“Ruby?” Drew’s voice drags our eyes off each other and over to him.
Her eyes go wide. “Drew?”
“You two know each other?” I ask. Actually, I think it may be more of a growl.
Her gaze flickers back to me and then away again.
“Wow.” Drew’s eyes slide over her frame in a way that seems entirely too familiar. “It’s been a while. You filled out nicely.”
Ruby’s eyebrow shoots up. “Filled out?”
“How do you two know each other?” I ask again, it’s definitely a full-on growl now.
“We went out a couple years ago,” Drew says absently, still staring at Ruby. He has this look on his face, the kind that makes me wonder if he knows what she looks like with all of her clothes off.
Based on the color Ruby’s cheeks are going, I have a feeling that might actually be the unfortunate reality. “Like once. It wasn’t a big deal,” she says.
“I should get your number again,” Drew suggests.
Ruby’s lip curls. “Uh, no thanks. I remember very clearly how the last date ended. I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in a repeat of those three, lackluster minutes.”
“Oh, snap!” One of the girls behind Ruby says and the other ones start giggling.
I, on the other hand, want to rip Drew’s head off and punt it off the roof of my building.
“I see your winning personality hasn’t changed much,” Drew shoots back.
“I see your hair hated you enough to start migrating down your body,” Ruby retorts.
It’s actually a pretty decent insult. Lexington snickers.
Drew runs a self-conscious hand through his hair. “Slutty and bitchy, now I remember why I didn’t call you again.”
Ruby launches herself at Drew. I catch her around the waist and she kicks out at him, narrowly missing his nuts. I almost wish she would’ve hit the mark.
I point a finger right in Drew’s face. “Watch your fucking mouth if you want your teeth to stay where they are.”
“Oh, shit. Is she your girlfriend?” Drew asks.
Ruby puts her hand on my chest and pushes, trying to get free. “Put me down, Tarzan.”
“I’m sorry I called her . . . those things.” Drew looks a little ill, possibly because I outweigh him by at least fifty pounds and, unlike him, I’m not afraid to get punched in the face.
I set Ruby down and she gets right up in his face, propping one fist on her hip. “I’m right here, jerkoff, if you’re going to apologize to anyone for calling me names, it better damn well be me.”
Her shorts are all wonky again, one side riding up so her cheek is on display. It always seems to be the right one. I reach out and slide my finger under the fabric, putting it back in place.
She jumps and bats my hand away. “What’re you doing?”
“Just covering you up, babe.”
She glares at me. It’s a sexy look on her.
“Maybe we should head to a bar, unless . . .” Griffin trails off. His expression reflects his discomfort with the current situation.
“We have to go soon anyway.” Ruby turns to face the girls. I don’t fail to notice that Drew’s eyes, along with everyone else’s, including Armstrong’s, drop to her ass. “Sorry girls. I’ll just grab my things.”
“You ladies don’t have to rush out of here. We’re more than happy to share the space,” Lex says.
I fight an eye roll. They all just give him a look as they pull tanks or tight-fitting shirts over their heads, grabbing purses from the couch. The tallest of the girls saunters over, her hips swaying hard as she looks us over. Her gaze falls on me. “You must be Bancroft.”
“I am. And you are?”
“Diva. Sorry about the confusion. Thanks for letting us use your space. You boys should come see us later.” She looks to Drew. “Except maybe not you.” She rummages around in her purse and pulls out a card, handing it to me. “We go on at ten. Ruby has her solo at eleven.”
“Thanks, I’ll see what I can do.” I pocket the card without looking at it. I don’t know if I want these guys watching Ruby move like that. Especially not this Drew guy, who’s apparently already had the pleasure of getting to know what Ruby feels like from the inside. Fucker.
Ruby appears a few seconds later, an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, almost covering her shorts completely, her bag thrown over her shoulder. The heels are gone, replaced by flats.
