Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  "That's different." When I dance, I dress for comfort and ease of movement. More to the point, I let myself become someone else, someone in tune with the euphoria of the music. Someone willing to let go of control, because the thread of the music is always there to pull me back and keep me safe.

  "Quit arguing and just go for it. Trust me, this job will be good for you. You can get your naughty on in a baby step kind of way, and all the while you can tell yourself you're only doing it because of Griffin. It's perfect."

  "First of all, I am only doing it for Griffin. I'm not looking for excuses to wear a tiny bikini or flash my breasts. I like me. I like my life. I'm happy. I'm comfortable with who I am."

  "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

  "Oh, give me a break," I snapped, feeling unreasonably defensive. "I don't need to hop in bed with a guy on the first date or--"

  "First date? Try fifth. Or never. And for that matter, when was the last time you even went on a date?"

  "That's not the point," I said, because it really wasn't. "There just aren't many guys out there that interest me. And why should I go to dinner or drinks with a total dud, much less sleep with him? And you're getting off the subject," I added.

  She held up her hands. "You're the one who started talking about dating. My point was only that you should take the job because you need the money--but that you should try to have a good time, too."

  I took a long swallow and finished off my wine. "All I care about is getting enough money to enroll Griffin in the protocol."

  "Sure. Right. You justify it however you want. The point is, this is a rock solid deal. At the very least, you owe it to yourself--and Griffin--to go to the audition."

  I think about that conversation now, as I stand in Wyatt's studio in the shadow of these sensual, shocking photos. Photos that terrify me, taken by a man who excites me.

  I think about it, and I want to run.

  But I can't. Because Nia was right. I have to do this. I have to land this job.

  All of which means that I have to ace this audition, Wyatt or no Wyatt. And that will probably go a lot better if I can actually conjure words. Which, considering how many times I've imagined bumping into him, is turning out to be surprisingly difficult.

  In my head, I'm always clever and amusing during our imaginary encounters in bookstores and restaurants. And when we're assigned as seatmates on the long journey from Los Angeles to Australia, I'm not the least bit tongue-tied.

  Not that I've ever actually flown to Australia, but I've spent the better part of my life playing out a variety of fantasies in my head. And what's the point of fantasy if you can't fix past mistakes? If you can't be someone a little different than who you are? Especially if there's no way in hell you'd take the leap in real life?

  Over the last twelve years, I've spun infinite variations on my Wyatt fantasy. Sometimes we barely speak two words. Sometimes, I'll let him buy me a drink. Once or twice, I let it go a little bit further. But even in my fantasies, I can't bring myself to give us a happily ever after.

  Because between Wyatt and me, the story is a tragedy, not a romance. Considering everything that happened, how could it be anything else?

  Now, Wyatt is nothing more than a pushpin in the map of my life. A reminder of how horrible things can get, and why bad choices are, as advertised, bad.

  He's not a man, he's a concept. A talisman. Fantasy mixed with memory and topped with a sprinkle of loss.

  Unfortunate, maybe, but at least that's a Wyatt I can handle.

  But this Wyatt? The one standing in front of me with golden-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes that can see all the way into our past. The one whose lean body I can still imagine pressed against me, and whose strong arms once made me feel safe. The one with the impudent grin that used to make my heart flutter, but who now isn't smiling at all.

  The boy who once made my breath catch in my throat whenever I caught a glimpse of him. Who's now a man who walks with confidence and grace and commands a room simply by standing in it.

  The boy who made me break all the rules. Who made me lose control.

  The man who nearly destroyed me.

  That man isn't manageable at all. On the contrary, that man terrifies me. And right now, I can't help but think that coming on this audition was a mistake of monumental proportions.

  Yup. Definitely going to have to kill Nia. A pity, really. Because when am I going to find the time to go shopping for a new best friend?

  More important, how else am I going to earn fifteen grand by the end of the month?

  As I stand there like a dolt, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. That's when I realize that he's been watching me all this time. Not saying a word. Just waiting. As if this is all on me.

  I guess maybe it is.

  I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he's thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.

  I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he's lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn't, I still thought of him.

  And now, like a damn beggar, I'm searching his face for some sign that he's thought of me, too.

  But there's nothing to see.

  Right. Fine. Okay.

  I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that's a mistake because I'm immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They're raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.

  I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. "So," I say, trying to speak normally. "Usually I'm auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?"

  A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. "Kelsey," he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.

  "Yeah." I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I've been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. "It's me."

  He doesn't even look at it.

  "It's been a long time." His voice is flat. Even.

  "It has," I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, he's looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.

