by Skye Warren
At some point my mind slips from a white-knuckled awareness into a half-sleep. Is that his heart I hear, beating in my ears, or is it my own? And why does it feel like it’s somehow beating outside my chest, alongside the man who still sits on the sofa, guarding the door inside his own house?
The very last edges of my consciousness hear them—the raindrops. The night breeze tosses them gently against the windowpane by the bed. They can’t touch me. Only the sound can reach me here. Tap, tap, tap.
CHAPTER TEN
In 2008, the world’s first sustainable dance floor opened at Club Watt in Rotterdam, Sweden. The floor’s tiles rest on springs wired to generators. The harder people dance, the more the springs are compressed and this converts into energy, which runs the LED lights in the floor.
Josh, present time
Marlena opens the door to her townhouse with a flourish, her gauzy red sleeves accentuating the movement. Then the act cracks and she giggles, throwing her arms around Bethany’s neck. “You’re here! I’m so excited. And you brought your bodyguard.” She shoots me a questioning look. “You know she’s perfectly safe with me and Scott, right?”
“Now you’ll all be perfectly safe.” I give her a wide grin, like this is a fucking joke. It’s the furthest thing from a joke. Having Bethany in my house is an exquisite torture. I thought agreeing to this little double date with Marlena and Scott Castle would help ease the tension. Surprise, surprise. It hasn’t. Not yet. That’s probably because Bethany would have climbed down the ivy on the side of my house if I didn’t agree.
Marlena squeezes Bethany a little tighter—tight enough that I consider peeling her arms away from Bethany’s skin one by one—and then releases her. “You look gorgeous,” she tells her friend. “Everyone at the club is going to have their eyes on you. And I know there are so many guys in the city who’ll make it worth your while.” She winks at Bethany. My stomach lurches at the thought of Bethany in one of their lurid little deals.
What would you even call it? A sugar daddy? Prostitution. Marlena holds power in the city. If she’d been born a few decades earlier, she’d have been posted up at the Moulin Rouge. Or salons full of artists and courtesans in France. Instead she’s bought and paid for at this brownstone, with its outrageously built-out doorframe and spiky wrought-iron fence rising out of brickwork at the front.
“Oh, stop.” Bethany’s voice is light, revealing nothing.
Does she want a sugar daddy? She might need one. I’ve seen what that sad excuse for a dance company reports on its taxes. I’ll pay her a million fucking dollars not sleep with one, even if she never touches me.
“I need tequila,” Marlena announces. “Are we ready?”
As if she’s summoned him, Scott Castle appears behind her. For a man in his fifties, he’s pretty fit. His suit’s probably bespoke from Italy or some shit like that. Not a single silver-blond strand of hair moves out of place. He slips a possessive hand on the curve of Marlena’s waist. Like I’m going to try and duel him for her.
“I see our guests have arrived.” He tugs her closer as he says it, brushing a kiss to the spill of her auburn hair. She’s set it free for the evening. Bethany’s remains in a tight, sculpted bun, not a wisp of hair out of place. Scott gives all of us a sharp-edged smile, then extends his hand to shake. “Joshua North. Your reputation precedes you. North Security has developed quite a reputation for quality work. I’m surprised you’re working such a small detail personally.”
His glance at Bethany tells me he’s fishing for details. I’m not giving him a damn thing. “That’s right. We have.” I shake his hand once, hard, and let go.
“Will you be stepping in for drinks, or should we get going?” Scott raises his eyebrows. So fucking genteel. Bethany stands in graceful stillness next to me. People take stillness for granted. They think dance is all about movement. That life is all about movement. Bethany proves otherwise. The scent of her skin taunts me. Her stillness is a call to action. There were nights I could have gone into Marlena’s home and sat on the creamy leather of her sofa and let her bring other women to me. That I might have swallowed too much of Scott’s liquor and fucked myself into a blessed numbness.
Not tonight.
