by Cass Kincaid
I hate the fact that he's just tossed my own words back at me. I despise even more that he's left me speechless.
“You won't even tell me why you dance.” It's trivial, but for some reason getting an answer to that question right now is more important than it's ever been.
“I have my reasons. I told you that.”
Without another word, Derek pulls on his jeans and does up his belt. Then, he moves across the room to the table beside the bed, picking up the pen and notepad beside the telephone. He scribbles on it, drops the pen down harder than he needs to, and turns back to me. “Put that number in your phone, Josie. Because, while I know what this looks like right now, there's one thing I can guarantee you.”
“Yeah? And what's that?” All I can do is stand there, rooted in place beside the couch he's just finished fucking me on, unable to completely comprehend the fact that he's doing the sexual equivalent of a dine-and-dash.
Derek pats his pockets to confirm he has all his belongings and heads toward the door. “You are going to hear from me again, Josie. And when you do, you'll be wanting to see me again as well. Just as much as I want to see you.”
And with that, Derek gives me one last longing look and disappears out of my hotel room.
8
Derek
I feel like a complete asshole. Hell, I am. There’s no other way to define the low level of respect I showed Josie by walking out of that room immediately after she'd just given herself to me so intimately.
She deserves better than that. Anyone does.
I don't feel I can justify what I did, but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to be completely honest with her then. Now, the day after seeing her dejected expression and hurt eyes, I'm questioning why I couldn't just tell her the goddamn truth. Not telling her undoubtedly hurt her more than being truthful ever would.
It's funny, because I can't come up with one damn explanation save for the fact that I feel the need to protect, and possibly overprotect, the one thing that means more to me than anything else in this entire world. The only thing funnier than that is, not only did I feel the need to keep Josie from that part of me, but now, standing here outside my own condo with no one around to confide in or share anything with, all I wish I could do is share everything with her.
It's a little late for that, I think to myself.
And I know I've got no one to blame for the sense of loneliness I'm feeling but myself. As I pour myself a second cup of coffee, spiking it with a healthy dollop of Bailey's and taking it out onto the concrete balcony that's just off the one side of my master bedroom, for the hundredth time I wonder what the odds are that she would be staying at the same hotel I was the night after that show.
Usually, I don't even get myself a hotel room, choosing to make the two-hour drive back to my place. But that night, knowing that we had back-to-back shows and that I would just have to drive all the way back into Las Vegas again, I'd chosen to splurge and get myself a room at the Bermuda. It was off the Strip, away from the bulk of the noise, and almost everyone who frequented the place at this time of year were snowbirds and easily over the age of sixty. I cherished the quietness of it, and the vast contrast of its surroundings in comparison to the craziness of the Excalibur.
That said, the damn place might as well have exploded into chaos the moment I recognized Josie as the girl with the alluring eyes from the night before.
I'm not a man who believes in fate, but there was no way that I couldn't at least run with that coincidence and see what happened.
And what happened was that you fucked up the entire thing by being an asshole. Wow, my own mind isn't even going to cut me a break.
Before I lower myself into the lawn chair set up at the corner of my balcony, I pull my phone out from my back pocket. I sit down, tossing my legs up onto the railing. It takes me eight minutes and numerous sips of my coffee before I realize that the texts I'm sending to Josie and deleting immediately after I type them out are nothing but empty words and a lame attempt at just being able to hear her voice. I want her to call me, just she won’t.
Last night, late after I got home from the thing I had to do that prevented me from staying with Josie after our evening together, I found a text sitting on my phone from an unknown number. It was short and sweet.
It’s Josie. We should talk.
That's it. But it was a start, and I was relieved to see the words from her. I wrote back the only thing I could think of at that time.
We should. I'm just not sure where to start.
Her reply came quickly. Too quickly.
How about with whatever it is you're not telling me.
The tone of her text bristled my defenses then, and all I could manage to respond with was:
When you show up to the show on Sunday night. Not before.
It was prickish, and low. But, damn it, I want her at that show. And the flicker of intrigue that had been in her eyes when I’d mentioned it told me she wanted to be there, too. This show would be different from the first one she'd attended, especially since she would be getting the VIP special, which included a whole lot of me. Not just during the show, but backstage, too, if I could just reason with her. I’d make damn sure she enjoyed it.
But first, she needs to show up. Now, sitting here staring out over the city in front of me, just beginning to awaken and prepare to take on the day, I close my eyes and hope she understands just how much I want her to be there tomorrow night. How much I want to not only pick up where we left off, but also make up for the stupid things I'd said and done in a moment of overprotectiveness and…fear.
It's in my nature, to protect and to defend, but there is also one more thing in my nature—to conquer. And I will conquer Josie. I've already begun to, and she doesn't even realize it yet.
9
Josie
I want to hate him, I really do.
When you show up to the show on Sunday night. Not before.
