Last Dance

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Sex and theater. That pretty much summed it up for me. I might be a diva, but my needs were pretty straightforward. I might be high maintenance, but I wasn’t complicated.

  I almost hated to check my email, having a decent idea of the kind of trolls crawling out from under their bridges at the scent of my post. With resignation, I scrolled through the—Jesus, 153!—new messages suggesting places, times and what kind of disgusting favors might be exchanged. It takes quite a bit to trip my squick trigger, too. I’d nearly given up when Javier, a nicely muscled dancer walked past where I sat in the hall with my phone. The communal dressing room had been way too distracting.

  “Hey princess.” He paused and gave me that sexy grin that had racked up enough points to get him laid in the past. “Plans tonight?”

  “Why, is your bed empty?”

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  I deleted another email and looked him over. Bird in the hand and all that. But my usually reliable libido failed to leap. Or even flicker. “No hard feelings, but pass.”

  “Nothing ventured.” He walked on. Paused and looked back. “Was it that bad? I only got one shot.”

  Frankly I barely recalled the details. I deleted another email and looked up to find him looking a little hurt. God, I was a diva bitch. I smiled. “No, sweetie. I’m sorry. I met someone is all.”

  “Oh!” He flashed a happy grin. “Lucky dude. Tell him I send a high five. In a totally respectful way, of course.”

  He made me laugh. “Thanks. You know, Tina’s been mooning after you.”

  “The little blonde next to you in the chorus?” Javier’s face lit up. “Solid. I owe you.”

  He swaggered off, male ego happily restored, and I bit back a sigh, hoping that I had met someone. With all the emails reviewed and sent to recycle bin hell where they belonged, I tried to be philosophical. Maybe he hadn’t seen the message. Could be he had more of a life than I did and hadn’t been checking Craigslist forty times a day.

  Oh my god, I needed more of a life. Maybe I should run after Javier.

  Bracing my back against the wall, I levered up, about to pocket my phone when a yet another new email notification flashed up. I thumbed it open.

  Hi CB. How about now? ~MM

  P.S. Have had carousel music earworm for DAYS.

  I laughed, the sound echoing back and making a couple of girls from the chorus look at me like I might be a crazy person. Let ’em. Dammit, I was happy.

  I emailed back, thumbs flying.

  Now is possible. Fair warning tho—I’m sweaty. If you’re in despite dancer glow, text me a place. In the vicinity of Randolph & Dearborn makes “now” a LOT more realistic. Just saying.

  And, pretending like it was no big thing, I sent him my cell number. Dishes for a week it was. Totally worth it.

  Plunging back into the chaos of the communal dressing room, mostly so I wouldn’t stand in the hall like an idiot waiting for the text, I checked myself out in the mirror. Thinking I was done for the night and going home, I’d scrubbed off all the stage makeup and put my hair in a ponytail. I had the street clothes I’d worn and that was it.

  My phone whistled and three other girls with the same text alert grabbed their phones. I held mine up in triumph.

  Sweaty…does that mean leg warmers?

  I snickered. Him and his fetish list.

  Yes. I’m not remotely glam. Tomorrow better? Or I’m off all Sunday.

  It would be okay if he said so. I could wait. Look at me—all Zen and shit.

  Not if I can see you now. Hungry?

  Yes. Oh yes.

  Starving.

  Waiting for you at Petterino’s.

  Weren’t we swank? The man had nice moves, for sure.

  On my way!

  How did you like that? Right down the street and already there. Suspicious, but that could be part of the conversation I intended to have. Over dinner, no less. Scoring points right and left with Julie’s exacting criteria.

  I might have been not-glam, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t take a minute to add a bit of makeup back on. When one’s workplace overflows with cosmetics, that’s just a given. Otherwise…well, he got what he got. Not if I can see you now. At least he had his priorities straight.

  Feeling like running—after all, I wore my cross-trainers—I dashed down the street to Petterino’s. A lot of after-theater people go there, so it’s got great food in a fancy atmosphere, but enough post-show performers hit the place that I didn’t feel too self-conscious about being grungy. People don’t dress up for theater that much anymore, especially not on a Thursday.

