by Ried Reese
Getting a little pissed that these memories are still so vivid. I slide the fatigues farther into the dark corner of the closet along with unwanted memories, I walk into the bathroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror, turning sideways to admire my big ham…..hamstrings. Since leaving the military, I’ve made it a point to work out daily.
Fifteen minutes later, I swipe my keys, phone, and wallet off the kitchen table, jaw soft to the touch and shirt tucked into well-fitted work pants. The scratch on my watch conceals a couple of numbers on the right-hand side of the face, but it takes me only a glance to know the time is a quarter past eight. With forty minutes to arrive by nine, I’m cutting it a little close.
Two precious minutes speed by in the time it takes me to take the six floors down to the parking garage, fold my muscular frame into my silver Dodge truck, and check the back seat for my work belt and tools.
I’m satisfied I didn’t forget anything and traffic seems to be on my side today, so I arrive at five ‘till nine. Pressing my foot on the brake to accommodate for the speed bump just after the turn into the parking garage, I crane my neck to check around the slight turn that the gate at the ticket machine is open.
It is, and only a few cars—some extravagant supercars—occupy the spaces nearest the open doors that lead into the building, leaving the rest of the two-level, half-underground lot empty.
As I pass through the simple double doors, I glance around. This hallway does nothing to scream expensive, high-tech nightclub; I guess that it just isn’t the entrance guests will be using.
Inside, the place better meets my expectations. It was initially built as a hotel. It intended in its design to draw people into all sorts of business ventures and situations to meet, sip whatever drinks the elite prefer and talk their game. The stage in the center of what had once been a conference hall, long, soon-to-be-stocked bar, and VIP section testify to how quickly an establishment of any kind can change hands in Vegas.
I won’t lose sleep over it. Every business failed means more work for contractors like me.
Most other men probably would take a moment to pause and picture the slim bodies and tantalizing movements of the dancers whose hands and legs would soon wrap around those poles on stage. I make my way around the obstruction in the path between me and Rick, whom I can see contemplating the bar.
“Rick!” I call out over the racket of some hammering emanating from the open door behind the bar.
“Brandon! Glad you could make it.” We shake hands and pat each other’s backs in a short hug. “Welcome to House of Stars.”
We were always a pair when we were younger. Our mothers were sisters, and we were born within a week of each other. Most people thought we were twins. We’re the same height, have the same creamy dark skin, and have the same gray eyes. The eyes are what get people.
“The place is coming along nicely,” I say conversationally.
“We should be on track to open in about seven weeks as planned,” Rick agrees, gazing at the stage behind me. “Depending on electronics, of course.”
I resist the urge to fidget with the yellow grips on the handles of a pair of pliers in my belt. “It’ll take me a few hours to assess what’s been done, what hasn’t been done, and what may need to be redone. Cullen said that since the job had already been started, he’d made most of the purchases recommended by the original contractor. I’m hoping I’ll be able to work with those supplies without requesting more, but again, I need to see what I’m working with.”
“Of course. You can give me, Cullen, or Dixon the rundown,” Rick tells me. “I could show you around, but the floor plans—” Rick retrieves a tan folder from the bar—“are in this folder, along with everything else I promised. You would know where to start better than I, at any rate.”
I thank Rick and start to walk away. He calls after me, “Hold up.”
I turn around with a question in my eyes, eager to get to work.
“How are things going? We haven’t had a chance to talk much since I got back to Vegas,” Rick says.
“Still just me for now, but I’m hoping to make a hire or two to boost my business within a year,” I tell him, wondering why he needs to bring this up now.
“If I hear of any more jobs, I’ll recommend you. I’m glad you’ve found something you’re passionate about.” Rick’s voice is encouraging but filled with a not-so-veiled question.
“Well, it’s not the Navy, but I’m managing.” I have to force a smile. Rick is one of the few people from my past still on speaking terms with me, but I have a job to worry about and let my mind get mired in the past won’t help.