  I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It's hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt's eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I'm positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.

  I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it's good to see me after so much time.

  I couldn't be more wrong.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, and it's as if he's tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.

  I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. "I--I just . . . well, the job."

  I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. "I'm here about the job," I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.

  He pulls out his phone, taps the sc
reen, then looks back at me with a frown. "Nia Hancock. Twenty-seven. Mixed race female. Her agent called yesterday and said he was sending her over."

  I lick my lips. "She, um, couldn't come. And since I could use the job, I came in her place."

  "You came?" he repeats, and I watch as a series of expressions crosses his face, starting with surprise, then moving into confusion, and settling on something that looks remarkably like anger. "You?" His voice takes on a bland tone that is more than a little disconcerting.

  I open my mouth to answer, but he continues before I can get a word in edgewise.

  "You expect me to believe that Kelsey Draper wants to be a model. One of these models?" he adds, waving a hand behind him to indicate the three uncovered paintings, larger than life in so many ways.

  I lick my lips, then immediately regret the unconscious action. Because I'm not sure. I'm really not sure at all.

  Then I remember Griffin. And the money. And the fact that I'm desperate.

  And, yes, I think about those scary-but-tantalizing sparks that are zinging around in my bloodstream. I shouldn't want it. In fact, I should hightail it right out that door before everything crashes down on me again.

  But I don't. Instead, I glance down at the floor and murmur, "Yes. That's exactly what I want."

  He's silent, so I lift my chin, hoping he can see my resolve, but there's nothing warm or welcoming in his expression. On the contrary, what I see on his face is anger. And when he scoffs and says, "What the hell kind of game are you playing this time?" I know that I've made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.

  "I'm not playing a game," I protest, but my voice comes out shaky instead of strong. "It's just that I need--"

  "What?" he demands. "What could you possibly need from me?"

  The harshness in his voice slices through me, and I cringe. I want to explain myself, but when I feel the tears well in my eyes, I know that there's no way I can hold myself together. "I'm sorry," I whisper as I turn to flee. "I should never have come here at all."

  3

  I slam through the door to the alley just as my tears start to flow in earnest. And as the steel door clangs shut, I lean against the brick wall and force myself to simply breathe while my blood pounds in my veins, and images of those photographs--and the man who took them--fill my head.

  Honestly, this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I should have turned around the moment I realized the audition was for Wyatt. I should have run far and fast and not even thought twice.

  Instead, I lingered, craving recognition from a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

  Which should be just fine with me. After all, if anyone can throw my carefully constructed life out of whack, it's Wyatt. He's temptation personified, and when I'm around him, my self-control vanishes.

  And nothing good ever comes from that.

  Nothing that lasts, anyway. He made me feel good, that's for sure. So much so that the memory of his touch still fuels my fantasies, as potent now as it was more than a decade ago.

  But those touches were forbidden, our moments together stolen. I knew I was breaking the rules, but I didn't care. What good was the threat of punishment against the reality of his kisses? His soft caresses?

  He eviscerated my control. Made me forget my objections. Turned my willpower to mush. And though I want to blame him, I know that in reality, it was all on me.

  I wanted to be bad--more specifically, I wanted to be bad with Wyatt.

  Even then, I knew I'd have to pay. Of course, I would. There's always a price when you break the rules. Hadn't I been raised on that mantra? Hadn't it been drilled deep into my soul?

  But until Wyatt, I never really tested it.

  Maybe I didn't believe it.

  Maybe I thought I could outwit fate.

  But Karma is a nosy, invasive bookie, and when you try to cheat her, she takes what she's owed.

  I've been scrambling for years to pay that debt. And fifteen thousand will go a long way to repairing the biggest mistake of my life.

  Or it could have. But I bolted, and in the process I destroyed my only chance to get that much money in so short a time.

  My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as that simple reality settles over me. I bolted.

  I didn't just walk away from the chance to earn that money, I sprinted.

  Am I really so lame? So fragile that I'll shatter under the chill in his voice or the ice in his eyes?

  After all, what did I expect? That we'd both look at each other with wide-eyed surprise and then leap across a daisy-strewn studio into each other's arms while orchestral music played in the background?

  That our past would be magically erased, and bluebirds of happiness would ring our heads while tweeting a chipper melody?

  Not hardly.

  I should have stayed. I should have looked him in the eye, told him I'd come about the job, and steadfastly repeated that the past didn't matter. Over and over and over for as long as it took for him to ignore everything that happened before and simply hire me.