Tonight the four of us get into the Bentley that Scott keeps for Marlena and go to the French Quarter. Marlena’s favorite club is a sleek three-story bar with views of the city on all sides and a valet staff that won’t fuck up your car.
She makes us split a bottle of champagne on the way.
For some reason, with Bethany looking at me from beneath heavy lidded eyes, knowing other men are about to look at her body in that shimmery purple dress, I throw back a flute. By the time the driver pulls up in front of the velvet ropes demarcating the walk underneath the famous brick archway, the bubbles have infiltrated my blood.
It feels strangely like hope. And hope is always reckless.
Hope is always a mistake.
Marlena has her arm hooked through Bethany’s as we take the staircase up to the second level. This place isn’t crammed into a grimy basement that suffers from a permanent moisture problem. The shutters on the tall windows are thrown open wide. Music escapes them into the night, while humid air slips inside.
The club lights shine in Bethany’s hair. That damn bun has been the bane of my existence since she walked into my house. It makes me ache to fit my palm underneath that bun and feel her body bend beneath my grip. Jesus. Five seconds in this club and I’m already harder than steel. I grit my teeth and tell my dick to calm the fuck down. Nothing’s happening with me and Bethany. Not tonight. Not ever.
We split up long enough for Scott and me to get a round of drinks and for me to scan the place while the bartender works. More champagne for Marlena, who likes fun in every form. Jack and Coke for me. That will be the only drink I’ll have tonight. Scott orders two fingers of thirty-year Glenfiddich, downs it in one gulp, and slams the glass back onto the bar. His eyes narrow. “Where are they?”
I motion with my drink. Even from ten feet away, I’ve been aware of every move Bethany has made. I’ve been aware of every man in the room, every potential threat to her safety. “Over there. Dancing.”
“Are you going to come? Or are you going to find a table?”
The old me would have planted myself at a table and let the women come to me. They always do. I’d have had one in my lap in five minutes flat. And you wouldn’t have caught me dancing. But Marlena and Bethany circle each other, the bends of their bodies like water. Bethany’s purple dress somehow manages to look regal. Every move she makes sings of power brewing under her skin. Her eyes catch mine. The hint of a smile. She knows I’m watching.
I throw back the Jack and Coke. The burn reminds me of the club I took her to that night five years ago. That one smelled like mildew and electricity. This one has the subtle scent of hydrangeas pumped in through the ventilation system. And just like then, I’ll be damned if anybody else gets close.
Bethany, present time
Marlena pulls me into the bathroom at top speed, still laughing. “Oh my God.” She twirls on tiptoe over to the sink, then grabs the porcelain with a wince. “Remind me not to do that again. My calf is killing me.” Dying or not, her face is still flushed pink from the series of tequila shots she did after the champagne. “I’ll probably have to ice it once Scott’s done with me.”
I lean into the mirror and pretend to examine my mascara. Done with her.
She says it so casually. It doesn’t bother Marlena at all, trading her body for security in the present. She bangs her way into one of the stalls and lets out a satisfied sigh. “So Josh North is obsessed with you. That much is obvious.”
“He’s not,” I say with a snort. “He’s obsessed with getting a rise out of me. Always has been. He’s an asshole.”
“Awww, he is not. Deep down he’s probably sweet.”
My reflection is the only witness to my disbelief. “Marlena, he’s not sweet. The North brothers aren’t known for
being sweet. Ever.”
“Are you sure? I heard Liam’s head over heels.”
I swipe my finger and thumb over my eyebrows. “That’s different. Getting married isn’t the same thing as turning into a nice man. Neither is falling in love. And Josh is doing neither of those things. He’s just an asshole.”
“An asshole who brought you to the club and has been dancing with you all night. He’s not bad, either.” The toilet flushes, and Marlena waltzes back to the sink next to me. I perch on a stretch of marble countertop while she washes up. “He seems worried about you.”