But when I read that, it's myself I hate more. Because I know that statement alone holds enough power to make me drag my sulking ass back to the Excalibur, heartbreak be damned.
Which is exactly why I texted him back and told him that I'd be there. I’d at least had the restraint to wait until this morning to send it, and to demand that we would talk when I got there, but, knowing what little I do about Derek, he probably already knew, even before my confirmation, that I’d be there.
That makes me want to hate him, too, even if I'm to blame for it as well.
Besides, can it really be considered heartache when you barely know the person?
According to Beth, who had shown up yesterday morning, only to find me doing my best to keep what’s happened from her and failing miserably, she seemed to think that heartbreak was exactly what was ailing me. Immediately, she advised me, “Casual is something you've never done before. You've never let yourself go in that direction. So, yeah, Josie, I do think there's something a little more going on, and maybe something a little bit more seductively sinister, than just wanting a simple one-night stand in Las Vegas.”
God, she always had to be so dramatic. Immediately, I regretted confiding any of it to her. She’d just been trying to help, but there was no help for me now, not when it came to Derek.
I'd made a mistake—a big one. I had let myself get wrapped up in the bright lights and big city, and the glint that I'd only ever seen in his smoldering eyes. It was just for a moment, but for that night, he’d had me. Owned me. And I’d loved it.
Even now, I know that one night with Derek was a mistake, and I also know that I'm making another one just by being here now, in the Excalibur. I’m floored by the fact that Beth even let me come alone, but the hopeless romantic in her must have reared its ugly head, because she’d been going gaga over the fact that he'd been so persistent in wanting me here again.
While I didn't see the romantic aspect of showing up to what I considered to be nothing more than a stripper show, I couldn't deny that being here with hi
m so close held its own allure.
You're just a sucker for punishment, I think to myself. I know it's the truth, but I can't leave the city without at least seeing him again and getting to the bottom of why he had to leave me standing in that hotel room the other night. Just thinking about it now, it still stings like a bitch.
I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go, especially seeing as I don't have a ticket. Thankfully, there's a pretty redheaded woman near the entrance with a clipboard in her hand and a lanyard around her neck with an identification tag. She seems like a good place to start trying to find my way to wherever Derek is within the walls of this building.
I approach her and tell her my name, and without a word she runs the tip of her pen down whatever list is in front of her on that clipboard. She taps it to the board, obviously finding whatever reservation or instruction Derek left.
Obviously, he’d been confident that I would show up. That only frustrates me more.
“This way,” the redhead advises, waving her hand away from the throngs of people at the front entrance and toward a hallway that's blocked off by a clasped chain and two security guards. My stomach tightens as she leads me deeper into the building, and I know this must be the way behind the stage.
Where else would Derek be this close to showtime?
“Wait here,” the woman tells me, and I'm close enough to read her name tag, seeing Sherry scrolled across it. I only nod, staying rooted in place as she disappears amongst the countless number of people milling about in the overpopulated area. It doesn't go unnoticed that some of those people are bare-chested men, and quite attractive. Which only makes me more nervous.
Idly, I wonder how many other times these dancers have convinced women to come to their show just for the sake of getting laid? How many times have women shown up like this upon Derek's request?
I know I'm being unfair. I'm standing here, dressed to the nines in the designer jeans and flowy halter top that Derek took off me once before, hoping that he'll be able to explain everything away. Hoping this is more than it seems to be on the surface.
With Sherry gone, I smooth my hands over my hair nervously, glancing from left to right in hopes that I don't look as awkward standing in the middle of this room as I feel.
“You waiting for someone?”
The voice makes me turn sharply, and I see a very muscled, very tattooed man with shortly cropped hair watching me. One eyebrow is raised, and I decide that I must look just as out of place as I fear. “I'm actually here to see Derek,” I say, knowing full well anyone wearing the same outfit—the signature white T-shirt and well-fitted jeans—must be a dancer like Derek, and must know who he is.
The man doesn't hesitate, nodding his head toward a wide hall that leads to the other end of the stage. “Derek’s that way,” he tells me simply, pointing his finger. “You want me to tell him you're here? He's just with that wifey of his. It'll only take a second.”
The man is still pointing in the general direction, but I can't focus on anything but the words he's just thrown at me.
“His...” I try to string a sentence together, but it's no use.
“Yeah,” the man says nonchalantly. “You know, that crazy family of his. He seems to like them being here, but it's weird as shit to me, to be honest.”
My throat has constricted to the point that it's almost closed. I can't breathe, and I can't speak. There's so much I want to say, so much I want to scream, but the flood of curse words and angry phrases is lodged tightly at the base of my throat.
I have to get out of here.
Now.
“No,” I manage to choke out, unsure if I’m answering his question, or just stating my disbelief. I leave the man standing there, perplexed and probably thinking I'm some crazed fangirl losing my mind over Derek and his chiseled abs.
Unfortunately, in a way, I am.
I practically run from the room and down the hall, desperate for the cool night air.
