by Tracey Ward
“I wouldn’t call her a bitch.”
“Because you don’t want to offend me?”
She chews the inside of her lower lip. “Maybe.”
I wave her away. “Don’t sweat it. She is and she knows it. And so do I. It’s what I pay her for.”
“She’s good at her job.”
I grin at the slightness of her severity. She’s being harsh but it’s still sweet. Even her edge is soft. It makes me want to rub up against it. “I missed your interview in there. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Mind if I keep you here talking to me, memorizing the way your tits are pressed together in that sports bra?
She smiles. “You sound like a cop. I feel nervous all the sudden.”
“Do you have anything you should be nervous about?”
“You’ll have to ask your questions and find out.”
I widen my stance, folding my arms across my chest. I look her up and down. I take my time, pretending to consider my questions, but what I’m really considering is the curve of her hips. The flat of her stomach. The alabaster glow of her skin. Her lips are too pink to be real, shimmering with gloss that makes the heart of her mouth look like candy.
I fucking love candy.
“Is Greer Madsen your real name?”
She blinks, surprised. Her smile slips. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Some people use stage names.”
“Is Jace Ryker your real name or is it a stage name?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”
She recovers, grinning faintly. “Whatever you say, officer.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“New York.”
“City?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” I ask skeptically.
“Yes, really. I’ve lived here my whole life. Why?”
“You don’t seem like a native.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are you a native?”
“To Los Angeles.”
“Then you wouldn’t know what a New York native looks like, would you?”
I smile slowly. “I guess I wouldn’t. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
“Four years.”
“So you studied dance for two years in high school?”
Greer hesitates, her arms crossing her body. Not over her chest the way I’m standing, but lower, over her stomach. Like she’s holding herself inside. “No.”
I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Just no?”
“Just no,” she replies softly.
I could push this. I should push this, because there’s something there. She doesn’t want to talk about it, and as the guy who’s trying his ass off to be scandal free, I can’t afford to work with someone who isn’t a hundred percent transparent. If she does this show with us and it comes out later that she kicks kittens or abuses the elderly, I’m fucked all over again. I’m walking on eggshells here and the unknown could be a big boulder on my back, crushing everything under me.
I know that. I understand all of that, but I decide to let it go. I could give a million reasons why, but in the end it comes down to one thing – curves. The curve of her hips and her smile have me hooked, have me begging for more of her in every way, and if I cut her loose now I’ll lose sight of her forever. And I don’t want that. What I want is more. More of her, more of me, more of this feeling that I can’t name but I’m calling it the Madsen Effect because it’s all about her and those eyes and that laugh. That ass.
“Does your boyfriend dance?” I ask briskly, continuing my interrogation.
“Uh, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Cat?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Are you asking if I have one or if it can dance?”
“Both.”
“No. To both.”
I chuckle, lowering my arms. “Do you want to show me the routine?”
“The one I did with Danny?”
“I didn’t get to see it.”
“Sure, of course.” She steps closer to me, obviously intending to follow me back into the room.
I don’t move. I let her come in close, too close for casual conversation, watching happily as she looks up at me with expectation in her eyes.
“Don’t you want—”
“Nah, not in there,” I interrupt. “Out here.”
“I don’t have the music.”
“Do you need it?” I challenge.
She immediately rises to it, her mouth setting firmly. She lifts her bag off her shoulder and lets it fall at my feet. She holds my gaze as she takes a step back to give herself room. Her eyes are sharper than I’ve seen them. As piercing as the buildings on the New York skyline stabbing defiantly into the sky.
She’s a native then. I can see it in the straight line of her spine, the set of her shoulders. The way she doesn’t hesitate to prove herself, insulted by the insinuation that she’s anything less than what she knows herself to be.
Greer takes the opening stance. She looks away from my eyes, counting herself in.
I count with her, the song I know by heart cuing in my head. It’s in hers too. She’s dead on with the beat I’m counting to myself as she moves, launching into the opening combination. The hallway is tight, but she adjusts to it. She measures her movements to make it work. To make the most of the space she’s allowed. And her moves are on point. She’s precise but fluid. She’s dancing the routine she was taught, but she’s enjoying it. She rolls through each move like she made it up on the fly. Like it’s her own, the music singing inside her. My music. Some small part of me in her body, in her blood, moving her. It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and when she starts to sing the lyrics to the chorus, I have to stop myself from grabbing her. From lifting her by her tiny waist, pressing her against the wall, and kissing her candied lips. I want my words and my tongue in her mouth. Her body in my hands. I want inside her so bad I can feel myself falling. I’m bottoming out, sinking low to that place in me that wants to ruin her. That wants to hold something beautiful in my hands and watch it crumble, crying my name as she disappears into nothing.
You feeling much like the hero lately?