This time I swallow the snort that threatens to escape me. “Are we seeing the same guy? Because he doesn’t seem worried to me. He seems….” Controlling. Insistent. He fills the room with his arrogance, and those glittering green eyes that see right through my carefully crafted facade. Like he knows. I’m playing the part of a cool and confident sitting duck. The breath goes out of me at the thought. I work hard to keep the letters at bay, at the fringes of my consciousness. It galls me to admit that it’s easier to put them out of my mind when I’m in Josh’s house.
Easiest of all when I’m in his bed. What could possibly happen to me there? Josh’s home might as well be a fortress. And the thickest, most impenetrable gate is the man himself. “He’s just doing his job,” I finish lamely.
Marlena purses her lips, cocking her head to the side. “I don’t think so, Beth. I think there’s more going on with him.” A surprising note of sincerity colors her voice, washing away the tequila giggle. Her gaze sharpens. “I’ve met other guys like him. Before Scott.” A flicker of emotion moves across her face too quickly for me to identify it. Sadness? Confusion? Impossible to pin it down. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what, exactly?” I fold my arms over my chest. Out on the dance floor my skin warmed to meet the air around us. Marlena and I had been in our own little bubble of heat and movement, with Josh and Scott hovering in our orbit. They kicked up the heat. Josh’s eyes burned as much as his hands did. But now the sweat evaporates from the back of my neck. The resulting shiver peaks my nipples underneath the purple slip of a dress I borrowed from Marlena. The waiting ticks a few more valuable seconds off my life. Say it. Just say it.
“All that pain he carries around with him.” She hugs herself too, the mirror image of me. “That’s a guy who’s seen some shit.”
“Everybody’s seen things.” I make an effort to uncross my arms and stretch my wrists in front of me. Limber up. We’ll be back on the dance floor where we belong soon enough.
“Mmm.” Her eyes flick toward the mirror. “Not like this. He reminds me of…” Another flicker of unnameable emotion. I want to turn her face back toward me, but Marlena hesitates another moment before she does. “It doesn’t matter. Just watch him when we go back out there. You’ll see how he’s keeping everybody at arm’s length. He practically radiates a stay-the-fuck-away-from-me vibe.”
I open my mouth to disagree. I’ve spent more time than I care to tally up telling him to fuck off. But Marlena’s words make me reconsider all the times I’ve watched him move through a crowd. That night after the performance, in the lobby with Trevor Dunn. He’d put all those drinks in his arms and physically pushed him an inch backward. The rest of the people in that room didn’t need that kind of nudge. I can see it in my mind’s eye—the way the men and women in their stiff formal clothes had sensed him coming and moved out of the way. I’d been too annoyed to notice it then. And he’d been out of line.
“Right?” Marlena answers the expression on my face and the silence on my lips. “You know what I’m talking about. He’s got a black hole inside of him. If you’re not careful, you’ll get sucked inside.” She makes a twisting gesture in front of her own gut and clicks her tongue.
I force a laugh and reach out to pat her arm. “You’re dramatic when you’re drunk on tequila.”
Marlena winks at me. “Maybe I’m dramatic. But maybe I’m right. And you know what happens with wounded men. Don’t you, Beth?”
“Of course I know.” But I don’t—not really. Marlena is the one who plucks men out of the world around us and coaxes money from their pockets with a smile and a kiss. I’m the one who keeps my fists raised at all times. How could I do otherwise? Especially when it means ignoring the hard-won lessons I’ve spent my life learning. “Let’s go dance.”
Marlena leans over the sink and touches up her lipstick, a bold red color that will probably make Scott’s eyes darken. “Just be careful.” The lipstick disappears into her purse and her arm slides back into place, our elbows locked together. “Guys like that—they always self-destruct in the end. You don’t want to be standing too close when it happens.” She lets out a little sigh. “But damn, does he ever love watching you dance. Those pretty green eyes of his light up like the freaking aurora borealis. Don’t tell him I noticed. He’d be mortified.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first ballet on record was staged in the year 1581 by Catherine de’ Medici, the queen of France. She, the king, and her court also performed in it. It was staged in the Louvre Palace in Paris lasting nearly five hours.
