Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  That little near miss is all on him.

  Wyatt.

  Once again, he's filled my head. Once again, he's made me lose control.

  He's dangerous. To me, to my heart, and to everyone around me.

  With a sigh, I let my head fall back against the leather. I've turned the AC off, and the sun beats down on me, making my mind drift back to the summer before I turned sixteen.

  I'd been happy--so ecstatically happy. At least until the moment I wasn't.

  And now here I am, putting all my hopes in the hands of a man I know only too well I should run from.

  But I can't.

  And the secret, horrible, deep-down truth is that I'm not even sure I want to.

  "Kelsey," I say to the sky. "You're a mess."

  I frown. To be more specific, I'm a mess who's about to take her clothes off in front of who-knows-how-many gawking men.

  Clearly, I'm a crazy person.

  Determined. But crazy.

  I sit up straight and grab my phone to call Nia. Not only do I need to chew her out for not telling me that W. Royce is Wyatt Segel, but I also need her wardrobe advice. Because despite umpty-billion dance recitals over the course of my life, I don't have a clue which of my costumes I should wear with an eye to removing it.

  Unfortunately, I only get her voicemail, and after leaving a message, I slide my phone back into my purse.

  Am I really going through with this?

  The question echoes loudly through my head, and the answer comes just as swiftly on its heels. I am.

  And Wyatt better show up. Because if he's not in that audience, I'm out of luck.

  With a grimace, I reach for the keys still hanging in the ignition. Time to get home, plan my dance, pick a costume, and hyperventilate.

  If my dad could see me now . . .

  The thought shoots through my mind, an unwelcome irritant that's been in my head ever since I blurted out my plan to Wyatt. Like a pebble in a tennis shoe. Always there, but sometimes more painful than others.

  But Daddy can't see me. Daddy's in Georgia doing landscaping work for the same commercial development company that's employed him for over a decade now. So he has no way of knowing what I'm doing, much less that I'm stripping. And if he ever does find out . . .

  Well, by that time, I'll already have the money and Griff will be enrolled in the protocol and I'll weather the storm of his disapproval.

  Not that lying sits well with me--that's another one of those things I never do, because I can still feel the sting of Daddy's belt all too well. But in this case I'm not lying. I'm just not telling.

  I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself. My dad's not even in the state, and I'm making up excuses. Not that I'm surprised. I'm nervous about tonight, and my mind is jumping to all sorts of places. Anything at all to keep from settling on my sexy dance--or the man I'll be performing it for.

  I'm about to back out of the space and head home when my phone rings. I shift into park and reach for my purse, certain it's Nia.

  It's not, though. It's a number I don't recognize, and since I recently applied for teaching jobs at three different dance studios in the Valley, I answer the call with a chipper, "Kelsey Draper."

  "I don't know if this is a good idea," Wyatt says, as if we're already in the middle of a conversation.

  "It's probably not," I admit. "But I need the money, and it's the best idea I have."

  "Hmm," he says, though it's more of a sigh and seems a little sad.

  I try to stay quiet, expecting him to continue, but I can't keep my mouth shut. "You're coming tonight, right? You're going to give me a chance?"

  "Why did you run? Back in Santa Barbara. Why did you run away?"

  The question is so unexpected, it pushes me back against my seat. I sit stunned for a moment, then answer quietly, "Does it matter? I already apologized."

  He laughs, a harsh sound in his throat. "Even now, you can't own up to it. Or are you still playing the same damn game."

  "What game?" I ask, recalling his quixotic statement from earlier. "What are you talking about?"

  "Let's not go there, Kelsey. If we're going to do this, let's at least try to be honest."

  "Do this?" I retort, my temper flaring. "Does that mean you're hiring me? Because if it doesn't, I'm not sure what this is."

  He doesn't answer, and this time it's me who makes the hard scoffing noise.

  "You know what?" I demand, the ferocity in my voice fueled by irritation. "You're being an unfair son-of-a--well, you're a jerk." I rush on before he can squeeze in an argument. "Maybe I screwed up back then, but you weren't exactly innocent. You screwed up, too."

