Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  The spotlights flooded over us, illuminating every flexed bicep and making every bit of sparkle on our cheekbones shine. We looked fucking heavenly—and the crowd seemed to agree. As we spun to face them, hips gyrating and a cocky grin plastered on every face, they applauded and whistled, urging us on. Most of them, I knew, were either regulars for one of the veteran dancers or only in town on business for a night or two—but a few of them were either there to sample the new talent or still biding their time while they picked a favorite.

  It was something I reminded myself as I jogged down the steps of the stage into the sea of white tablecloths and black ties—as a newer dancer, being someone’s favorite was key to securing more shifts. More money. More time on stage at night. I winked in passing at two older Alphas who I knew had been tipping Noah in wads of hundreds nightly for a while now—being Noah’s, they were off limits, but a little nod here and there from the other dancers helped ensure that they were having good nights.

  Across the room, Anders already had three Alphas drooling over their glasses of champagne as he flexed and grinned over their table. I’d need to pick someone to tease in the same way—and quick, or else I’d miss my cue to get back on stage.

  I passed over an older Alpha who licked his lips as I walked by—too creepy. Another Alpha flushed pink and looked away as I moved past his table—too shy. What I needed was the kind of man who liked to look, but could do it without making me feel like I needed another shower just to wash his gaze off of me afterward.

  I found him just in the nick of time, sitting alone in the third row of tables. He had dark hair cropped close to his head in a way that made him look like a mobster, but wore his suit with the sleeves rolled up and the jacket draped over the back of his chair like he’d just gotten off work. His shoulders were so broad, it was a miracle that his shirt even fit him—it’d obviously been tailored by an expert. Maybe even handmade just for him. I watched the way the fabric tightened across his chest as he leaned back, watching me with interest. Like I was a new episode of his favorite television show. He cocked his head, beckoning me closer, and my heart skipped a beat.

  He was forward, this one. Too handsome for his own good and too confident to care.

  If it weren’t for Kevin, this guy would be just my type.

  I lowered my eyelashes and pushed my shoulders back, taking the last steps toward him nice and slow. As I did it, I could feel his eyes all over me. Every inch of my body that his gaze touched suddenly felt warm. Flushed.

  “Haven’t seen you around here before,” I cooed at him, bending over and sharply forcing his knees apart.

  He cracked a slow grin as I nestled my knee on his chair, kissing his crotch with my thigh. “Don’t suppose you would have. It’s my first time.”

  My own smile was soft and coy. I leaned into him, rolling my shoulder toward his face so he could breathe me in. His own scent was dark and clean—leather and bergamot. The smell of ocean air just before a storm.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered, brushing my lips against his ear. “I’ll be gentle.”

  My fingers traced the back of his neck, eliciting a low growl from his throat. He closed his eyes as I ran my fingertips through his hair and gyrated against him. When he opened them again, I caught a glimpse of their color: steely and blue. There was a dangerous look in them. The kind that told me I should have known better than to toy with a man like him. It sent a shiver across my shoulder blades beneath the weight of my costume’s wings. That gaze of his pierced me straight through.

  “Gentle.” He repeated my word as I lowered my lips to his, pausing just short of a kiss. “Careful—I won’t promise the same.”

  Just like that, I froze. My eyes locked on his, and I found myself unable to break his gaze.

  I’d chosen him because he’d seemed like a safe pick. And in a sense, he was. His hands remained on the arms of his chair, unmoving. He didn’t try to pinch my ass. Didn’t make a grab for me.

  But on a different level, he was the furthest thing from safe. He made my cock throb in a way that it never had before—not even for Kevin. I was rock-hard, barely contained by the slip of fabric that was supposed to provide me with some sense of modesty—and pressed just there against my thigh, so was he.

  A moment too late, my ears perked up to the music. Shit—I’d missed my cue to get my ass back up on stage. I dismounted him fumblingly, jogging back to the stairs so I could get back into step.