Josh, five years ago
When you throw pebbles at someone’s window, restraint is important.
Too hard and you’ll break the glass, leading to an unpleasant scenario—especially if there are strict parents slumbering downstairs. I have some experience with stealing pretty girls out of bedroom windows.
Bethany makes me wait.
It takes three pebbles against the pane for her shadow to appear at the glass. She lifts the sil and pushes her head out. A smile flits across her face, her teeth white in the moonlight, before she can think to act cool around me. That smile makes me puff up like a goddamn lion.
An object comes fluttering down and lands on the ground at my feet, taking shape as I pick it up. A messenger bag. Cloth, sturdy, a long strap. Bethany follows a moment later. She lands in a half-crouch, the movement appropriate for the stage. Anticipation thrums in the air around her. “Where are we going?”
“Wow. Not even a hello kiss for the man who’s going to rock your world?”
Bethany makes a face. “So far, we haven’t done anything except stand in the yard. Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you’re going to like.”
Skepticism shines from her expression. “How would you know what I like?”
“I was right about the beignets, wasn’t I?”
Even in the moonlight I can see the flush of her skin. “Everyone likes beignets from Cafe du Monde. Try again.”
I shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be taking her out, shouldn’t be giving in to this, whatever this feeling clawing through my veins is. But Bethany’s made the second move. She climbed out the window. So I take her hand and twirl her under my arm. My dick throbs so hard it’s at its limit. This goes much further and I’ll have her twirling and twirling under my hands. Mine.
For tonight I’ll pretend that this is simple. “There’s a hint.”
She comes to a graceful halt and lowers her heels to the ground, her eyes raking over my clothes. “I see. You want to get your hands on me.” A flicker of a smile. “That’s par for the course.”
Bethany is still smiling when I get us to our destination, pulling my rental car into into a spot that’s probably illegal, tucked into the end of an alley. She sits up straight in the passenger seat. “A back alley, huh? Very romantic.”
“I never said anything about being romantic.” She sticks close to my side when we get out. Smart. A nondescript metal door materializes out of the murky shadows at the side of the alley. “I said you’d like it.” I can feel her holding her breath while I rap my fingers against the metal. The door cracks open, golden light pouring into the alley so thick I could run my fingers through it.
“Who’s visiting?” The voice is cracked and smoky, almost worn through.
“It’s me.” The door swin
gs open the rest of the way and I catch a glimpse of Bethany’s face. Lit like the sunrise. Bright and open. Nothing like the way she looked when I saw her in that warehouse. Any other girl would be terrified at the sight of the narrow death trap of a staircase and my asshole brain wonders if she knows this place. Knows other things, too.
At the bottom of the stairs the room opens out into a mass of bodies. Darkness descends, broken up by pulsing lights from the DJ station at the far end. This place has a reputation for relative safety. Dancing. Drinking. No bullshit. House music beats against my ears. Lucky for me, my time overseas stripped the most sensitive layers of my hearing, so it’s bearable. “Do you want—” The question cuts itself off. Bethany’s no longer beside me. She has already plunged into the crowd. My breath catches at the sight of her. She has so fully inhabited the music that it seems to be emanating from her, and the movements she makes—I recognize them. I’ve seen them once before. This is nothing like tightly scripted ballet. It’s primal. A challenge.
An invitation.
The music wraps itself around my hips and pulls me forward with the same intensity as her dark eyes. There’s no room for us to dance apart and no room for anyone else to touch her.
I take full advantage of it. Hands on her hips. On the back of her neck, where a sheen of sweat gathers. Her ass brushes against the front of my pants, teasing, and I’m ready to burst into flames. The fire engulfs me, becomes me.
Bethany hooks a hand around my neck and bares her throat to me.
I let my breath skim along her skin in place of my teeth.