  He's completely silent. No sounds of disbelief. No laughter. No breathing.

  I pull the phone from my ear and check the display, wondering for a moment if he's hung up on me. But the connection is clear, and there are four bars of service.

  "Hello?" I press.

  His answer is a single word that seems fragile against the weight of this conversation. "How?"

  I shouldn't say anything. I know that. But now that I've seen him again, it's all so fresh. So painful.

  But against my better judgment, I whisper, "When I left. You didn't even try to come after me."

  I hear him draw a breath, but he doesn't speak.

  "Wyatt?"

  "Nine o'clock? That's what time you said, right?"

  "Does that mean you're coming?"

  "I guess we'll find out," he says, and then the line goes dead.

  6

  I guess we'll find out.

  Hours later, his words still ring in my mind as I pace the cramped dressing room backstage at X-tasy. There are five of us squeezed in together, surrounded by fogged mirrors, dim lighting, and the stale miasma of sweat, body oil, and desperation. Behind a black curtain, music blares as the first contestant is out there shaking her groove thing.

  I've been here only once before, but never backstage. Nia's friend Gerrie--a struggling fashion designer--was about to marry the lawyer who'd negotiated her deal with one of the home shopping channels. Since Nia was in charge of the bachelorette entertainment, we'd all been dragged to X-tasy for the Naughty Girls Amateur Hour, where Gerrie was goaded into signing up to perform, with the aid of about five Cosmopolitans and three test tube shots.

  She'd put up a protest, but ultimately conceded, saying that the cash prize would come in handy during their honeymoon in Monaco. And because she'd promised her husband-to-be that she'd act out some of the dances she saw on her girls' night. "And maybe it sounds a little fun, too," she'd added, before scurrying off to cull together a costume from the bag of lingerie that Nia had brought for that very reason.

  I'd watched, a little bit jealous, telling myself that I was only envious of the fact that she was dancing, the thing I love most in the world and have so little time for except when I'm teaching it during the summer.

  But it was more than that. It was the way the audience responded, and the buzz that I knew she must be feeling because of their energy. It was the sensation of moving through space, and of controlling that space and your own body, and creating something that other people find sensual or thought-provoking or enticing or just plain lovely.

  Most of all, though, I'd been jealous of the fact that she'd owned what I couldn't. That she'd stood up and admitted that it would be fun to dance on that stage. To be a little drunk and a little wild and just have a good time. To be raw and let loose.

  To dance for the express purpose of getting a man hot and bothered.

  The music fades, giving way to catcalls and clapping. The voice of the bartender-turned-emcee blares out through the sound system, encouraging the men in the audience to cast their vote in hard, cold cash deposited into the buckets that the club's waitresses were bringing around.

  Normally, the men would show their approval by tucking a bill into a dancer's G-string, but that's against the rules during amateur hour. Each girl has an assigned bucket, and whoever has the most money at t
he end wins the entire pot.

  I intend to win, of course. Even though I came here to audition for Wyatt, until Griffin's officially on the protocol, I'm scrounging every penny I can.

  And, also, as far as dancing goes, I might be a teensy bit competitive.

  The amateur hour theme music starts up--an unpleasant electronic tune--and a moment later the curtains flutter as the girl who just finished slips backstage.

  Her skin glistens with the sweat of exertion, but she's smiling, so I have to assume she thinks she's done well. She has long, lean thighs and a dancer's body that's pretty similar to mine, and I frown, because she might be real competition for me.

  I also can't help but notice that she's essentially nude, having stripped down to nothing--seriously, nothing--but a pair of black thong panties.

  The butterflies that have been pirouetting lazily in my stomach for the last hour morph into badgers, clawing and twisting and fighting.

  I don't think I can do this. How the heck can I do this?

  I take a deep breath. And then, for good measure, I take another. Because I can. I can, and I will. It's for Griffin. It's for the money. And I just need to keep my eyes on the prize.