“I’m sorry I misunderstood,” she says to me, then turns to Drew. “I feel like l need to be totally honest with you. If you had called me again for another hookup”—she makes air quotes—“there’s no way in hell I would’ve considered it based on your highly inadequate performance the first time. It was like having sex with a jackhammer.” She brushes past him, the rest of the girls follow after, every single one of them giving Drew a dirty look on the way.
The one named Diva winks at Armstrong and he winks back.
The sound of yippy barking has me cringing. Ms. Blackwood is standing in the hallway with Precious cradled protectively in her arms. Her eyes are as wide as they can go and her mouth is a flat, red slash. She looks utterly scandalized when the one who calls herself Diva prances up to her and taps Precious on the nose while she snarls.
As the girls traipse down the hall she turns to me. “I didn’t realize you’d returned, Bancroft. Are those”—she seems to struggle to find the right word—“friends of yours?”
“I got back last week. They’re friends of Ruby’s.” At her questioning look I prompt, “She was watching my place while I was gone. Remember?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. But she’s still here?”
“She definitely is.”
“Well I hope her friends aren’t going to cause trouble.”
I flash her a smile and wink. “Don’t worry, Ms. Blackwood. I know how to handle trouble.”
As soon as the door closes Lex lets out a low whistle. “Now I know why you let her move in here. That chick is smokin’.”
“I didn’t let her move in because she’s hot. I needed someone to take care of Francesca and Tiny.”
Armstrong snorts.
“I call bullshit on that, brother.” Lex points to his crotch. “I’d sure let her play with my ferret.”
I get up in his space. “Keep your fucking ferret away from her unless you want to lose it.”
He gives me one of his know-it-all grins. “Well, this explains everything.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“London, you fool. Turning down the offers for room keys when we were in the hotel bar. You always wanting to go back to your room early. All the phone calls you couldn’t miss. You gotta be hitting that.”
“I hit that,” Drew says.
He’s almost sneering until I turn around and point a finger in his face. “You seriously need to shut it unless you want to know what a broken nose feels like.”
He nods. “Shutting it.”
“You are hitting that, right?” Lex asks again. I don’t know why he insists on having this information.
I give him a look. “Ruby is not a that, and I’m not sleeping with her.” Yet.
He gapes at me. “Seriously, Bane, we need to sit down and have a talk. How the hell are you not hitting that? Did you see what she can do with her leg? Did you see her ass?” He holds up his hands as if he’s grabbing it. His facial expression would be priceless if he wasn’t talking about Ruby. His eyes light up. “We’re gonna go see their show tonight, right?”
I slide the card out of my back pocket and scan it. The address is at the bottom.
Griffin looks over my shoulder. “I thought you said Ruby was in theater.”
“She is.”
“But that—”
I elbow him in the ribs. The card isn’t advertising dinner theater, it’s a burlesque show.
“So . . . you want us to go to my place to watch the game?” Griffin asks.
“That’s probably a good idea.” There’s not a chance i
n hell anyone but me is going to see Ruby’s show.
Chapter 17: The Jig Is Up
RUBY
I’m so embarrassed. And annoyed. And embarrassed. What is Drew doing hanging out with Bane? I mean, I guess it’s not that hard to believe considering all the superwealthy people in this city like to stick close to each other. It’s like wealth incest.
I’m in a terrible mood as I suit up in my costume. It’s beautiful, sheer, gauzy, and flowing. It’s on the revealing side, which is not unusual for a burlesque-style show, but having seen the way Drew was looking at me—as if I was meat he’d like to sink his teeth into again—makes me even more aware that the job I have really isn’t one I can keep long term.
In the weeks I’ve been working here I’ve dropped a lot of inhibitions. It’s been good for me in some ways. But the secrecy is eating at me.
Diva’s sitting beside me, applying makeup, just like me. She sweeps a generous amount of lip gloss along her bottom lip, then dabs with powder, and follows up with liner. She repeats the process three times. Her lips always look fabulous. I’m learning all the best tricks from these women. My least favorite is the glitter, though. It gets into everything, and I mean everything. All the time.