I reach down to grab her bag up off the floor. My hand goes out, touching her arm gently, telling her to stop even though every part of me wants her to keep going. To keep dancing, keep singing. Keep bringing me to the edge of myself where everything gets blurry and numb.
Greer stops, pushing her hair off her flushed face. She looks a little stunned, like someone who thought they were alone looking up to find the whole world watching. Reality hits hard in her eyes and it’s there in that one open moment that I can see what she’s really feeling. What’s behind the professional dancer and the accomplished actress. Behind the guarded girl keeping a rock star carefully at bay.
Desire. Raw want and breathless abandon. It’s not just for me either. It’s for the dance, the job. It’s for so many things, none of which I understand because when have I ever wanted anything the way she does right now? I’ve never been denied a thing in my life.
But when the cover comes down over her eyes again and my glimpse inside is gone, I wonder if she’s about to break my streak.
“I was almost finished,” she tells me briskly. “I remember it all.”
“I can tell.” I move my hand lower to her elbow, pulling her in close. She looks up at me as I lift the bag onto her shoulder, her mouth open, breathing hard. “You were great. Danny is gonna love working with you.”
Hope springs uncontained into her eyes. “Assuming I pass the piss test,” she jokes breathlessly.
I frown. “How’d you know about the drug test?”
“Cam, my roommate. He was here this morning.”
“I didn’t know he was your roommate.”
“For the
last two years. He came home with a packet. He told me what was inside.” Her face darkens. “I hope that’s okay. I didn’t just get him in trouble, did I?”
“No. He’s fine. I just didn’t know you lived together. Do we have your cell number or your house number? We might need to get in touch with just you.”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
I stare at her blankly. I cannot have heard her right. “You don’t have a cell phone?”
“No. I never have.”
“I’m not worried about whether or not you’re a native to New York City anymore. I’m wondering if you’re a native to this planet.”
“I was born here,” she laughs. “I’ll bring you my birth certificate.”
“If aliens can cross the galaxy, they can use Photoshop.”
“I’m not an alien. I promise.”
“How do you not have a cell phone?”
She shrugs. “It’s easy. You just don’t get one.”
“Wow,” I whisper into my palm, rubbing my hand over my mouth. “Alright, well, do we have your house number?”
“Yes. It’s on my headshot. Grant has it.”
“Good.” I lean around her, pressing the button to call the elevator. Taking one last inhale of her lavender scent. “Go pee into a cup, fill out the other forms, and get it back to him as soon as you can. The sooner we get everyone locked in, the sooner we can start rehearsals.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes go wide, her mouth forming a perfect O. “I almost forgot!”
Greer digs inside her bag before pulling out a small plastic sack bound with a yellow ribbon. Inside the clear container are six or seven small cookies. All different. All screaming with sugar.
She holds the bag out to me, a genuine smile on her lips. “For you.”
I fall back a step, laughing into my fist in disbelief. “Are you for real? You actually brought cookies?”
“I had a hard time sleeping last night so I did some midnight baking. There would be more but these are all I could wrestle away from Cam. Sorry.”
I take the bag, my fingers brushing hers. “And you made them yourself. Shit.”
“That’s what they might taste like. I didn’t have a recipe. I winged it.”
I open the bag, pulling out a golden brown circle. I spy three chocolate chips hiding just under the surface, taunting me. When I take a bite, they burst with rich, creamy flavor in my mouth making me moan out loud.
“This is not shit,” I gush around my mouth full of decadence. “This is heaven. You’re an angel.”
She smiles up at me brightly, her body so small next to mine it makes me nervous. Or is it that sweetness, that innocence, that sets me on edge? Everything about her seems so breakable I can hardly breathe near her. I can hardly be, and still part of me wants to test her. I want to push her. I want to pull at her.
I want to bury myself inside her body and soul and see if I come out clean on the other side.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Greer
Samantha swirls her finger through the air, her brow pinched in pain. “Another round! I’m buying!”
“Are you trying to kill yourself?!” Mia shouts over the music blasting through the bar. “Is that why you brought us here? To watch you drink yourself to death?”
“We’re celebrating!”
“Celebrating what?” Cam asks clearly. He doesn’t shout. His voice is deep as bass but clear as treble. It’s in the air around us, perfectly projected. Like he’s used to being on stage or some shit.
God, I’m drunk, I think vaguely. The thought comes and goes, disappearing faster than the shot that just raced down my throat. And just like that, there’s another in my hand. Fucking Samantha.
That thought sticks.
I shake my head at her. “I can’t do this.”
“Come on. We’re celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?” Mia demands.
Samantha grins, handing her a shot. “I got a job today.”
I stare at her, stunned, my breath frozen in my body as I burn up hotter than the sun. I wonder if she’s talking about Jace. Did she have an audition today too? Did she already hear about it? How fast can they test pee? Are Cam and I out? Will I ever see Jace Ryker again?
