Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  I grimace, knowing I'm poking his one sore spot, but I can't seem to help it. "Griff--"

  "Don't even start."

  I want to argue, but the intro music starts up, meaning the break is almost over. "Fine. As a matter of fact, you're in luck, because I can't. I have to go. I'm trying--"

  I cut myself off, realizing this really isn't the time to get into it.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. I really have to run. But I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Is that music? What? Are you auditioning? Is it for a show? At this hour?"

  "No, it's a--doesn't matter. I have to go. Seriously, they're calling for me."

  "Right, right. Tell me about it tomorrow. And break a leg, okay?"

  I'm grinning as I hang up. Griffin has always encouraged my dancing, telling me I need to audition more and get out of the teaching grind and into performing. Somehow, though, I don't think this is what he had in mind.

  I draw a deep breath and step up to the curtain as the emcee announces me. The pounding beat of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" fills the club. The music swells inside me, and I travel across the floor in time with the beat, then leap onto the pole, hooking one leg around it and holding on loosely so that I spin around, my back arched and my breasts high.

  It's a move designed to grab attention, and from the rising applause, I know that it worked. I hold the pose for a moment, then rise back up until my breasts rub the pole and my feet are firmly on the stage. I plie down, the pole rubbing between my legs as I add in a few sensual gyrations for good measure.

  The men applaud, and I can only assume that they're imagining me doing that very move with them. But it's not anonymous men I care about. It's not even their vote or the money they might put in a canister for me to win.

  It's Wyatt. And not just the job, but the man.

  That simple truth twists inside me, as raw and wild as the music I'm dancing to, and I straighten up, then hold on tight as I slide one leg up until I'm in a sideways split. I search the crowd for him, arcing my body as if that's part of my dance, when really all I'm trying to do is see the crowd.

  But he's not there, and a bone deep disappointment rushes through me. He's the reason I'm here. The reason I'm dressed in a filmy skirt made of four different colored scarves stitched loosely to a ribbon tied around my waist. The reason I'm wearing a fragile silk blouse that I fully intend to sacrifice as part of my dance.

  I've come here ready and willing to put my whole body on display for strangers to prove to him that I have the gumption to handle his job, and yet he's not here.

  He's really not here.

  I'm still lost in the dance, though. Lost in the performance--because a true dancer doesn't let her emotions stall her. Doesn't let real life interfere with either the movements or the fantasy world through which she's moving.

  He's not here, I think again. And the truth is that I don't care.

  It's a heady realization--and a scary one. But in that moment at least, I'm exactly where I want to be. I'm dancing. Wildly. Provocatively. Seductively.

  That basic reality overwhelms me, and I gasp, then cover my unexpected reaction by dropping to the ground and starting my floor routine early. A series of overtly sexual moves that perfectly match the music, and end with me arching my back as I face the ceiling, then ripping open the shirt, sending buttons flying. The shirt slips off, baring my shoulders while my arms remain in the sleeves.

  I'm on my back on the stage, my hands pushing me up so that my torso is elevated and my back arched. My arms are bound behind me by my own shirt. For a moment, I'm vulnerable, both on this stage and in the fantasy of the dance where I am bound and helpless in my lover's bed.

  I roll my head as I improvise a struggle, my dance comprising both movement and a story.

  And that's when I see him.

  He's standing at the back of the club, leaning against a pillar. The dim light from a nearby fixture illuminates his face, so that I can't escape the weight of his gaze--or the intensity of his attention. He's watching me.

  He's entranced by me.

  The power of that moment flows through me. I've captured him. For this moment at least, he's mine.

  That's when something shifts inside me. I'm no longer dancing for my own pleasure. And I'm certainly not dancing for the anonymous men in the audience.

  Now I'm dancing for Wyatt. For only Wyatt.

  I roll over, and as I do, I let the shirt slide off, freeing my arms. I place my palms on the ground in front of me in child's pose, then lift my rear until I'm in a pike position. Now my body forms a triangle, with my butt at the apex. I hold that pose for a moment, then rise up, my movements always in time to the music.