“What do you think the chances are that you can hook me up with a number for one of those guys?”
I stop applying mascara to glance at her. “I don’t really know if you want to date any of those guys. Except maybe Bancroft, but he’s off limits.”
“I don’t want to date any of them. I want to make them fall in love with my pussy so they’ll buy me nice things. And don’t you worry, baby girl, it was clear the second that man walked in the door that he’s all about you.”
“What do you mean?” Things aren’t quite the same since he’s come back from London. It’s my fault it’s this way. I’m so conflicted. I want him, but I don’t want to feel like one of his pets—another thing he has to take care of. And when I’m near him I have a very hard time remembering that, so I’ve been avoiding him, which clearly isn’t helpful at all.
Diva snorts. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw you over his shoulder caveman style and carry you off to his bedroom as soon he walked in. How amazing is he in bed?”
“I have no idea.”
Now it’s her turn to pause in the makeup application. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“We’re not sleeping together.”
“Well, once he sees you shake your thing, I bet that’ll change.”
“Maybe I should practice my solo routine while he’s watching a game next week.” I snort at the idea, then think about how he was looking at me tonight.
“I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long.”
“Why do you say that?”
Diva adjusts her tiara, then pulls out her glitter dust. “I told him and his friends they should come tonight.”
“You did what?”
Diva gives me one of her calm-the-fuck-down looks. “Girl, that man is going to crack like an egg when he sees you up there.”
I can’t tell her Bancroft doesn’t know about the reality of my job. I like Diva. I like all the girls I work with. They’re far more genuine than a lot of the girls I grew up with or the ones I’m forced to deal with at the hoity-toity upper-crust events and socials. Inviting them to Bancroft’s to rehearse was a big deal. I explained that it was just temporary, that he was a friend of a friend who needed a hand, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t need an elaborate story, just a plausible one.
The only thing they cared about was the incredible space we could rehearse in that didn’t smell like stale beer and horniness.
But now, as I sit here, I have to come to terms with the fact that I’ve been lying to everyone: These girls who have become my friends in the past few weeks. My best friend, the man whose condo I’ve been squatting in for more than a month and who has been nothing but generous. The man whose bed I slept in. The man I’d like to sleep with on a regular basis.
Oh God. I want him to be my boyfriend or my friend who also shares his penis with me on a regular basis—daily even. Over these past weeks I’ve begun to really like him. A lot. More than a lot, even. And now he’s going to know I’ve been lying.
If I didn’t come from a family with a buttload of money this probably wouldn’t be a big deal. But I do, so it is. More than that I’ve kept it secret because part of me is ashamed. I shouldn’t be. These are good women, who work hard.
And now Bancroft is going to see me up on that stage. And maybe Armstrong. And that inadequately endowed jerkoff, Drew. Unless Bancroft has punched him out. That would be nice.
I grab my phone and fire off a text to Bancroft:
DO NOT COME TONIGHT
It takes less a minute for me to get one back. It’s a picture of the club business card, followed by a message:
This doesn’t look like dinner theater.
I can almost hear his disapproval. Dammit. I don’t need his judgment. I have enough of my own.
Well done, Sherlock.
The next message I get from him is a frowny face. The one after that sends my stomach plummeting to the floor.
See you soon.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Diva asks, clearly oblivious to my plight. Because she’s just another person I’ve been withholding the truth from. I’m a terrible person. I’m also freaking out.
“Bancroft is coming tonight.”
“Hopefully he won’t be the only one.” She winks. “You’ll be magic out there, Ruby, you always are. You move like a dream.”
It’s meant to make me feel better. She thinks I’m nervous. And I am, but not for the reasons she assumes.
“Come on, we need to be on stage in ten.” She pats me on the shoulder.
