by Shayne Ford
I give a side glance to the other girls.
Unlike me, they seem to enjoy themselves. The men begin to talk. They crack jokes, sips their drinks, and a couple of them–– the man on the couch and one of the guys sitting across from me, lighting up cigarettes.
The evening gets on its way, and just as I get a bit more comfortable in my skin, the door cracks open again, and a fifth man walks into the room. My blood pulls to a sudden stop before shifting to a different speed.
What... the... fuck?
The man sauntering through that door is tall and blonde. He stops and talks to the hostess for a moment, and I can’t quite see his face, but I know it’s him. My heart tells me, every fiber in my body blurting out his name.
I glance at him once, and then a second time, and then I glue my gaze to him, my neck contorted while he strides across the room and stops next to the group of men.
“Are you okay?” Tasha mouths to me.
I shift my eyes away from her without answering.
He’s right in front of me, standing in a patch of light, and my pulse explodes. Awkwardly, I spin around, trying to conceal my face. I sway closer to the corner, and then I catch sight of Tasha’s worried eyes.
He can’t see me–– I remember, but that’s beyond the point. What are the fucking odds? Of all the places and the days what brings him here today?
Tasha motions to me to get back to my spot, and I do just that.
As I get closer, I get a better view of them.
Alexander Harrington shakes hands with the men who push out of the armchairs and greet him, and then he takes a seat on the sofa next to the dark haired man.
As if he was the missing piece of the puzzle, the whole picture comes into a different focus now. I zoom in on their faces, at the same time trying to maintain my equilibrium on my four inches heels.
The man at his right must be James Sexton. I wish I had done better research on the company history. Then the man who has his back turned to me is, by all means, Edward Preston.
Shit.
I swing my gaze to the men across from me. Oh, damn it. These are none others than Bret and Gavin Livingston, the owners of Riverstone Inc., the company Sexton Holdings is about to purchase.
Shit... shit... shit.
This is one hundred times worse. What am I saying? More like a thousand. My boss is feet away from me. His partners are here as well–– one of them, the founder of the company himself, and also the businessmen I will most likely run into at work at the beginning of next week.
Oh, my fucking God!
I’m so screwed. I wish I could throw my hands up in the air, let out a scream and run, but that’s the last thing I should do unless I want to get recognized.
What did I get myself into?
A few more minutes pass by, and their meeting or celebration or whatever the hell this is goes well by all means. They talk loud and laugh louder, and then they clink glasses and tilt back their drinks.
As Lex explains something to the Livingston brothers, my gaze slides down on him taking swift inventory of his burgundy shirt and black pants. I flick my eyes up to his face and get caught in his smile–– his grin truly a rarity, and I get weak in my knees.
Apparently, they cut a deal of sorts, shaking hands again and smiling while James Sexton flicks his finger up, and one of the servers pushes a cart with champagne on ice all the way to the table.
I’m right.
Not only that they cheer and gloat over whatever deal they struck, but they slowly shift their focus away from the conversation and onto us.
I steal a glance at the other dancers. They pick up on the change as well. Their dance moves become more lascivious, their smiles glaringly inviting.
Of all the men, Livingston brothers have probably the best view, their eyes carefully screening us.
“What now?” I hurl under my breath to Tasha.
“They’ll probably want one of us on the table,” she tosses back at me as she’s executing a pirouette.
She shifts back when one of the brothers–I think it’s Gavin, lifts his hand up and beckons one of us to them.
Not me. Please, not me. It’s hard to tell, but his eyes seem to be set on me.
And now everybody else’s eyes shift to me as well. Even Edward Preston swivels in his chair to get a glimpse of me–– the mysterious dancer. The new girl. Whoever they think I am.
Fuck. Why me? It must be the mask I’m wearing.
Sometimes these things work backward. You want to hide, and yet you draw attention to yourself.
Like me, right now.
Tasha elbows me discreetly.
“They want you,” she whispers in my ear.
“Why me?” I say, wheezing, the sound making their heads flick my way.
“Because you’re new to them,” she says, the response coming to me promptly which begs the next question.
“You mean...You’ve danced for them before?” I ask.
Of course, she did, and probably the other girls too. And that explains the smiles plastered on their faces. And their luring moves.
She nods.
“All of you?”
“Most of us.”
“Which one didn’t––”
“Go,” she says, and I take the first steps in their direction.
This is wrong. So, so wrong.
There’s no way I can pull this off.
These are the people I work with. My paycheck is on the line. My whole existence is, now that I really think about it. Somehow, I have to get out of here without blowing my cover, and if I manage to do that, this must remain my deepest buried secret.
Oh, I’m so screwed.
Quickly, I draw a plan of action on how to save my ass and pull out of this jamming without anyone ever knowing.
Firstly, I need to distract them. I’ll use my body for that. The means through each I accomplish it are no longer relevant. This is a drastic situation that requires drastic measures.
Secondly, under no circumstance, I will let them identify me. I will refrain from making gestures, or talking, or giving away the little things that can clue them in.