  The emcee announces the name of the next girl, and as she struts onto the stage to the blare of Madonna's Like A Virgin, I peek through the gap in the curtain, searching for Wyatt in the audience.

  If he's there, I don't see him, and a fresh wave of emotion floods through me.

  Disappointment.

  It settles in my veins, twisting me up inside. I bend over, stretching out my quads as I tell myself that I'm only disappointed because if he doesn't show, that means I don't get the job. So my disappointment is about the money. About Griff and the protocol. And about the fact that my last ditch plan to get him here didn't work.

  I tell myself that, but of course it's a lie.

  In reality, I'm disappointed that I won't feel his eyes on me again. That I won't experience that tingle of awareness when he's near, the way I did back when there was nothing dark between us.

  I move to a reasonably clean spot on the floor and sit, stretching my legs wide and bending at the waist until my forehead is on my knee and my hands are cupping the ball of my foot. I hold the stretch, feeling the pleasant tightness, the mild burn as my muscles come alive, ready to perform.

  I've already warmed up, of course, but I need the distraction now. Because no matter how much I wish I could pretend that this is just about the money and the dance, it's about Wyatt. Of course it is. And instead of running from that uncomfortable little fact, I need to be like Gerrie. I need to just own it.

  Own that it excites me to be around him. That I miss the way he made me feel. The way we used to laugh.

  Maybe it was nothing more than a teenage summer fling, but it didn't feel like it back then. And it doesn't feel like it now.

  So I'm dancing tonight for him. For the Wyatt I used to know. For the boy I might have loved.

  I'm dancing for the memory. The way he'd looked at me with a mix of heat and tenderness when I'd slowly unbuttoned my sundress. The way he'd made me feel beautiful and exotic and terribly sexy even in white cotton panties and a plain, unlined bra.

  Admit it, Kelsey, I order myself. You're here for the memory--for the man--as much as for the money.

  And it's true. It really is.

  And that's so not good.

  Nia had said pretty much the same thing when she called me back and I started to chew her out for not telling me that W. Royce and Wyatt Segel are one in the same.

  "The guy from the Santa Barbara country club? The one you were with that night when--"

  "Yes. Who else? I can't believe you didn't tell me."

  "Whoa, whoa! Hold on, girlfriend. I swear, I didn't know. Do you really think I'd blindside you like that?"

  I frowned, because she was right; I didn't really believe that. Of everyone in my life other than Griffin, Nia is the person I trust the most.

  We met when we shared a dorm my freshman year of college. She dropped out in the middle of our first semester when her modeling career took off, but it didn't matter. We'd already spent too many long nights sharing each other's secrets, and you just can't put the brakes on that kind of a friendship.

  She's the only one who knows what really happened between me and Wyatt. I'd told her after I'd dodged her third attempt to set me up with a random guy from one of her classes.

  "Wow," she'd said when I'd finished laying out the story. "No wonder you're such a neurotic mess."

  No wonder, indeed. But at least she's always understood why I keep myself in check, not pushing the envelope. Not taking risks.

  And, honestly, I like my life the way it is. It's uncomplicated and ordered, and I know what to expect.

  Or, rather, I like the way it was. Back before I set my sights on earning fifteen grand. Before I walked into that studio, and Wyatt fell back into my life.

  "I mean, come on, Kels," she continued during our call this evening. "Just because I think we need to shove your OCD into a box and slam it tight, doesn't mean I'm going to throw you to the wolves."

  "I know. I'm sorry. It's just been a crazy, freaky day."

  "I get that," she said. "But the real question is, did you get the job?"

  "Undetermined," I'd told her, then explained about tonight.

  "X-tasy? I know I've been saying that you need to let go, but are you sure about this?" I heard genuine concern in her voice. "I mean, think about it, Kels. What kind of door are you opening? And can you handle whatever's on the other side?"

  I knew the answer then, and I know it now: I'm opening a door that should stay closed. But what choice do I have?

  I need this job. I need to help my brother.

  Besides, I'd kicked that door wide open the moment I agreed to go to the audition in Nia's place. I hadn't known it at the time. I hadn't planned it. But now that it's open, I can't go back.