  As I finished the number back up on stage, striking a final pose to the roar of the crowd, I couldn’t get those steely blue eyes out of my mind. I could see him still, staring up at me from the third row with a visible hunger.

  He made my chest burn with warmth. Made my cheeks flush.

  That was the kind of man that I needed to be worried about, I decided then and there. Not at all like Kevin, with all his false bravado and lack of focus. Kevin was harmless by comparison—and this man was anything but. He was stronger. Harder. So handsome he could take whatever he wanted—and so effortlessly manly, he probably did.

  He was the kind of man I needed to stay away from.

  The kind of man I wouldn’t be able to get out of my head for the rest of the night.

  2

  Max

  My phone vibrated six times in quick succession against my thigh. I didn’t need to take it out of my pocket to know who was messaging me—or even what those messages said.

  Please, Max. It was just one time.

  One little mistake. Are you really going to throw away what we have over one little mistake?

  Max, answer me! I know you’re there.

  Max, please.

  Max, come home.

  When I finally did reach into my pocket, it was only to turn the damn thing off. I didn’t need this shit right now. Didn’t want it. Didn’t care.

  I’d caught Ethan bare-ass naked in my own apartment, with his mouth around some other man’s dick. I’d seen the trashy porn they’d had playing on my flat screen, the bad nose job and pillowy lip injections of some no-name Omega adult film star taking rope after rope of cum on his face. The other man’s coat hanging on my hook in the foyer. The other man’s shoelaces tangled with Ethan’s on the floor.

  If I had it my way, Ethan would’ve lost my number. Forgotten my name. Instead, I’d had to listen to his bullshit excuses while he scrambled to tug his clothes back on. Had to smell the scent of another man’s cock on Ethan’s breath when he tried to kiss me. Had to ask him to return my key—then, when he refused, I’d had to call a locksmith to come around the next morning on my way out the door.

  Worst of all, now he was filling up my fucking inbox with pleas for a second chance. If I’d been a better man, maybe I would’ve explained to him that this wasn’t baseball. There were no three strikes, you’re out when it came to blowing another man in my goddamn living room.

  If I’d been a smarter man, I would’ve never given Ethan a key to begin with. Never asked him out. Never even asked him his name that night he came up to me at The Peel, half drunk on cheap shots of vodka and giving me those damn bedroom eyes.

  If I’d been a smarter man, I never would’ve tried dating at all. Sooner or later, everyone cheated in the end.

  The quicker I accepted it, the better I’d be able to avoid needing my locks changed again.

  I leaned back in my chair and watched the stage lights dance across the bare chest of an angel arching and preening around the rim of a larger-than-life martini glass. I had to hand it to Heaven’s Ballroom—they were doing their damnedest to take my mind off what a bad mood I was in. But it wasn’t the dancer splashing around with a fake olive the size of a watermelon that I wanted to see just then, though. He was handsome, sure—but not quite my type.

  It was the other dancer that I was keeping an eye out for as I waved a cocktail waiter over for another drink. The one who had come to me during the opening number, all fluttering eyelashes and soft skin. I could still smell the ghost of his cologne on me. Amber. Va
nilla. Bitter almond. If I closed my eyes, I could still remember the color of his irises. Brown and scintillating. Like a well-aged liquor in a crystal decanter held up to catch the light.

  “How may I be of service?” The cocktail waiter had a Gomez Addams pencil mustache and a feather tucked behind his ear. He perched one ass-cheek on the edge of my table and raised his eyes to meet mine like he was a Lauren Bacall character in a Bogart film. Classy, sensual—but a little overdone for my taste. “Our specials tonight include—”

  “Scotch,” I said abruptly, thinking of the dancer’s eyes again. “Neat. Single cask if you’ve got it. If not, single malt will do.”

  “We’ve got it.” The waiter quirked a smile. “But it’s not on the specials list.”

  “Never is.”