  I'm almost bare on top now, something that is obvious to the audience now that I'm standing in front of them wearing only a tiny flesh-colored bra. I kick up a leg and twirl, thankful the stage is polished. With each rotation, I pull off a scarf from my makeshift skirt, holding onto it long enough so that it flutters beside me for dramatic effect. I release it after a full rotation, letting it pool on the ground beside me.

  When all the scarves are gone, I'm left wearing nothing but a pink ribbon around my waist and a G-string that matches the bra. I pull off the ribbon and let it fall to the stage with the scarves.

  The song starts to wrap, and I draw a breath. I'm lost in the dance, but somewhere deep inside me, I know I ought to be nervous. I'm revealing myself. I'm being bad, getting my naughty on. It's scary stuff, and yet I'm really not scared.

  On the contrary, I want it to go on and on. I'm on stage--a real stage--and I'm not only dancing for an audience, I'm dancing for Wyatt.

  I tell myself that the only reason I can do this is because there's a good cause behind it, but that's just not true.

  It's everything. It's the way the music fills me. The way the audience watches me.

  Mostly, though, it's the heat in Wyatt's eyes. The desire I see on his face. The memory of his touch.

  I remember everything--and I'm fantasizing about even more. I don't want this feeling to end. This exultant thrill. This wild ride.

  I look out into the dark of the club, and the men at the nearby tables seem to fade away. I'm seeing only Wyatt now.

  I slide my hands over my hips, my waist, my breasts. I do that, and I imagine it's his touch. His seduction.

  I'm dancing for him, and only him.

  I'll get the job, I think. I'm certain of it.

  But as I look in his eyes, I can't help but wonder if that's really a good thing. Because now I'll be seeing him every day.

  And in the end, that's just going to hurt all the more . . .

  7

  She was driving him crazy.

  The way she held his eyes while she moved, so bold and flirtatious, as if she was just daring him to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

  Daring him? No, strike that. She wasn't just daring him, she was throwing down a goddamned gauntlet. But was she challenging him to claim her? Or was she goading him that he couldn't have her?

  Damned if he knew. Right then, Wyatt was certain of only one thing--his body was tight, his cock was hard, and he wanted to be somewhere other than here. Someplace without other people.

  Someplace with a bed.

  It was the dancing that did it. Because Kelsey Draper and her dancing had always been his downfall. After all, that was what had started everything all those years ago. He'd seen her dancing to a bouncy pop song, her interpretation elevating the music and lyrics. He'd seen passion and precision, sensuality and seduction. She'd enchanted him. Cast a spell over him.

  He'd seen the magic in her, so much larger than the quiet, subdued girl he'd met before. The Kelsey he'd watched dancing had surprised him. She was vibrant. Alive. Unexpected.

  He'd fallen hard, and then she'd broken his heart.

  He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

  He might want her--hell, he did want her. For his bed. For his show.

  But he da
mn sure wasn't going to trust her. He'd already learned that lesson, and he really didn't need a refresher course.

  As he watched, she dropped to the floor, then used one hand to rip open her shirt before letting it fall down her arms. She writhed on stage, her seductive movements making him ache inside, all the more when he imagined taking it further. Her wrists bound not with a tattered blouse, but with silk ropes. And not just her wrists, but her legs as well. Red ropes, the only color in an otherwise black and white image. Her body twisting, and the audience unsure if she was fighting the bonds or reveling in her own rising passion.

  She was exactly what he needed for the show. The complete package. Hell, he'd known that from the moment she'd walked into his studio.

  So why was he hesitating?

  Because he wanted her?

  Or was it because he wanted to punish her?

  Or maybe it was even more insidious than that. Maybe it came down to how much was riding on this show. It was his shot, after all. The apex of all his work and sacrifice. The chance to escape from under the black cloud his father had left hanging over him.

  The chance to prove himself to his family.

  To live up to the goddamn Segel name.

  But that would only happen if the show was a success.

