had been willing to do Skype sessions, only because Sara had lied and told them she was still in Canada. So, yeah, no one knew that today was the first time since Wyoming she’d left her apartment. And there was no way she was explaining that to this man. He might wear sophistication as if he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but she knew danger when she saw it, and Mr. Davis was dangerous. He probably had no idea what it was like to be afraid, so scared he couldn’t leave his room for fear of what might be waiting outside the door.
“It’s time to move on.” New life. New job. New everything. Even me, I hope. “I’ve changed.”
Surprising her, Mr. Davis didn’t argue. She’d never spent much time with the man. He was too busy and more, too intense, for her to feel comfortable around. But he’d always been fair and he never hit on the girls—or allowed anyone else to, unless the girl was receptive to the attention. Over the past three years, she’d only spoken to him a handful of times. All had been over incidents in the club—fights mostly—that she’d witnessed.
“You have changed. I worried that someone had caused you harm, perhaps you were attacked, Ms. Stevens. Since you didn’t come to me, it is clearly not my business. But whatever the case is, I fear someone has hurt you, am I correct?”
She licked her lips, suddenly feeling that rushing need to vomit hit her again. There was no room to not answer him, so she avoided the question. “I really want to teach, you know?”
Mr. Davis didn’t answer for long enough that the room became uncomfortably silent. But since there wasn’t a chance she’d explain what had happened to her, she couldn’t say a word. The antique clock behind his desk ticked the seconds by. She even watched the narrow second hand move and could tell when the larger minute hand was tensing to click.
“Ah, I see, well, I have a suggestion for you. One I hope you’ll take.”
“Okay.”
“Take a longer leave of absence. With your voice, and the way you dance, I’d offer you twice what you were making to stay on. But take some time, find a way to get through whatever happened to you this winter and move past it. Then give me a call on my private number.” He handed her a crisp white business card with his cell number scrawled in bold lines on the back. “If you need anything, anything at all, or you want to take my offer, call me, Ms. Stevens.”
Mr. Davis stood, ultra-polite, and as always, soft spoken. She got to her feet as well, already pocketing his number and knowing she wasn’t going to need it. There were rumors about him, of course. Who didn’t gossip about the boss? But if only half the whispers about him were true, she wasn’t about to see if the interest in his light gray eyes went beyond her dancing on his stage.
“Thank you.”
“Ms. Stevens, are you forgetting something?” He held out an envelope with her last pay check in cash.
“Oh, yes, sorry, I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.” She’d asked for her last pay check in cash. He hadn’t asked why, and she was glad she didn’t have to explain. Starting over meant more than a new address—cash would help, especially now.
“Take care of yourself, Ms. Stevens.”
There’s no one else who can, now is there? The truth of the thought brought the clarity she needed to walk away from Mr. Davis’ offer of help.
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About the Author
Billi Jean has been writing since high school when she couldn’t wait for Robert Jordon to write his Wheel of Time series faster. She writes from home in a little two hundred year old farm house in Western Massachusetts where she shares her space with her active children, an old dog and two lazy cats.
Email: [email protected]
Billi Jean loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Billi Jean
Love’s Command: Running Scared
Love’s Command: Safe in His Arms
Love’s Command: Catch Me If You Can
Love’s Command: Trusting Love
Love’s Command: Come a Little Closer If You Dare
Love’s Command: The Promise of Love
Love’s Command: Holding Fast
Sisterhood of Jade: Silver’s Chance
Sisterhood of Jade: A Spartan’s Kiss
Sisterhood of Jade: Midnight Star
Sisterhood of Jade: Golden’s Rule
Sisterhood of Jade: Sorcha’s Wolf
Sisterhood of Jade: Eternal Embrace
Sisterhood of Jade: Claiming a Demon’s Heart
Sisterhood of Jade: Gambling on Trouble
Sisterhood of Jade: Hunter’s Promise
Sisterhood of Jade: Keeping his Heart
Sisterhood of Jade: Saving his Heart
Sisterhood of Jade: In her Dreams
