Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

"Anybody special among those options?" Wyatt asked now.

  "Not a chance. Besides, we've known each other for what? Two years now? You know I don't date."

  "Not even Rip?" Wyatt asked, referring to Lyle's former TV co-star.

  "Seriously? Come on, man. You of all people should know better than to listen to rumors," Lyle said. "Besides, I'm not gay. And even if I was, that asshole would be the last guy I'd fuck."

  "Fair enough." Wyatt remembered the buzz back when the show was hot and the costars were feuding. "Just be careful. All that female attention you've been getting? It's just going to get more intense. You're on a fast trajectory, my friend."

  Wyatt had no idea why he was advising Lyle. God knew Wyatt had no special insight into women. He wasn't in the habit of kicking women out of his bed, true, but neither had he dated anyone special in, well, ever. At least not since he'd been an adult. And the one woman who'd piqued his interest was a woman he not only didn't trust, but one he'd managed to scare off.

  Not a stellar record, all things considered.

  "I'm fine," Lyle assured him. "I'm just focusing on work right now."

  That sounded perfectly reasonable, but Wyatt couldn't shake the feeling his friend was holding something back.

  "You still haven't answered me," Lyle continued before Wyatt could press the point. "Why did you think this girl--Kelsey, right?--had an agenda?"

  "Are you asking me about now, or about twelve years ago? Actually, hang on," he added, coming to a halt and bending over with his hands on his knees. Lyle didn't exactly stop, but at least he stayed by Wyatt, jogging in place.

  Wyatt had to admire his stamina.

  "Let's start with twelve years ago," Lyle said, and Wyatt relayed what he'd overheard from Grace. A conversation he could recite in perfect, morbid detail.

  "Okay, I get that you were pissed. I would be, too. But she was a kid. Did you seriously think she was doing the same thing now? Not fucking you for points, obviously. But for a job or access or some such bullshit? I mean, how would being in with you or your family even help her? You said she's, what? A kindergarten teacher?"

  "And a dancer," Wyatt said.

  "Even so. You do remember that your family is in the movies, right? It's not like they own a dance troupe."

  "Funny. But my mom's working on that film adaptation. You know, the musical that won the Tony last year. Maybe she thought that working with me could get her an in."

  "Sounds dubious to me."

  "Maybe, but struggling actors and dancers will try anything. It's a fact of this business. My dad sure as hell saw it." He glanced at Lyle. "You'll see it, too."

  "I will," Lyle said. "But that doesn't mean everybody's got an angle. And listen, buddy, about your dad--"

  "What?" The word came out harder than Wyatt had intended. He'd never told anyone about his father's death, or the things his dad had said before. No one, that is, until Lyle.

  They'd been out drinking one night, and Lyle had told him a few things about his life back in Iowa, before he'd moved to LA at sixteen. Not much, but enough for Wyatt to realize that Lyle'd had a shitty time of it, too. And when he complained that night about how ninety percent of the people he was meeting in town only cared about what his fame could do for them, Wyatt had shared his own sob story.

  He'd thought he'd regret it afterwards, but he hadn't. He had only a handful of close friends, and he was glad to count Lyle among them.

  That didn't, however, mean he wanted to talk about it now. A fact that Lyle obviously realized, since his shoulders drooped a bit.

  "It's just that I know it's hard. Losing someone, I mean." His voice cracked with genuine emotion. "And you want to honor who they were, especially if you loved them. But that doesn't mean death made them right about things."

  "You want to try talking in English? Because right now, this is gibberish."

  "I only mean that just because your dad said that your family didn't value him, and that no one gave a flip about him except through your family, doesn't mean it was really true. And even if it was, that doesn't mean it's true for you." Lyle wiped the back of his neck with his towel as he stopped jogging. Then he dropped it on the beach and sat on it. "Or for Kelsey."

  Wyatt took a second, then sat, too. He didn't answer; he just looked out over the ocean as he thought of Kelsey, a woman he really shouldn't want, but couldn't get out of his head.