I message Bancroft one last time, but he doesn’t respond. My stomach is in knots. This is so bad. I need this to not be happening right now. But it is. I’m going to have to deal with it. I’m going to have to deal with a lot of things, it seems.
I finish getting ready and prepare for judgment to rain down on me. Diva has a point, though. I’m really good at this. I’ve always played pretty tame roles. My dancing has always been more classical jazz-ballet than this contemporary sexy stuff I’ve had to learn in a short period of time. While this may be a far distant cry from Broadway, it certainly has been an unforgettable experience.
We’re halfway through the first set when I spot him. He’s impossible to miss. He dwarfs the bouncers carding people at the door. All the tables are already claimed so he props himself up against the wall at the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest. He’s so pissed off. And sexy. And angry. Wow, does he ever look angry.
And his anger makes me angry. He doesn’t have a right to be mad at me for this job. He can shove his judging eyes right up his stuffy, tight ass. Wait . . . that sounds wrong.
The set ends, I have enough time for a quick costume change. My solo is different. It’s a little less in-your-face bawdy and a little more along the classical lines I was trained in. It’s still sexy though, thanks to the ridiculously skimpy, yet tasteful and arty outfit I’m currently wearing.
Bancroft is still standing in the same place when I take the stage for my solo. He can’t see me, because the stage is dark, but I can see him. He keeps looking to the right, toward the door that leads to the dressing rooms and backstage.
And then the lights come up and his gaze is suddenly trained on me. I can’t look at him. I’m so nervous. It feels like the first time I ever performed. I remember the butterflies. I remember puking after the first act, and the second. It feels a little like that now. I better not puke. I need this job.
It’s the longest four minutes and thirty-seven seconds of my life. The applause usually makes the smile I wear genuine. I’m staring out into the crowd, and I have a smile plastered on my face, but it’s forced.
Bancroft is clapping, slow and steady, but his expression is dark. I don’t know what it means. Is he going to
be waiting for me when I come out? Is he going to change the code and kick me out? The second thought is fairly fatalist of me. He doesn’t really have a reason for such a strong reaction. He can be upset that I lied. He can throw his judgment around at me for my choice, but at least I haven’t caved and gone home to daddy. Yet.
Dottie stops me on the way out of the dressing room. “There’s some guy out there looking for you, says he’s your roommate and he’s here to pick you up, but he can’t wait long. I just wanted to check to make sure that wasn’t a load of bullshit and he isn’t some kind of stalker fan.”
“Tall, dark hair, bigger than the bouncers, drop-dead gorgeous?”
“That would be the one.”
“I’ll be out in five. Can he wait for me at the employee entrance?”
“If that’s where you want him. He doesn’t look happy.”
“I imagine. I won’t be long.” I don’t even bother to change out of my costume. I grab my outfits, shove them in my bag, throw on an oversized cardigan, and leave my makeup alone. I’ll deal with that when I get home, after I freak out on Bancroft for being a judgmental asshole.
He’s standing at the entrance to the club looking uncomfortable. When he sees me, his eyes move over me, but I don’t get a smile. All I get is a cold stare. “Ready to go home?”
I don’t say anything. Instead I brush past him, holding my head up high as my stomach churns. When I reach the top of the stairs I realize I have no idea where he’s parked, so I’m forced to cease my haughty strutting and wait.
Sweet lord. He looks delicious. He’s wearing a pair of dark dress pants and a dark button-down shirt. It’s open at the collar. He’s very Johnny Cash right now, even his expression is angsty. And hot. I wish I wasn’t preparing to be angry at him so I could fully appreciate it.
He barely glances at me as he turns left and I follow him down the street. He’s walking fast. I didn’t change from heels to flats. I’m pretty good in them, but it’s dark and I can’t see the miniature potholes and cracks in the sidewalk well enough to feel safe at this speed.
“Will you slow down? We’re not running a marathon.”
The Shacking Up Series Page 23