And thirdly, just to make my cover-up more credible, I have to mislead them, to have some sort of signature gesture so far removed from who I am in real life so that someone like Lex Harrington can never connect the dots and figure me out.
The men’s eyes stay on me as I go out of my way to sway my hips as if I stepped right off a runway.
That’s totally not my stride, and that’s where I score a point for ingenuity. Dahlia who works in their office walks smoothly like a geisha while the woman who’s about to hop on their table strides confidently as if she’s about to eat them all for lunch.
I wish I could laugh at how ridiculous this is, and then I remember how screwed I am if any of them, particularly my boss, gets the slightest suspicion that I’m none other than the mousy girl from the office.
I leap on the table, and their heads flick up as I start to roll my hips and shake my butt. And then I spin, doing an elegant version of twerking, just enough to make myself legit while wetting their appetite.
As puzzling as it is how the odds worked against me this evening, I find myself dancing right in front of my boss. The Livingston brothers stare at me from my right.
I can distinctively feel their burning gazes. Edward Preston observes me from the left, his attention cut short as soon as his phone flashes a light. He tosses the idea of me to the side for whatever novelty heats up his screen.
James Sexton is the one who looks the least at me, his eyes glued to his phone most of the time. And surprise, surprise. Little did I know, how much taken Lex Harrington is with me.
Leaning back in his seat, he stretches one arm out, props it on the back of the couch and rests his ankle on his knee. Hidden behind my mask, I freely examine him. He surely has no problem to study me as well. That’s what they paid for after all.
His eyes hook with mine through the mask, and I
almost break my rhythm. Keeping my gaze pinned on him, I part my lips and roll my hips, and he slowly gives me a sly smile.
This is something new to me. Something, I never thought I’d see in him. Slightly tipping his head to the side, he looks at me as I unknowingly dare him. He parts his lips as well and gives me a cocky grin that almost makes me come, and just as he thinks he got me hooked, I shift away from him and dance for the people on my right.
One of the brothers rises to his feet and steps closer to me. Hands tucked in his pockets, he drags his gaze up to me and settles it on my face.
The mask has ruined it for me again.
He seems intrigued and dared, like Lex.
Damn it.
Running out of ideas, I turn my back to him when I notice two of the girls stepping off the platform, heading my way, ready to replace me.
Tasha motions me to go back, and sighing with relief, I smoothly retreat.
“See, it wasn’t that bad,” she says, her eyes quickly flicking away from me as Gavin Livingston beckons her to him.
She gives him a full mouth grin and starts moving lasciviously.
I have no doubt, she danced for him before.
Relieved I’m off their radar, I’m doing my little routine in the background, while the girls put on a show for them on the table.
Soon, James Sexton and Bret Livingston leave. Hopeful, I expect everybody else to do the same.
The tune changes, and Tasha flicks her chin toward the door signaling that the show is over. Thank God!
The owner waits outside.
He pulls her to the side while I dash to the backstage room keen to change my clothes and get out of here.
A few moments later, Tasha grabs my elbow.
“Hey... Wait a minute,” she says, panting as if she sprinted to the room. “There’s a second job for us tonight,”
“What?! Why?”
“The guests loved your dancing, and Mark is extremely pleased which means you’ll make good money tonight.”
“What exactly is the second job?” I ask suspiciously while having a hunch.
“They requested private dances.”
“Who’s they?”
“One is my guy,” she says, and I know exactly who she’s talking about. The Livingston brother. “And then, there are the other two.”
She means Lex Harrington and Ed Preston.
“Who’s the third girl?”
She points to a lean brunette who wasn’t part of the dancing ensemble.
A thought spears through my head, making my stomach spasm with tension.
The dancer must be a regular, and one of them–– either Harrington or Preston, must be her guy.
Something doesn’t sit right with me.
“Okay,” I mutter in spite of the mixed feelings. “Do I need to change?”
“No, no...” she says, smiling. “We just need to go back. They’re ready for us,” she says, in a great mood.
So is the other girl.
Me, not so much.
I could pull away and refuse the job, but I’d most likely raise suspicions, especially since things were so good in the champagne room. And the clients might ask questions as well.
Seemingly, I have to dance till the evening ends.
I motion Tasha to lead the way. She takes a turn veering into the hallway. Not far from the lounge, there’s a corridor with dimly lit doors on one side. Tasha and the other girl vanish through the first and second door respectively while I stop and take a long breath in front of the third.
This is do or die.
Oh, and it’s so stupid. One of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. Behind this door, there’s either my boss or his partner. I don’t know which one is worse. They’ll be inches away from me, and the slightest thing could give me away. If they discover I’m moonlighting in this establishment, I’d surely be royally fucked.
A stare burns the side of my face. I glance down the corridor and spot Mark at the other end. He flicks his chin, as in what are you waiting for?
Taking a deep breath, I walk inside.
13
DAHLIA
The breath I took only seconds ago jams in my throat.
No fucking way.
Sprawled in a chair, drink in his hand, the last man I thought I’d dance tonight for–– privately, and on his lap, sets his gaze on me.