  So maybe that was why he was hesitating. Because the moment he committed was the moment the truth crept toward him on little cat paws, and it would either curl up and purr, or rip his heart out.

  On stage, Kelsey rose, then did some sort of pirouette, twirling as she pulled off one of those transparent, colored scarves that served as a barely-there skirt. Wyatt imagined his hands on her waist, the brush of her skin against his palms as she spun. He could imagine her heat. The way she shivered under his touch.

  So help him, he wanted that. Wanted to hear her sighs. Those little moans he remembered.

  Another scarf went flying, and he straightened so that he was no longer leaning against the pillar. Instead, he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he tried to tamp down the rising lust. The violent need. To not only have her, but to have her in his show.

  He wanted her, yes. But she was an indulgence he couldn't justify. An indulgence and a risk, because he knew damn well that she'd run if things got too intense.

  And damn but his show was intense. That was the point, after all.

  He couldn't take a chance on her, no matter how much he might want to. Couldn't even bring her in only long enough to test her out. Not on such a tight schedule. Not when there was no way to ensure that she wouldn't bolt.

  Kelsey was a risk he simply couldn't take. He had to get it right. There was too much at stake for him to be wrong about her.

  The final scarf fluttered to the ground, and Wyatt's pulse pounded in his throat as he moved closer, his mouth going dry as she reached for her bra, pulled it over her head, then tossed it aside.

  The music faded out, and the dim, colored stage lights made the flesh-colored G-string blend into her pale skin, enhancing the illusion that she now stood before the entire room not just topless, but one hundred percent, birthday-suit naked.

  She took a bow as the lights came up, and the men in the audience actually stood to applaud her. She'd blown away the competition, and even though Wyatt wanted to rush the stage and wrap his jacket around her, he couldn't deny the swell of pride he felt for her victory. There might be two girls still to follow, but everyone in that room knew who deserved to win the kitty.

  "Baby doll, you sure can move," one guy yelled to her.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes darting to the guy, and then immediately away.

  He saw the familiar innocence, and he saw a hint of fear.

  A fierce protectiveness welled up inside of him, and he took a sideways step toward the guy, who was standing now, a twenty dollar bill waving in his hand.

  "Sir?" A waitress stood in front of the prick, one of the contest collection buckets thrust out in front of her. "You'll want to put that in here. That's how you vote for your favorite."

  "Screw the contest," the prick said, as Kelsey hurried to put her shirt back on. "I wanna give this to that little piece of ass personally."

  "What the hell did you call her?" Wyatt asked, taking another step toward the bastard.

  But the guy either didn't hear or chose to ignore. He was drunk--that much was obvious--but he moved with remarkable alacrity as he clambered up onto the stage, then grabbed Kelsey's wrist and yanked her toward him. He slipped the twenty into her G-string, despite the fact that she was tugging away from him.

  He jerked her back, making her cry out as she stumbled toward him.

  Then he started to slide his arm around her waist, but he didn't get that far. Wyatt had already leaped onto the stage, and as the bartender came rushing from the opposite direction, Wyatt grabbed the drunk's shoulder and pushed him back, forcing him to get his filthy paws off Kelsey.

  "What the fuck's your problem, man?"

  "I don't have a problem," Wyatt said. "Keep your hands off the lady, and I have no problem at all."

  "Ain't no lady. And I gave the bitch a twenty." He looked over Wyatt's shoulder. "I want a lap dance, sugarbuns. Do it good, and I got another twenty for you."

  Wyatt didn't turn. Didn't look at Kelsey. Didn't even think about what he was doing.

  Instead, he simply lashed out, his fist saying all the words he didn't bother to articulate. One punch and the drunk went down.

  The bastard looked up at Wyatt from his new perspective, his eyes wide with surprise, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

  "What the fuck, man?" He started to sit up. "You hit me over a goddamn whore?"

  Whore?