I’d known I shouldn’t have come here. And I definitely shouldn't have trusted him in the slightest. Yet, I did. I trusted him, and I willingly brought myself here to be made a fool of.
Too bad Derek doesn't even get to see my face fall and the color drain from my cheeks. Too bad he doesn't get to see the hurt he's caused me to feel.
Too bad, because now, I have every damn right to hate the man. And I don't just want to hate him anymore, I do.
10
Derek
She's late.
I've been counting the minutes on the clock, waiting impatiently for Josie to show up, but she hasn't. The worst part is, up until now, I don't think it really occurred to me that she might not come. Even if she’s not showing up for me, per se, I know Josie wants answers. And based on my first impression, I truly believed she’d want them bad enough to come here and see me on my own turf again. Which would give me a chance to fix things.
Just another mistake to add to the long line of them I've made lately.
I don't deserve Josie, not after the way I treated her. But, it also took me some time to come to the realization that I can't keep myself and what's important to me away from someone who might be the key to my own happiness. Keeping her, or anyone for that matter, away from my private life is a sure-fire way to make sure that person never becomes a part of it.
It sounds so simple and absurd to think I ever thought I was making the right decision by shutting her out in the first place. And while I have made the decision now—finally—to let Josie in, it’s too late.
Not for the first time, I curse under my breath, knowing how fucking stupid I've been.
I'll make it up to her. All she has to do is show up.
But she hasn't, and I'm going to be heading on stage in a matter of minutes. How the hell I’m going to focus on the dance routines and audience is beyond me.
Just as I'm heading toward the stack of bins containing bottled water, contemplating what time I could make it to the Bermuda by if I left the Excalibur right after the show, I see Chance come around the corner, heading for me. He’s taller than I am by a few inches, and with his broad shoulders and massive amounts of tattoos, he’s like a darkened blockade that takes up most of the doorway. I offer him a curt nod as I grab one of the bottles, grabbing a second one as an afterthought and tossing it toward him.
“Your little family still here?” he asks, twisting the top off the bottle.
I roll my eyes as I take a drink, then shake my head at him. “I've told you a million goddamn times that they're not my family. He is my family. There's a difference, Chance. But, no, they left a few minutes ago.”
He just shrugs. Not that I’d expect him to understand. The man doesn’t have a thing tying him down, no roots in any place, or with anyone. And I think part of him resents me for having something he doesn’t.
“Whatever you say, man. I just let some foxy little chick with black hair know you had the fam-jam here. She's waiting out by the left exit doors.”
My heart stops, and I almost choke on my water. “Wait, you saw Josie?” My gaze immediately flits in that direction, and it's like an innate instinct kicks in as I hastily shove my way toward the direction Chance came from.
Then, something occurs to me, and I stop dead in my tracks. “You told her my family was here?” I whirl around to stare hard at the man behind me. We’ve never been friends exactly, but I’ve never had a solid reason to dislike him, either.
The stony expression on my face must be evident, because Chance suddenly seems to realize what I’m asking him. “Well, yeah,” he says, but all the bravado in his voice is gone. At least he's smart enough to look sheepish while he says it. “She asked where you were, and I just told her that your wifey—”
“Tell me you did not fucking say that to her. You fucking know she’s not my—”
But the shell-shocked look on Chance’s face now is genuine, and whatever his reasons were for his stupidity, they don’t matter. He knows he’s made a grave mistake.
So h
ave I.
I give up on speaking. I’d love nothing more than to shove my fist into Chance’s face, but that won’t solve anything. Words aren’t going to fix this, either. “Son of a bitch,” I hiss.
I bolt towards the hallway and run towards the exit doors Chance mentioned. I know before I even reach the spot he left her standing in that Josie's not there anymore.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I whirl around, searching every face and questioning set of eyes, but they're not hers.
Josie's not here. She's gone. I try her cell number, tapping in the digits in rapid succession.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
She's gone.
And somehow, I know that this time, there's no getting her back.
I remember a time when I thought there was maybe something wrong with me for loving the opportunity I have with the Thunder And Lightning group. I figured there had to be some kind of void I was filling, or some kind of vain, narcissistic tendency that was urging me to hit that stage with the other guys and show off my mostly naked body in front of a room full of rowdy, intoxicated women.
But, there isn’t anything wrong with me for wanting to do that. Because I do it for the break. For the escape from reality. And I think everyone needs that kind of thing at one moment or another.
Not to mention, the gig pays awesomely well, and is helping me do every damn thing I truly want to do with my life. I’m an attractive guy in my late twenties—I’d be an idiot to believe the gig is going to be there forever. But it’s been providing me with everything I’ve needed.
Until now.
My needs have changed. Now, the strongest need coursing through my veins is to find Josie and make sure she damn well knows that I didn’t do what she thinks I did. That I don’t have a wife, or anybody waiting for me at home that I cheated on with her.