  “Maybe you’d be interested in a little something to accompany your drink, then?” The waiter’s eyes drifted to a door just left of the stage that must have led to the back. “Riley seemed to like you. He’ll be free for private dances in a few minutes if you’re interested.”

  Riley. I rolled the name around on my tongue, unable to speak it just then but still wanting to taste it in my mouth. I could imagine the way it’d sound from my throat, though—scratchy. Rasped. A dark growl. Riley. Get those fucking clothes off. Or, Riley. On your knees, darling. Open wide.

  “How many private dances do the dancers here usually do in a night?” I asked, patting my thigh for my wallet.

  “Our veteran Angels generally only do three or four. They tend to focus on their long-time regulars,” the waiter revealed. “But Riley is newer here. He might do…oh, a dozen. Maybe as many as twenty.”

  “Twenty different men?” I scoffed. Ethan would’ve loved working here—if he’d had any penchant for keeping rhythm at all. Even made fucking him boring. He’d always just lain there, waiting to see what I’d do next.

  “We’ve all gotta make our paycheck somehow, sugar.” The waiter shrugged, turning his chin up like I’d offended him. Considering how it’d sounded—like I was slut-shaming his dancer friend—hell, maybe I had.

  I slipped my black AmEx out of my pocket and slid it across the table toward him. Wasn’t much in the way of any apology, but after all—he had to make his paycheck somehow. As did Riley.

  “Just the scotch, then.” The waiter thumbed my card into his palm, nodding curtly.

  “And the dances.”

  “From Riley?”

  “From Riley.”

  He paused as he moved to place my card in his apron. “More than one?”

  I nodded.

  The waiter narrowed his eyes. “How many are we talking, Mister…” He glanced down at my card. “Mr. Griffin?”

  I leaned back in my chair and curled my fingers around the arms of it, my chin tilted up like I was daring him to challenge me.

  “All of them.”

  3

  Riley

  I loitered behind the curtain backstage for a little while, watching Anders splash around in a Paul Bunyan-sized martini glass and catching my breath. The brief lap dance I’d given that businessman during the opening number had left me more winded than I’d ever felt before. I knew I’d need to cool down before I went back out, and Anders’ routine was the perfect distraction.

  He reminded me that no matter how good I was, he’d always be better.

  Anders shimmied and gyrated like Dita Von Teese on steroids. His audience couldn’t have been more captive even if he’d pulled a gun on them and started walking around demanding wallets. In fact, knowing the way Alphas usually reacted to Anders, they probably would have offered to run to the ATM to pull out more cash if he tried it. Asked him for his number and thanked him for the pleasure afterward.

  I knew I’d never be the kind of dancer that Anders was. He reveled in all the male attention he got every night; I shirked from it. I liked the dancing—loved it, in fact—but there was only one man I wanted attention from, and he wasn’t currently even returning my texts.

  That guy you were dancing on wouldn’t return your texts either, you know, I reminded myself. Grass isn’t always greener. He’s out of your league. Get your head on straight.

  As Anders neared the end of his number, I headed back down to the lights and mirrors of backstage proper to give myself a final once-over before I went out to flirt and mingle. Dancing in the opening number had left my chest feeling full and light, but when I checked my makeup, my cheeks were still tinged pink with embarrassment.

  “That guy in the audience really got to you, huh?” Damon nudged me aside so he could share the mirror with me. He was built like a football player, so Foster had been quick put him in a pair of cleats and breakaway football pants. A set of football pads clanked heavily on Damon’s shoulders in the place of his angel wings as he reached up to apply eyeblack to his cheeks. “I’ve never seen you give a lap dance with such gusto before, Ry. Have a little crush?”

  “Nah.” I forced a laugh. “Just getting a little jealous of Anders’ fan club. Thought I ought to start trying a little harder.”

  Damon side-eyed me with disbelief. “You? Jealous of Anders? Please, Ry—you’re a better dancer and you know it. You just don’t thrive on attention the way he does.” He cracked a smile. “Except maybe when that guy in the audience was concerned.”