  The truth was, he'd never wanted to believe that she was only interested in his connection to Hollywood. He sure as hell hadn't believed it that summer, not during all the time they'd been secretly dating. But that didn't mean that his father's words weren't fresh in his head. And when he'd found his dad's body on the very day that he'd overheard Grace spewing her venom--

  Well, he'd been angry.

  Angry and, maybe, a little stupid.

  He tilted his head back, looking up at clear blue California sky as he remembered Kelsey's words from just the other day. "When I left, you didn't even try to come after me."

  She'd surprised him with that accusation. Because if she'd really been playing him, then how could he possibly have hurt her?

  And the fact is, her claim wasn't entirely true, anyway. A few weeks later, after he was settled in Boston and had cooled down and his father's funeral was behind him, he had tried to find her. Tried, but failed.

  First, he'd tried contacting her school. But she'd transferred, and the administration office either didn't know where she'd gone or wasn't willing to tell.

  He'd had no luck by following her dad, either. Patrick managed to find out where Leonard Draper had gone to work after the club, but when Wyatt tried to reach him there, he learned that the man had never shown up.

  All of which had made him think that maybe there was something bigger going on. A family thing. An emergency. Something.

  But then Grace's words returned to haunt him. Because even if there had been an emergency, wouldn't Kelsey have at least called him? But she didn't. She'd run out of the party, and she'd never looked back.

  At first he'd been afraid that he'd pressured her. But then, once he heard Grace, he'd believed that Kelsey had played him. And that painful conclusion had settled deep into his gut, then rotted there for twelve long years.

  He'd been an ass.

  He'd believed Grace over his heart. Because he'd seen Kelsey. He knew her, inside and out.

  And he knew damn well that the only time she wanted a spotlight was when she was dancing.

  So why had he listened to rumors instead of his own heart? His own head?

  Because he'd been an insecure teenager.

  So what did that make him now? An insecure man?

  He sighed, then turned back to Lyle. "She messes with my head. She always has. And when she walked into my studio, part of me wanted to kick her out even while another part wanted to kiss her senseless."

  He picked up a handful of sand, then let it spill out through his fingers. "She got under my skin twelve years ago, and she's stayed there."

  "Because she pissed you off? Or because she hurt you?" Wyatt cocked his head. "Why does it matter?"

  "Pissed off is anger, and you can be angry at anyone. You don't have to care about the guy who cuts you off when you're trying to make a left turn, right?" He opened his water bottle and took a long swallow. "But hurt--well, if you don't care about someone, they can't hurt you."

  "Then it was both," he said. And maybe that was the problem. He'd been angry at her for so long. But she'd hurt him, too. So deeply it had scarred his heart.

  And ever since she'd come back into his life, he'd been walking a line. Wanting to punish her for the past. And for the present, too. For the way she was messing with his head.

  But at the same time, he needed her for the show.

  And damned if all of that mixed together didn't scare her right out of his studio.

  "I need her back," he said flatly, then turned and looked at his friend. "I don't trust her--not completely--but I need her."

 
"So get her back. She still needs the money, right?"

  "As far as I know."

  Lyle nodded. "That's one thing in your favor. Have you called her?"

  "Three times. She hasn't called me back."

  "What about going by where she works? She left a resume, right?"

  "Actually, no. Just a headshot and her phone number. But I know she teaches kindergarten and dance."

  Lyle cocked his head. "How do you know that?"

  "I saw her in the Beverly Center a few years ago, and so I did some digging. My friend Ryan's good at finding information. He tracked her down to an elementary school. It was summer, though, so only the administration office was open. They wouldn't give me her address, but they told me she taught dance during the summer to little kids and gave me the name of the studio."

  "And?"

  "And I went, but she didn't work there anymore. They didn't know where she'd gone."

  "So you went back to Ryan," Lyle guessed.

  "Actually, I gave up. She's the one who moved back to LA. She knew how to find me. But she didn't. So I decided I just needed to let it go."

  "Right," Lyle said. "And how's that working out for you?" Wyatt scowled, and Lyle laughed.

  "Well, don't worry. It's a small town. And Evelyn will be at the party tonight," he added, referring to his agent. "Between her and your grandmother, they know everyone in the business. Don't worry. Someone will convince her not to dodge you."