Why does it physically hurt inside to think I won’t?
Cam shakes his head, silently denying the shot Samantha is trying to hand him. “A job where?”
“On Broadway. Where else?”
“When are you leaving?”
“I already did.”
I balk. “You quit Rendezvous?”
“We all should,” Samantha answers, unashamed. “If you haven’t already been job hunting, you’re an idiot.”
Cam and I share a sideways glance. It’s short, not much of anything in it, but it’s an acknowledgement that we know she’s right. Why would this thing with Jace feel so important if she wasn’t? If Rendezvous wasn’t on its way out, we wouldn’t even consider turning our attention anywhere else. Not even for a day. But every job, even a one off like this concert, could lead to something more. You have to take your shots when you get them.
Mia raises her shot, clinking it against Samantha’s. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you!”
They drink the tequila down quickly. I stare at the glass in my hand, my stomach turning violently at the thought of it.
“Drink,” Samantha demands.
I reach past her to put the shot down on the bar. “What show?”
She leans heavy against the bar next to her. Her elbow slides dangerously close to the glass. “What does it matter?”
“What show?”
Samantha licks her lips, her eyes darting to Cam. “That’s not the point.”
“You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t want us to know,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible.
“What show?” I ask one last time.
She picks up my shot, kicks it back. She’s not looking at us when she says, “Surrendered.”
“Fuck,” Mia whispers.
I second that.
Cam goes still next to me. Noticeably still. Like he’s making a conscious effort to not move, not breathe. I look at him warily, but I wish I hadn’t. His face is livid. It’s lava rising to the surface. Hot. Dangerous. Volatile.
“Are you fucking serious?” he growls.
Samantha looks at him unapologetically. “Yeah. I’m fucking serious. Do you know how I got the job? Who suggested me to the director?”
“I have an idea.”
“Eve.”
“Fuck,” Mia mutters again.
“Goddamn traitor,” Cam mutters.
Samantha shakes her head in disgust. “I knew you’d act like this.”
“Of course I’m acting like this, Samantha!” he shouts. People are looking at us. “How could you join up with her?”
“Because it’s a good job! It’s a solid show with a huge following.”
“So you’re in it for the spotlight. Just like she was.”
“We’re all in it for the spotlight. It’s why we’re performers. Don’t get all high and mighty with me. You’re not mad that I’m going to another show, you’re mad because it’s Eve.”
“Of course I’m mad because it’s Eve! She screwed us all.”
“No one as much as you and you just can’t get over it, can you? You can’t get over her!”
“What the fuck do you care?”
“I don’t. Not anymore.” She snatches her purse off the bar, her face closing up tight. She stands in front of us, cold and unwelcoming. An impenetrable ice fortress on a dark mountain top. “Have a great night, asshole.”
Mia and I watch in amazement as Samantha stalks out of the bar. Guys watch her go, their faces disappointed, but no one watches with more interest than Cam. His face is a mix of emotions. Anger, relief, sadness. Anger again. Out of everyone in the show, he’s known Samantha the longest. They’ve
been friends since they were sixteen in a production of Fiddler on the Roof together. Samantha is brash and cold, Cam kind and warm, but somehow they work as friends. Like they have that missing piece the other one needs to be a normal, functioning person. He can’t lose her like this. Not over Eve. That bitch has ruined enough for him. For all of us.
I shove his shoulder with mine. “Go talk to her.”
He glances down at me. “What? No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not apologizing.”
“Good because neither is she. She never does. Just go talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Yes, she does. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have asked us out to celebrate with her. She didn’t know how else to tell you about the show.”
He looks back at the door. It’s closed and empty, Samantha long gone. But he’d catch her if he hurried. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Say you’re happy for her,” Mia suggests.
“I’m not.”
“I know. And so will she, but it’s what she wants to hear.”
“She wants you to be cool with this,” I tell him. “She knows you’re not, but she needs you to be. Her career’s been on thinner ice than Rendezvous lately. She needs this win, and as her friend, you need to give it to her.”
He grunts unhappily. “You’re supposed to say Samantha is crazy for taking that spot with Surrendered.”
“Nope. You’re being a dick. That’s the truth.”
“Thanks a lot,” he chuckles.
I shrug, my body listing to the left, telling me I need to sit down. “You came to me because you want honesty. Don’t get mad at me when you get it.”
“I didn’t come to you. We’ve all been standing here together the whole time.”
I park my ass on a stool, patting the one next to me. “Come into my office. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Jesus, you’re drunk.”
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t want honesty. I can’t handle honesty tonight. I want pity.”
I laugh. “Then you shouldn’t have come to me.”
“For the last time, I didn’t come to—”
“Go to Anna or Bryce if you want a pity party.”
Cam shakes his head. “Bryce is not comforting.”