  The hostess was a dancer I knew from other shows, and she smiled in greeting. “Hey Charley. There’s seats at the bar, but we’re otherwise full up. Thirty-minute wait.”

  “I’m meeting someone. A guy. I mean—” I flapped my hands at my own giddiness and she laughed.

  “Lucky you. Go look around then.”

  With a nervous flutter—why the hell did this feel like a first date?—I stepped past her and scanned the room. And there he was. Mr. Mystery, in full business-suit mode, standing up to catch my eye from a rear booth. He should not have looked sexy in that corporate crap, but … damn. He didn’t wave, didn’t have to, just snagged me with the intensity of his presence and waited, watching me cross the crowded bar. God, I loved the way he looked at me, like a physical caress on my naked skin. The spot at the small of my back tingled, as if attuned especially to him. His intent gaze went to my feet and cruised leisurely up again, a slow, salacious smile spreading over his face.

  “Not-glam is working for me,” he said when I reached the booth. “But then, you’re gorgeous no matter what.”

  Tempted to fall into the game, I hesitated. Then held to the bargain I made with myself. I held out my hand. “I’m Charley. Charlotte, actually. Charlotte Emory.”

  I’d taken him a bit by surprise—at last, a taste of the upper hand for me and through honesty of all things—but he took my hand, not shaking it, but enfolding it in both of his, like something fragile. “Daniel Holt.”

  The moment stretched out, a hum of anticipation between us. He looked at me as he had when he’d put me on the carousel horse and told me he wanted to watch me come. Was he remembering that moment, too?

  “Okay then.” I had to shake off the erotic tension that settled on my skin like steaming mist. “I want to have a real conversation with you.”

  He hesitated, as if he was the nervous one. Then flicked a glance at our joined hands. “This instant or would you like to sit? Order food?”

  “Yes.” I blew out a breath, feeling ridiculous. Look at me, still holding onto his hands. Idiot. “Of course.” Like normal people do.

  “Wait a second.” He didn’t let go, but tugged my hand to pull me closer, and brushed my mouth with a lingering kiss. Perfectly chaste but it burned straight through me. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I breathed, reminding myself that it would be wrong to bundle him into a cab and fuck him then and there. Why, I couldn’t quite recall. But I knew I had reasons. Good ones.

  Right?

  He let me go then and I slid into the booth, downing the water waiting for me. I hadn’t hydrated nearly enough post-performance.

  “I would have ordered a bottle of wine,” he said. “But I don’t even know what you like. Or if you drink after you perform.” He had only water sitting in front of him, also. Waiting for me. Such an interesting mix of chivalry and kink. Perfectly polite and considerate until he tells you he wants to watch you come on a carousel horse.

  “Yeah. You know, most people start with drinks and dinner and then move on to the fetish list.” I expected to make him laugh, but he looked away, smoothing off the condensation from the outside of his glass with long, graceful fingers.

  “On the other hand,” he said in a careful tone, “you have a pretty good idea of what to expect with me.”

  “Do I?” I meant the question to be flirtatious, but that sense of being out of control ski
dded over my nerves. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not.

  He smiled slightly. “Would it be too mysterious to say to expect the unexpected?”

  “I like surprises.”

  “Good.”

  “But not mystery so much.”

  “Ask me anything.” He sipped his water, watching me over the rim.

  “How did you know I was performing? And then you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “You said ‘sweaty’ and all the shows let out around now, so it was logical. And I live nearby.”

  Hmm. Somehow I didn’t quite buy that as the whole story. I opened my mouth to challenge that, but the harried waitress skidded up, and Daniel raised inquiring brows at me. My abortive waitressing days had scarred me enough that no way would I waste her time.

  “Glass of house chard. Buffalo burger, rare, with avocado, grilled mushrooms, blue cheese, carmelized onions.”