  Because I hadn't come to Santa Monica to see Wyatt Segel or W. Royce or whatever name he wanted to go by. I hadn't come because I have some deep hidden desire to strip my clothes off in front of a camera. And I most certainly hadn't come for the fizzle and pop that fills me every time Wyatt is near.

  I came solely for the money. For Griffin.

  And there is no way I'm letting Wyatt's Arctic glare send me scurrying away.

  I need this job, and he needs a model. So I'm doing this. I can, and I will.

  With my pep talk still ringing in my ears, I turn and pull open the heavy steel door. It creaks, and as I step over the threshold, Wyatt turns once again to face me.

  He's standing like a sentry in front of a wall decorated with dozens and dozens of white-draped photographs. I know what's hidden behind the drapes--images of women just like me, their bare bodies posed provocatively. And for one tiny moment, I breathe easier. Soon, those women will be on display for anyone in the world to see, but until then, Wyatt's covered them. He's protecting them. Guarding their honor.

  And surely a man who does that will protect me, too.

  I clear my throat and flash a tentative smile. "I shouldn't have run."

  Immediately, the guarded expression in his eyes fades, replaced by something that looks almost like hope.

  Encouraged, I rush on. "It's just that I really need this job, and you made it so clear you didn't want to see me, and--"

  "I see." He'd been walking toward me, but now he stops, his hands sliding into his pockets. His posture stiffens. He's no longer hopeful; if anything, he's hostile.

  A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, and I want to kick myself for being such a fool. My apology was for running away twelve minutes ago. But Wyatt obviously thought I was apologizing for what happened twelve years ago.

  I expect him to order me out. To tell me firmly and plainly that I have no business being there.

  But he says none of that. All he does is look at me so deeply I'm certain he can see all the way to my soul.

  I shift under his inspection, feeling raw and naked and exposed. I want to explain. To tell him how confused I was. How much he meant to me. How badly I screwed up. How many people I hurt.

  But I can't. The words just don't come. Instead, I can only manage a breathy little gasp before I force out his name, "Wyatt, I--"

  "I'm not hiring you, Kelsey. Did you really expect that I would?"

  "I--I didn't know it was you," I admit.

  "And now you do." He starts to pivot, dismissing me.

  "Dammit, Wyatt!"

  He stops. His eyes are wide, and I think he's as surprised as I am that a curse escaped my lips. The teenager inside me actually cringes, but my father isn't here. It's only Wyatt, and my outburst has at least snagged his attention.

  "You need a model," I say. "I need the work."

  "This isn't the job for you, Kelsey. We both know that."

  I lift my ch
in. "You don't know me at all."

  "No, I don't. I thought I did," he adds, his harsh words making me cringe. "But I know enough to know this isn't you." He indicates the three photographs without drapes. "Or this," he adds, yanking more drapes to the ground to reveal two riveting photos of women who are entirely nude, yet staring out at the camera without an ounce of shame, as if they owned the world and everything in it.

  "And certainly not her," he continues, uncovering another, this one in virginal white bridal lingerie, her wrists and ankles bound with red ribbons, her face alight with ecstasy. "Or am I wrong? Is that really what you want, Kelsey? Or are you just here for another piece of me?"

  Another piece of me? I have no idea what he means by that, but I don't ask him. I can't. I'm too distracted by the way my heart is beating wildly, and not just in reaction to the waves of restrained anger pulsing off this man, but because of the images he's revealed. Bold women. Brash women.

  Fearless women who ask for--and get--what they want. But that isn't me. It never has been. How can it be when I know only too well the price I'd have to pay?

  "Well?" Wyatt demands, and when I remain silent, he makes a scoffing noise. "Like I said, that's not who you are."

  I bristle. "Did you really just say that? Are you actually telling me that I ought to be ashamed for wanting to pose for you? That those women should be ashamed of their bodies? Their emotions?"

  "Ashamed?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "Hell no."

  "Then what?"

  With a soft chuckle, he saunters toward me. He stops only inches away, his proximity making my head spin.

  When he reaches out, I start to take a step back, but force myself to stay perfectly still. This is a test, I'm certain of it. And it's one I'm determined to pass.

  Even so, I can't stifle the soft exhale of breath when he gently brushes my hair off my face, his fingertip grazing my ear in the process. I feel that touch all the way in my core, and I have to forcibly press my lips together in order not to whimper.

  Slowly, he traces his fingertip down the line of my jaw, then down my neck, lower and lower until I'm not breathing, and it's taking all of my strength to stand perfectly still and not run.

  "What I'm saying," he says as his fingertip rises with the curve of my breast, "is that I don't think you can handle it."

  "I can," I say, though my voice comes out shaky and not firm at all.