  All I can do is hope that he'll help me.

  All I can do is try to protect my heart.

  I exhale slowly, then shift my torso to stretch out my other side, trying to concentrate on my body instead of the mish-mash of thoughts in my head. I'm successful for about seven seconds, then Madonna's voice starts to fade out and the audience applauds and shouts a few catcalls. Moments later, the girl bounces back into the dressing area. I hadn't been watching, but from the way she's smiling, I'm guessing she did okay.

  That's two so far I have to beat.

  The girl who's performing immediately before me wrings her hands as she stands in front of the curtain, then turns and looks in my direction, her eyes wide with fear.

  I smile sympathetically, but the truth is that I don't understand that kind of stage fright. The fear of making a mistake, sure. But being on stage is like being alive, but in a world that's perfect and beautiful, and where I'm always in control.

  Her music starts, and she makes a little squeaking noise before bounding onto the stage when her name is called. As soon as she's through the curtain, I hurry over to the dressing area and sit at the sticky, stained dressing table I'd claimed. I know I have time. The staff already told us that after she dances, there will be a ten-minute break for the audience to order fresh food and drinks. Then I'll perform, followed by the rest of the girls.

  I dig in my purse for my lip balm, and as I do, I see my phone light up with a call. It's on silent, and I consider letting it ring through to voicemail, but it's Griffin.

  I press the button to connect, "Hey, make it fast. I'm in the middle of something."

  "No prob. I was just hoping you could come over tonight. There's noise on the tracks during the chase scene."

  "Really? That sucks. We nailed that scene." Griff's a voice actor. Or, at least, he's a struggling part-time voice actor, although he's starting to get more work as his reputation grows. But my brother's also scrappy, and so he's written and is producing his own podcast. Kind of a modern day Beauty and the Beast meets The Count of Monte Cristo.
I've read all the scripts, and it's brilliant.

  He hasn't aired any of the episodes yet; he wants to have the entire season finished before he puts it out. He says it's so that he won't lose steam if it sucks and gets no subscribers. I say it's smart because he's going to be doing so many media interviews and fielding so many job offers that he won't have as much time to spend in the studio.

  His cast is made up primarily of other voice actors he's met over the years, but he really wants me involved. So he's given me a bit part in every episode. In the one he's talking about, I'm a homeless girl with three scenes. I'm not an actress, but I can't deny it's fun, and I love the idea of having been a part of something I'm sure is going to put my brother on the map.

  "We'll nail it again," he says cheerfully, because nothing ever gets Griffin down. Well, almost nothing. "But I want to get it redone now so I can edit it tomorrow night after that cocktail party. You're still going with me, right?"

  "Honestly, I should bail. You ought to take a date."

  He sighs, then repeats. "You're still going with me, right?"

  I roll my eyes and mimic his sigh. "Of course. Do you honestly think I'd miss a party where there's free food and alcohol? I'm totally there."

  I'm joking, of course. Well, mostly. The salary of a kindergarten teacher is not a shiny treasure chest of gold, and that's even when you throw in the extra money I earn teaching dance during the summer. Which means I pinch pennies as a matter of course. Only now that I'm saving for Griffin's treatment, I've been pinching them so hard the little copper devils are practically disintegrating between my fingers.

  "Anyway, I can't come tonight," I continue. "I'm tied up for a while. But I'll come over tomorrow after I teach my Zumba class. I'll just change at your place and we can leave for the party after we redo the recording."

  "Sounds good."

  "Great. I'll be there. Unless you decide to take a date in the meantime."

  "Give it a rest, Kels."

  I know I should shut up, but my brother is awesome, and if he'd just put himself out there more, I know he'd find someone. "There are a couple of girls taking my Wednesday Barre class who I think you'd really like."

  He mutters something I can't make out, which is probably a good thing. "Tell you what, when you come over, you can give me a list of all the dancers you think are perfect for me, and then I'll tell you the reason why they're not. There's just the one reason, Kels. And we both know what it is."