  Looking amused, though I wasn’t sure by what, Daniel changed it to a bottle, specifying a wine I didn’t recognize, and said he’d have what the lady was having. Then we looked at each other, the noise of the bar filling the space between us.

  “So,” he said. “Other questions? Real conversation?”

  I should have planned this out because I wasn’t sure what all we should say to each other. Frankly the games had been easier. Which was Julie’s point. He looked good. Kind of end-of-day rumpled, his tie loosened. Fair enough at nearly eleven. How was your day? What do you do for a living? Who the hell are you? None addressed what I really wanted to know.

  “How about I go?” He reached across the table and took my hand in both of his again, studying my nails. “I like the red. They were pink on Sunday.”

  “One of my housemates did them for me.” And, okay, I had chosen the red because he liked it and he had been rattling around my brain, making me crazy.

  He lifted my hand and kissed one of the glossy nails, flicking the bare tip of his tongue against my skin, making me catch my breath. Letting his gaze drift up, he met my eyes. “I was really happy to see your post. I’d started to think I wouldn’t hear from you again.”

  “You could have posted one to me.” I didn’t sound as sure as I’d been in my mind, before he’d resumed his ongoing seduction.

  He was shaking his head. “I promised myself I wouldn’t. That I’d leave it up to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Can I just say it was important to me to set that rule for myself and leave it at that?”

  “That’s not exactly a real answer.”

  “Let’s try this.” He rubbed a thumb over my palm, deepening the sense of sensual connection. “I’m seriously into you, Charley. From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted you like…” He laughed a little. “Okay, I’m going there—with this almost physical pain. Maybe that sounds over the top. But that’s how I felt. On edge. Enough that I discarded some of the social niceties to get your attention.”

  “Like wooshing me onto the dance floor and kissing me.”

  “Like that, yes. Not something I normally do. Have ever done. I excused it by rationalizing that at least I hadn’t grabbed you off the dance floor, pushed you face-first against a wall and pinned you there so I could kiss the small of your back.”

  I gaped at him, floored by the image. Both aroused and a little uncomfortable.

  His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Exactly. I didn’t do that—and I promised myself that I wouldn’t pursue you further. That it would be up to you from there on.”

  “That makes it sound like you were worried about becoming a scary obsessed stalker.” I tried to say it lightly, but my always well-controlled voice failed me by wavering. Maybe I was being stupid. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  He met my gaze levelly. No excuses from him. “I wouldn’t blame you for walking out on me. This wasn’t something I could figure out how to disclose without sounding exactly like that.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  He tightened his hands. “Because you asked, and you deserve an honest answer. I don’t know if there’s anything you could ask for that I wouldn’t give. Because now that we’ve spent time together, I want you more than ever.”

  The words worked on me like he’d put his hand between my legs. I pressed my thighs together, very aware of how I ached for that very thing. Needing to lighten the mood, I said, “With an almost physical pain?”

  “Yes.” He said it simply, nearly grating out the word, so the moment only intensified.

  The waitress brought the wine, went through the business of opening the bottle and the whole cork ritual. Releasing my hands and sitting back, though his gaze barely left me, Daniel nodded to me when she offered the taste. “See if you like this one. If you don’t, we’ll get something else.”

  “I don’t have what you’d call a sophisticated palate.” Hoping my hand wouldn’t shake, I sipped it and raised my eyebrows. Every once in a while, Julie brought home the remnants of a really good bottle that customers at her restaurant didn’t finish. Whoever those people were—I didn’t understand that kind of behavior. This was smoother and—what? Rounder and more full bodied somehow—than any of those. What great sex would be if you made it into wine. “Wow.”

  Daniel visibly relaxed and told the waitress to pour. “I hoped this one would please you.”

  I studied him, assimilating this new side of my otherwise pushy mystery man. “I won’t claim that I’m not high maintenance in many ways—that should be on the table—but I’m a starving actress. I drink cheap wine. I’m betting this isn’t.”

  With a look of chagrin, he raked a hand through his hair, ruffling the waves. “Am I screwing this up?”