“Good.” Rick claps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he adds as he looks behind me. I take my folder to the other end of the bar as a woman in a pencil skirt and heels taps over with a clipboard and a question. I open the tan folder firmly, determined to concentrate.
The floor plans and electrical plans drawn up by the original contractor are detailed, and it takes mere minutes to discern where I need to start. As the day progresses and I evaluate the job, I conclude. Luckily, I’m almost certain I won’t have to rip up any of the newly-laid floors, and I probably won’t need any more access to what’s behind the walls than the access panels that already exist can provide me with. This means I won’t have to go to Rick with news of costly expenses.
However, not ripping up the floors means that I’ll need more wire for splicing. The previous electrical contractors didn’t run the wiring efficiently in some sections of the club, so to do the job properly, I’ll need to extend it.
This job won’t be easy, but I think I can do it in time for the club’s opening. I glance over the notepad on which I’ve been writing my notes and requests. This needs to get to an accountant or someone.
I’ve been in back rooms checking breakers and upstairs figuring out the wiring for hours, so I’m surprised to walk back into the dancing hall to find it bustling. Dancers practice on the stage under the watchful eye of a middle-aged woman standing with crossed arms, and a group of matching, royal blue T-shirts are making trips back and forth between the hall and the parking garage with sleek round tables and chairs in hand.
Sticking close to the wall to stay out of the way, I sweep the activity in search of Cullen or Rick.
My eyes flick past the stage, freeze, and snap back to the dancers.
Or rather, snap back to one particular dancer.
Hair whips past her shoulder as she swiftly shifts her hips that are positively luscious, and for just the briefest moment, a sheet of wavy blonde obscures one of her piercing blue eyes. The bottom edge of her spaghetti-strap crop top rises and falls with the undulation of her irresistible body, revealing tantalizing flashes of perfect skin.
My hands twitch with the desire to rip off the bit of clothing and see what lies beneath. I have to know if the rest of her is as perfect as her hips and ass, how soft her lips feel, what it does to my body to feel her hands against me….
Shit, I may as well be back in high school. I’m getting a hard-on just watching a girl dance.
My mind wills my body to move, but my eyes refuse to leave this woman. Now that the initial impression of perfection has faded, I can see that there’s something off. She can’t quite seem to pick up the moves as quickly as the others; her blue eyes are always darting to glance at them. Even so, when she starts a step after the others, she finishes first. The other dancers move gracefully and nearly in unison, but it’s like my girl can’t slow the tempo of her dancing. She moves quickly and with purpose, and the effort of it sends the swells of her breasts moving with rapid breaths.
My girl. I find myself wanting this girl so badly, and I’m grateful for the heavy tool belt hanging from my hips that hide exactly how badly that is.
One of the thin straps on her top slips. She replaces it with a practiced flip before the garment can slip and I all but groan. The quiet noise I make finally jolts me back to reason. Remembering that eyes can and need to blink
. I tear my eyes from the enticing beauty.
Rick. I’m looking for Rick. Or Cullen. Both of whom are fortyish-year-old men, not deliciously sexy dancers that are literally hired to distract men.
I can’t spot either of them and figure they may be in the rooms behind the bar. I’m glad I stayed back by the wall. No one has noticed me staring, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t need some princess showgirl to throw me off track. If the girl sees me and her blue eyes meet mine, I won’t be able to keep myself from talking to her, and I haven’t left the past behind me far enough for that.
Better to find Rick and put the intoxicating dancer out of my mind. If he isn’t behind the bar, he might be in the parking garage—either place will be far from temptation I see on the stage.
Chapter Three: Taylor
I take a sip of water, hoping with all my fluttering heart that it will do something, anything to calm me down.
Why did this have to happen?
Last night, I had a goal. Come to the House of Stars, take that stage in front of me, and dance like a Vegas showgirl who could ignite the city. Instead, here I am sitting on the floor against the stage, chugging water and hoping that Gemma won’t ask me what’s wrong.