  Wyatt laughed bitterly. "Yeah, but that's only half the trick. Once we do, I have to convince her to come back."

  Too bad he didn't have a clue how to do that.

  17

  "I get why you walked out on him," Nia says as she stabs a fork into her Cobb salad with no avocado, no cheese, no egg, no bacon, and no dressing. "But you do realize that you were also walking out on fifteen large?"

  "Sixteen," I say, then grimace. "Wyatt offered to pay what would have been my winnings from the strip club, but I told him to keep his money."

  She flashes one of her superior looks, the kind that only a woman as perfectly sculpted as Nia can pull off. "Did you lose your common sense in your sofa cushions? What is wrong with you?"

  "He makes me frazzled," I admit, because there really is no other explanation. "He always has."

  She reaches across the table and stabs three of my French fries with her fork.

  "Hey!" I protest. "If you're hungry, try eating a salad with actual food in it."

  "I have a bikini shoot coming up. I'm dieting."

  I stare pointedly at the fries.

  "That's not a cheat. It's my carb load for the day."

  I consider suggesting we check her sofa cushions, but decide it really isn't worth it. Instead, I shove four fries in my mouth, just to make sure I get a few before she decides to load up a bit more.

  "I still can't believe that W. Royce is your Wyatt."

  "He's not my Wyatt," I say, making air quotes. "And I couldn't believe it, either."

  "I don't get why you bolted. I mean, come on, Kels. You killed it at a strip club. A strip club. So I think you're ready for prime time."

  I jab another fry into some ketchup. "Maybe. But I'm not sure I'm ready for Wyatt. He--"

  "What?"

  How do I explain it? That certainty that once I open the Wyatt door, I'll push through it at full force. I know that Nia will say that's a good thing, but it's not. That's a scary thing. And I liked the feel of his hands on me a little too much.

  He's dangerous, that man. My heart already broke once over him. I'm not sure I could survive a second time.

  "Kelsey?"

  "He just scares me," I say, then wait for her lecture. Except it doesn't come. Instead, she just looks at me a little sadly and takes another bite of her pathetic, naked salad.

  "And that's not the only reason," I rush to add, because suddenly it seems as if protecting my heart is a stupid reason that I have to justify. "It may be summer break, but I have a job. As a kindergarten teacher, you might recall. I can't pose like that. Once the school gets wind of it, I'll be out of work in a heartbeat."

  I teach at a public school, and the district is pretty conservative. Even if it weren't, though, erotic kindergarten teacher photos just wouldn't fly. If the school didn't fire me, the parents would make my life miserable.

  I can tell from Nia's face that this point resonates with her. "The photos were really that racy?"

  "Even you couldn't imagine these photos," I say dryly, to which she raises her eyebrows with interest.

  "That seals it, then. Whether you're in it or not, we're going to the premiere."

  "Nia!"

  "I'm just trying to lighten the mood." She pushes her half-eaten salad away and leans back. "Maybe you ought to do it anyway. I still say it would be good for you."

  "No," I say firmly. "It wouldn't." I don't tell her that I thought that very thing last night, as I tossed and turned on Griff's bed, where he insisted I sleep despite my protests. I'd tell myself I could never pose like that, and especially not around Wyatt. Then I'd tell myself that the only thing in the world that I really wanted was to do exactly that. To feel for longer than a few short minutes the way I'd felt when he'd touched me last night.

  In other words, I'm a mental mess, and I'm not even around the guy.

  "Have you considered that you can see him but not pose for him?"

  "You mean date him?" The idea makes my body warm in a positively lovely way. "I couldn't possibly."

  Her gaze dips to my wrist. "Cool bracelet," she says, glancing at my silver cuff in the shape of infinity. "I don't think I've seen it before."

  "Oh." I feel my cheeks burn, and I'm absolutely certain that Nia knows everything. "I've had it for a while."

  "Uh-huh."