  “I haven’t decided. Tell me something about yourself, Daniel Holt.”

  “Is that your favor?”

  “Oh no.” I sipped my wine and unzipped my hoodie, knowing the tank beneath would show off my cleavage nicely. “This is your opportunity to convince me.”

  He eyed me, trying to discern what I had in mind, then shrugged as if it made no matter to him. “There’s not much to tell.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him and he grinned ruefully. “That wasn’t being mysterious—I just can’t ever think what to tell people about myself that would be interesting. Particularly when I’m nervous.”

  “Are you nervous, Daniel?” The possibility intrigued me, made me feel a little better.

  “It’s…important to me that this go well, so yes, and I feel somewhat out of my depth with you. Which is maybe not the right thing to say. Stop me from babbling and ask specific questions, please.” He huffed out a breath and sipped his wine, shaking his head at himself.

  I kind of loved that he felt off balance, too. “Age?”

  “Twenty-nine. Thirty in November.”

  “A Scorpio—I should have known.”

  “You don’t seriously believe in that stuff?”

  I narrowed a glare at him. “Yes. I know when Mercury is in retrograde, I never say the name of the Scottish play in a theater and I say ‘rabbit rabbit’ as my first words on the first day of the month. I’m a Leo, which means I’m fine as long as you pet me, tell me I’m pretty.”

  He took my hand and stroked it. “Pretty? You’re gorgeous. And I’d love to.”

  Oh boy. Questions. “You work in an office?”

  “A law office, yes.”

  “Ambulance chaser? Noble public defender? Terrifying litigator?”

  He tilted his head. “Nothing so dramatic. Corporate law. Boring.”

  “Lets you buy expensive wine, at least.”

  Wincing, he spun the glass in his hand. “That and it’s the family corporation.”

  Ah. Holt. As in the Holt Corporation. “Don’t you own a whole skyscraper?”

  “Not personally, no.”

  “But you have a trust fund.”

  He stared me down. “I can’t tell if you’re laughing at me. Maybe we should talk more about you.”

  “Blue coll
ar family. Pure white trash one generation back. No skyscrapers or trust funds, but I will someday inherit a spectacular money pit of an old mansion in Louisiana. I figure that’s what you’re after.”

  “A Southern girl? You have no accent.”

  “Relentless speech lessons. Girls with bayou drawls do not become major stars.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  I lifted a shoulder and toyed with the end of my ponytail. Not that I was shy about my ambitions, but it always felt like bad luck to say them out loud. “Right now I live on bit parts, callbacks that don’t usually don’t pan out, cheap wine and hope.”

  That sounded a bit more plaintive, if dramatically noble—and unusually forthcoming for me—than I’d planned on. The waitress brought the burgers and I took time to doctor mine the way I liked it, and to cut it in half, to make it easier to bite into. When I finished, I found Daniel watching me with that steady interest.

  “Let’s put it this way,” I continued, since he seemed to be waiting for more, “I’m a few years younger than Taylor Swift and I don’t have her running scared.”

  “Only because she doesn’t know about you—yet.”

  It made me smile. “You’ve never seen me perform, so I’m going to take that as general flattery. Which works for me, but …”

  “But you think I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Well… yeah. “Most people don’t. I don’t hold that against you.”

  He’d picked up his burger and set it down again. Wiped off his hands and set his elbows on the table. “I’d better fess up to something else.”

  Uh oh.

  ~ 8 ~

  I almost told him not to.

  Call me chicken. Tell me denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. Point out that I was thinking with my pussy—that last was Ice’s voice in my head, by the way—but I didn’t want to hear him say anything that would make me not like him.

  Because I did like him. Not only because he had me jonesing for him sexually or because he had a knack for hitting all the right notes in making me feel admired. I admit it—I’m horribly vain and he did pet me in all the right ways. I’m at peace with that. Beyond catering to my shallow faults, however, he interested me. I wanted more of his sly humor, his self-effacing remarks about his career and family. And I really wanted him to take me to bed already.