This is my big break. My opportunity. My shot at my dream. This might be my one and only chance, and Brandon from high school might ruin it all.
Brandon from high school. On the few occasions I found over the past years to think of or mention Brandon, he was always ‘Brandon from high school.’
Shit, listen to me lie to myself. I think about him all the time but in a pretty specific way. I had a nerdy crush on him, which turned into a ravenous fantasy as I matured into a young woman. His eyes are the ones I see when I touch myself between my legs, or even when I’m with other men. The thought of no one else can get me as wet and wild as him. That was just fantasy Brandon, though.
But now, holy shit was Brandon, a hunky specimen of a man.
Thinking about it now, I want to shake my head. Little high-school Taylor pops up in my mind, laughing too loudly with a slightly too-round face and sitting at a table with her nerdy friends. To all appearances, she looks happy with her group of similar friends, but her eyes stray from them to another table. Half the football team sits at this table, but she has eyes for only one—Brandon, the chiseled star of the football team.
Brandon had always had the muscle of Greek gods, but now, as a grown man.... there are no words. Earlier, when I’d seen him standing with eyes upraised, the light gleaming against the sinews of his shoulders and sprawling tattoos across the canvas of his brawny arms, all I could think about were my lips and tongue exploring those tight curves.
That’s still all I can think about now, and it’s ruining everything. How am I supposed to dance well when the gorgeous man who has been my masturbation fantasy since high school magically appears in the same room?
If Rick could have mentioned this cousin of his was named Brandon, I might have put two and two together and at least been mentally prepared to see him today. And the eyes, I should have guessed with the eyes. I guess they run in his family.
I haven’t danced in a long time; it’s been a while since I could afford real lessons, either with money or time. My arms and legs move at odds with one another. I’m rediscovering that muscle memory is nothing like remembering facts and working with numbers.
I sigh. Those are excuses I’m using to convince myself that I’m not scanning the room for Brandon when I should be watching Zinzy, the retired dancer Cullen hired to choreograph and to show us the ropes.
“Spill,” Gemma commands me, plopping down beside me.
“I think I need to drink this, not spill it,” I respond dryly.
“You know what I mean. You don’t have the best rhythm, but you’re better than this. Are you nervous or something?”
“No,” I state firmly. “I’m just taking a bit to get back into it. I’ll pick it up.”
“Okay. Use your hips better. They’re your sexiest feature.” Gemma flashes a smile at me as Zinzy announces the end of our break.
We return to the stage, some of us to the poles and some of us standing freely. “Taylor, switch with Kalen,” Zinzy orders. “Let’s see how you move without a pole.”
I detect no hidden connotations in Zinzy’s voice, but I can’t help but notice that I’m the only one she asked to switch. All I do is smile as I relinquish the pole to Kalen.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning of the routine. It’s about the same with or without the pole, so Taylor—” Zinzy glances at Cullen, who has just beckoned to her. “Dance how you’ve learned for the pole and watch the others to see what the differences are for the moment.” Her face softens as she smiles. “Don’t worry about getting it right because you don’t know the routine yet. I just want to see how you move.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound confident and okay with the change. Three hours of dancing has hardly familiarized me with the routine for the pole.
Determined, I shake the thought of ‘Brandon from high school’ out of my head, and throw myself into it when the music starts. Almost immediately, my determination boils into frustration. Watching the other dancers makes it nearly impossible to focus on myself, so my moves are no more graceful than before the break.
The longer I dance, the more frustrated my heart burns and the less sexy I feel. Why can’t I do this?
Zinzy stalks about the dancers, occasionally clicking pause on the music and addressing the dancers as a whole and sometimes pulling aside or stopping a dancer to speak to her in low tones. Again, I’m the one whom she stops the most—Zinzy even takes my place twice, modeling the moves for me and slowing them down.