  “Just doing my job,” I told him dismissively—but in my chest, my heart was thrumming away even faster than it had been when I was up on stage.

  “He put you out of step,” Damon pointed out. “Not that I blame you—he was handsome, Ry. Seemed into you, too.”

  “You know I’m a one Alpha kind of guy, Damon.”

  We both looked back down at my phone instinctively. I didn’t even need to check it—I knew there was nothing there to check.

  “Not that it seems to matter,” I added, my voice suddenly small.

  “Aww, Ry…”

  I shook my head. “I’m not stupid, you know. About what you and Noah were saying earlier…I’m not dumb. I know how it looks.”

  “We never said you were stupid.”

  “Naive, then.”

  Damon cracked a smile. “Yeah, maybe a little naive.”

  “I just want to believe in him. Or…I don’t know. Believe in something, you know?”

  “Yeah, and I want to believe that someday I’ll fit into my college sweatpants again.”

  I rolled my eyes. Damon was good at hiding his self-esteem issues, but sometimes they still crept in here and there. “Jesus Christ—you’re not fat, Damon.”

  He laughed. “Maybe not. But you get what I mean. I just don’t want to see you hurt, man.”

  “I know. I guess it’d just be easier to believe he was cheating if I had…I don’t know. Proof or something.”

  “So we hire a PI after our shifts. There’s a good one out in Brooklyn—Spades Marlboro or something. But as for right now…” He turned to me with uneven eyeblack smudged across his cheekbones. “Help me fix this up before I go on? I’ve fucked it up beyond my abilities to rectify.”

  As I busied myself in cleaning up the black smudges on Damon’s face, I felt a presence hover behind me. A finger reached beneath my wings to tap my shoulder and I turned to find Carlos, one of the Ballroom’s cocktail waiters. He had a coy smile lingering beneath his razor-thin mustache and a look on his face that said I know something you don’t know.

  “Headed out onto the floor soon, Ry?” he asked.

  “That’s the plan.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

  “Looks like your little bit during the opening number really worked some magic.” Carlos held up a receipt. “Twenty dances. You’re booked solid for the night, sweetie.”

  “What? Twenty guys wanted me?” I leaned in to peer at the letters on the receipt. “Are you sure they didn’t get me confused for Anders?”

  “I didn’t say twenty guys,” Carlos corrected. “I said twenty dances. That guy you picked out for the opener really liked what you’ve got.”

  And there it was, laid out in
black and white. A thirty-dollar scotch and twenty dances at fifty bucks a pop—not to mention a more than generous tip. All from one patron: Max Griffin. He’d paid by American Express.

  Max Griffin. Finally, I had a name to put to those blue eyes.

  Over my shoulder, Damon whistled lowly. “Damn, Riley. That’s a doozy.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, nodding in dazed disbelief. But then, with a blink, I snapped back to reality. “Shit—I can’t take these, Carlos.”

  Carlos reeled back. “And why the hell not? That’s a thousand bucks plus tip, Ry!”

  “Tell him to find someone else to spend his money on, then.” I crossed my arms firmly like I was trying to hold my convictions against my chest. He was the kind of man I’d told myself I needed to stay away from, hadn’t I? It didn’t matter how handsome he’d looked in his business suit or how he’d made me shiver with his growl of a voice. I was still a taken man—and him? He was trouble. “It’s a whole evening of rubbing my body up against another man. I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Damon chuckled. “Riley, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that’s kind of…your job. Remember?”

  I shook my head. “It’s different when it’s twenty different guys. Impersonal. A song or two, then we part ways and forget each other’s faces.”

  “And you can’t do that when it’s just one guy?” Carlos raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s too intimate, Carlos. Feels like cheating.”

  It was Damon’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You think Kevin would agree?”

  “Shit—that fuckhead Kevin? That’s what this is about?” Carlos crossed his arms, mirroring my posture. “Because word on the street is, his ass is ghosting you tonight.”