As I take a few more steps in, a voice screams inside my head.
Don’t forget the three rules.
Distract him.
Don’t give yourself away.
And invent a different personality.
That shouldn’t be that hard. I’m sure I’m nailing the last one as I speak.
In all fairness, he’s sporting a different personality as well. No way, he is the person from the office. But who knows who Lex Harrington really is?
Surely not me.
Truthfully, I have a hard time recognizing him at all.
Alexander Harrington is no longer proper or cold. He’s no longer a glacier but a boiling volcano brimming with fire.
His gaze seizes me boldly, his eyes fucking every inch of my skin with a fervor that gives me fever and makes my core clench.
I don’t know if I should jubilate or cower in fear.
My body decides for me, and a shiver sweeps my back as I roll in panic. He smiles, and my body temperature spikes, drops of sweat dotting my skin. I sense the glitter sliding down right along with them.
I shouldn’t speak to him, if all possible, or if need to, perhaps I should just whisper. The music is slow and sensual, and any other time this would’ve been my dream come true.
His gaze sears my body as I walk across the room, near the side table and pour myself a glass of champagne. I spin around and lift it in the air, inkling that I’m asking him if he wants some.
Silent, he raises his drink, giving me the answer.
Not thinking much, I gulp the champagne, hoping to kill my jitters.
Regardless how light my drink is, it kills my nerves and also makes my mood shift.
I still feel the brush of panic, but at the same time, a voice inside my head starts laughing. The situation would be comical if it weren’t tragic.
Sipping the rest of the champagne, I amble to him, my eyes taking full stock of him.
I set the glass on a side table.
Is this how Lex Harrington looks after hours? There’s no tie, no stern look. No guard and no reserve in his eyes. In fact, I find nothing of the man I know.
He sits leisurely in his chair.
Legs spread, chin slightly tilted down, lips curled into a sly smile as he runs his eyes up and down on me.
This will take us both straight to hell.
My prediction gets lost in the swarm of broken thoughts lurking in the back of my mind.
Act confidently and brazenly, comes the next tip spelled out by the voice inside my head.
This is one major difference that could clearly distinguish me, the dancer, from the girl working in the office. Locking his eyes, I float to him.
Smoothly, I take his drink from his hand and set it on the side as well.
I just brushed his fingers, and I’m grappling with a hot flush.
He looks at me unfazed despite the fact that the no touching rule stands true for both, the client and the dancer.
He’s not supposed to touch me, and yet I shouldn’t do it as well.
To make things messier––and why the hell not, more complicated, I take his hand in mine, and flick my chin toward the couch.
He rises to his all six feet and some inches and fills my space, his proximity setting a chemical reaction in my body. Waves of heat clobber me as if the glitter sprinkled on my skin has caught on fire.
My lungs and heart and blood become a big throbbing blob. I’m hot and tense before I start to shiver. A slew of emotions start whirling through me, the panic getting swallowed by the sheer curiosity, all getting drawn into my intoxicating attraction to him.
As I pull
him toward the couch, his hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
My heart almost spits out as he runs his fingers down my arm and turns me to him. He grips my chin and tilts it up. I freeze, my gaze locked with his eyes.
His hand trails up my shoulder and then my neck, and I’m surprised he doesn’t feel my trembling.
He brings his hands to my face and gently rolls his fingertips across my mask.
My hair gets in his way.
Slowly, he runs his hand across my shoulder and drapes my tresses over my back. He shifts his gaze back to the red fabric.
His eyes glint, a bit unfocused, a sliver of arousal in them, or perhaps, the alcohol running in his blood.
Words pile up on his lips, and yet he stays silent while brushing the velvet with his fingers.
“I like it,” he finally says, with a voice I’ve never heard before.
It’s warm and soft. Sincere.
“Tonight was a good night for me... How much better can you make it?” he says, his eyes narrowing with a smile.
I’m surprised I’m still standing.
My knees begin to shake.
Dressed in nothing but a flimsy lingerie set, perched on heels, butt, and chest sparkling like Christmas Eve, I’m inches away from his chest, and eyes and lips. A mere breath from his arms and broad shoulders. From his hard torso, and tight hips.
Is he saying what he’s saying?
My mind shuts down, refusing to make sense of what he just said.
Who does he talk to?
I shouldn’t beg for that answer. I’m sure I’d loathe it. I’m sure he’d like to know the dancer better.
His desire has nothing to do with me, the real me. The girl who has a name. A name and face he knows, and arguably, likes.
It hurts, but I can’t be offended. I’ve asked for it. I also took a chance–– pretended that I’m someone else.
But am I?
“Hmm?” he purrs, and I slowly tear his hand away from my face and lead him to the couch.
He lowers himself on the sofa and leans back as I lodge myself between his legs.
Standing, I begin to sway my hips and dance.
I do my routine, no longer thinking about it, my eyes solely focused on his face. His eyes dip a few times, his gaze plunging below my chin, but for the most part, they stay rooted to my face.