  I slide my arm back under the table, then use my other hand to sip my iced tea. I'd gone home to change after I woke up at Griffin's. But I don't know what possessed me to pull the bracelet out of the box of keepsakes I store on the top shelf of my closet, much less why I decided to wear it today.

  Then again, maybe I do know. Because the bracelet is a reminder of something I want--but also something I can't have.

  Nia's eyes go from the bracelet to mine. "You want to tell me again why you can't possibly date the guy?"

  "Dammit, Nia," I snap, and she laughs.

  "Tsk-tsk. Language, Kelsey."

  I sink back in the booth. "You're pushing my buttons."

  "Too bad you want them pushed by someone else."

  I glare, but otherwise ignore her smug expression and singsong voice.

  "I'm just saying."

  "Fine," I snap. "You win. I'm not going to date him for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is because he's not interested in me. He's still holding a grudge. All he wants to do is punish me. He said so himself."

  "Oh, please. He said he wanted to punish you, and then he got you all hot and bothered? No. Trust me. He wants you. He's pissed at you, I'll buy that. But he wants you."

  "Well, he can't have me, because there's still reason number two--he's not good for me."

  "I'm not so sure about that, either," Nia says. "You're a mess today, I'll grant you that. But you're also kind of glowing."

  "I am not." But I don't protest too much, because part of me knows she's right. Yes, I bolted. But the reason I did has a lot to do with the way he made me feel. Lit from the inside. Alive.

  And, yeah, there might be a bit of a lingering afterglow.

  But that really isn't the issue.

  "Being with him isn't good for me," I repeat more firmly. "And it definitely isn't good for other people."

  Her shoulders fall as she exhales, then reaches for my hand. "Sweetie, what happened to Griffin wasn't your fault."

  "Yeah," I say, tugging my hand away. "It was."

  "Fine. Whatever. I'm not going to argue about it anymore. You think it was your fault, then fine. Avoid Wyatt. But don't avoid life. You're wound up too tight, girlfriend. And you know your father's an ass--
I know you know, because we've talked about it. You need to let go a little. Because if you don't, you're going to suffocate and die inside. You'll be walking and talking, but you'll just be a shell of Kelsey. You know I'm right, even if you won't admit it out loud."

  I blink back a sudden rush of tears. Because she is right, but I'm not sure that matters.

  "I'm scared," I whisper, and she deflates a little as she looks at me with compassion.

  "I know," she says, and this time when she takes my hand I let her hold it. "But I promise I've got your back. Always."

  Nia's words linger like some horrible prophecy as I arrive at the dance studio and greet my pint-sized dancers.

  I look at them in their little pink leotards with the pretty pink bows in their hair, and I can't help but hope that their parents cherish them. That no one will ever warn them that they're hiding from life, and if they aren't careful they're going to suffocate.

  I want these girls to know that they can grow up to dance and date and do whatever they want, and not have the voice of a wounded parent whispering in their ear, making them think they have to be someone other than they are.

  The hard part is that I get it. I really and truly understand that my dad's to blame for the shell that Nia sees around me. And, heck, I see it, too. But shells are hard by definition, and I've been trying without success to break out of this one for years.

  I shake off my melancholy and clap my hands. "Okay, girls. Everyone to the mirror for warm-up."

  They scurry away, some graceful, some clunky. I don't think I have anybody in this class who'll grow up to take the stage, but what I want for them is to not only develop a love for dance, but to also be comfortable with their bodies. To realize that it really is only a shell, though hopefully not as stifling as the one Nia described. And that they need to take care of it even while they use dance to escape from it. Because no dancer ever stays inside herself. That's the point. To rise up with the music. To chase your soul. With your body only coming along for the ride.

  "Can we jump, Miss Draper?" Amanda asks after the warm-up, and all the other girls bounce and shout, "Please, please!"

  And even though I have another class planned out, I agree. Then line them up across the room, remind them of what to do, and then stand by as each races toward me, gathers her courage, and then leaps up, trusting me to catch her the way Johnny catches Baby in Dirty Dancing, one of my all-time favorite movies.

  We do three rounds of jumps, then rehearse for the parent recital coming in four weeks. And then that's it. The time has literally flown by.