When the last song beats to an end, I feel a sudden, hot pressure well behind my eyes. I clear my throat, down half a bottle of water, and the tears dry before they can fall.
“Taylor, can I speak to you?” Zinzy calls.
I nod and follow her to the bar, water weighing heavily in my stomach.
“Okay, Taylor,” Zinzy begins. Her face usually remains stern as she corrects the dancers, but now she looks tired.
I cross my arms over my stomach and wait.
“I’ve been in this business a long time. Dancing was my life when I was a showgirl, and it’s still my life now, even if I am behind the scenes.” Zinzy glances around the partially-renovated nightclub. “Here’s the point. I’ve been at this a long time, both as a dancer and instructor, and I’ve worked with all sorts of dancers. I mean I’ve seen naturals who were meant for entertainment, and I’ve seen girls who were good at lots of things— but, dancing wasn’t one of them.”
I nod. Zinzy needs to get better at explanations if this is her idea of getting to the point.
“You’re one of the second type, Taylor. You’ve got the body, flexibility, determination, and looks, but you just don’t have what it takes to be a showgirl. You lack natural coordination and any rhythm whatsoever, and without either those or a lot of prior training that you don’t have, I can’t continue training you to be a dancer at House of Stars.”
My mind freezes. “I—” My lips are dry. I lick them and start again. “I thought I didn’t need experience. I thought you were going to train me.”
Zinzy doesn’t take offense at the accusation in my voice. “Cullen hired me to train stars. To make you into a star, I would need a year at least—probably more.”
The pressure is back. My eyes begin to ache, and I resist the urge to blink rapidly. My mouth opens, but I say nothing because I know that if I do, the voice will get stuck in my tightening throat.
“I can recommend one or two good instructors, Taylor,” Zinzy offers quietly. “If you train and apply yourself, you may be suited for the stage in a year or so.”
I raise faltering eyes to Zinzy’s and draw myself up. “No, thank you,” I say. My voice does not break. “I’ll just go. Thank you—” Furious to hear a slight quaver in you, I crush the word and reform it in my chest. “
Thank you for training me.”
I turn away, ignore Gemma’s questioning eyes and the stares of the dancers when I snatch up my purse and begin the mile-long march of shame to towards the mocking, red exit sign over the door.
I can do this. I can do this. I can—
My pace becomes a headlong rush that takes me careening into a hard body about as immovable as the Bellagio down the street.
I hadn’t hit Brandon hard enough to fall, but the big hammer in his toolbelt slammed into my gut, making me want to spill them right in front of him. I double over in pain before I see what, or rather who, I smacked into. As I look up, I see his smile coupled with strong, steadying fingers wrapped around my upper arms. Our eyes meet, and everything I’ve felt and thought about him rushes through me. I feel the tips of his fingers grip my arm just slightly tighter, but sensation nearly melts the strength from my legs.
For a moment, I stare into his eyes, and the horrible vice in my heart and the ache behind my eyes evaporates. They’re so cool and calm like the eye of a storm at sea, and for a brief, tiny moment I’m in the center, shielded inside a circle of tranquility surrounded by a tempest.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice deep, strong, and apologetic.
“I-I’m—” Reality rushes back. “I’m fine. Sorry.” I stumble back and out of his grip. I feel free of his trance, but even more, lost without it. I shake my head - none of this makes sense.
I duck around him. My hands push open the doors before my feet begin to run. I grip my stomach, feeling like I need to heave as I make it around the corner of the block before I start sobbing. Actually, I’m pathetic. My entire life just collapsed in shambles, but I still prefer to choke on my sobs rather than let any of the passing people hear.
I flag down a taxi and manage to tell him where to go without breaking down too much. The man must have some experience with teary-eyed women because he nods. Earlier today, Cullen agreed to give Gemma and me a ride back to our new apartment, but I can’t stand the idea of waiting around a place I’m not wanted.