  That was the last straw. Wyatt launched himself, practically falling down onto the guy, who cowered back, real fear shining in those beady, bloodshot eyes. Wyatt grabbed his arm, then twisted it back and up, putting pressure on the joint, pushing it almost to the breaking point.

  "Apologize to the lady," he demanded as Kelsey yelled for him to stop, and the bartender made noises about kicking them both out of the club.

  Wyatt tuned it all out. "I said apologize, you worthless piece of shit."

  "Dammit, Wyatt, stop!" Kelsey called. "You're going to break his arm."

  At the moment, Wyatt didn't care. But he looked at the guy's face, saw that he was turning green, and backed off. The guy sucked in air, his face a mask of fury so greenish-red it seemed like Christmas.

  Wyatt climbed to his feet, then hauled the drunk up beside him. The guy wobbled, unsteady on his feet. Wyatt didn't much care about that either. "Get the fuck out of here," he insisted, as he gave the guy a push. For a moment, it looked like the drunk would fight back, but then the vigor seemed to drain out of him, and he backed away, pausing only long enough to shoot Wyatt the finger.

  "And you," Wyatt continued, pointing at Kelsey. "You're coming with me."

  Her eyes went wide. "The hell I will." She lifted her chin, obviously digging her heels.

  He took a step toward her, so damn frustrated he was seriously considering scooping her up over his shoulder and hauling her the hell out of there.

  The bouncer was on the stage now, and he stepped in front of Wyatt. "You need to leave, too, sir."

  "Not a problem. I just need the lady to come with me." He looked past the bouncer, his eyes hard on Kelsey's. "Now."

  The bouncer shifted his attention toward Kelsey. "You with this guy?" he asked, then stood silently, obviously waiting for her answer. Honestly, Wyatt wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. She looked ready to explode. Her cheeks were red, and when she opened her mouth to answer, Wyatt wasn't sure if she was going to let out a howl of fury or actually answer the question.

  Finally, she spoke. "My stuff's in the dressing room."

  "Then go get it and meet me at my car."

  "I've got my own car."

  "Dammit, Kelsey, quit arguing."

  The bouncer took a threatening step toward him. "The lady s
ays she has her own car."

  Wyatt ignored him, his attention on Kelsey. "Will you just do this? Please?"

  For a moment, he thought she was going to keep up the fight. But then she nodded, and relief flooded through him, so potent it almost knocked him over.

  "Good," he said. "Fine." He swallowed, then added, "Thank you."

  She nodded, then turned her back on him. He lingered a moment, watching her walk away. And hoping that, unlike twelve years ago, this time she'd come back to him.

  8

  Twelve years ago

  Wyatt watched her leave, the pretty girl with the dark hair that flashed sparks of red when the sun hit it just right.

  He'd noticed her earlier when he'd been at the pool. She'd been cleaning some tables, and he'd pretended like he was watching the other kids climb the diving board. But he'd really been sneaking glances her way.

  Something about her had captured his attention. Her looks, sure. But it was more than that. She had a sweetness about her. A purity. But he couldn't help thinking that her wholesomeness was marred by a few rough edges. As if she were a little girl in a pristine white Easter dress who couldn't wait to slosh through the mud.

  In other words, she was a contradiction. Someone different from the girls he usually met. And he made up his mind right there on the sun bleached pool deck that he was going to ask her out.

  So when he'd literally bumped into her as she rounded the corner of the rec center, it was like he'd been handed a gift. Not that it had worked out the way he'd hoped. The bad news was that she'd flat out turned down his offer to buy her some french fries.

  The good news was that she seemed to genuinely regret having to leave to go get her brother.

  Which meant he had a shot. And considering he was stuck there for the summer, and all the other girls looked like clones of the girls he knew from LA, he figured that was a good thing.

  He spent the next few days trying to get her attention, but he never seemed to manage. He'd see her wiping a table and try to talk, and she'd blush and mumble that she was on the clock. He'd fall into step beside her and ask where she was headed, and she'd reply easily enough. But then she'd duck her head, tell him she was in a hurry, and take off in a jog to wherever she was supposedly going.